Well, her formerly open face. It was now entirely closed off to him. The hand clapping might have been beyond what was sensible, but he hadn’t been able to contain himself. She’d made a truly spectacular entrance with her arms spread wide and her face tilted to the ceiling.Unboundwas the word that came to mind. He’d never seen an English woman so unbound.
His travels had taken him to locales that allowed women certain freedoms of dress and movement, but staid, old England wasn’t one of them, not by any stretch. Yet Lady Olivia defied his notions about who she should be at every turn. Yesterday’s ramble through London only reinforced that idea.
Her graceful throat undulated in a swallowing motion, and her eyes blazed. “Your solicitors informed me that I would have the house to myself,” she said, each word emerging on a note of rising virtuous pique.
“My day’s plans changed, and I was curious,” he said from his place across the room. He’d learned over the past few days that her physical proximity to his person had an inverse relationship with the rational functioning of his brain. Better he stayed over here and shout across the distance, if necessary.
She bit her plump bottom lip between her teeth and released it. “Is it your intention to inspect this house with me?”
“I don’t have anything better lined up for the afternoon.”
Incredulity spread across her face. “Can that be true,Lord St. Alban?”
A swell of pleasure expanded inside him. He couldn’t help it, he liked when she challenged him. “Might you be aware of the previous viscount’s penchant for indiscriminate spending?”
He caught a transient spark of humor in her eyes. “I might have noticed his affinity for bejeweled pinky rings on more than one occasion.”
“Ah, yes, the pinky rings.” He cleared his throat. “In the process of amassing his vast pinky ring collection, the late viscount also acquired a mountain of debt that could be rightly compared to the height and breadth of the Matterhorn. However, this morning I received my first bit of good news regarding the late viscount’s affairs. It seems that the Dowager Viscountess St. Alban, Georgie’s widow, has been running a Devonshire estate at a profit and is content to keep doing so for the remainder of her days. Her words, not mine. You should see her five-year agricultural plan for the property.”
Lady Olivia’s eyes widened, and he knew he’d overstepped the mark and struck an overly familiar tone. “I cannot imagine a scenario where that would be necessary.”
Again, he cleared his throat, if only to mask the groan that wanted out. “All of which is a long way of saying that I have nothing but time for you, Lady Olivia. Into the evening, if need be.”
Her right foot tap-tap-tapped white marble, effectively conveying simmering vexation. Perhaps he’d gone too far. Except what he’d said didn’t feel untrue. Truth be told, he enjoyed spending time with the woman. But that particular truth had no place in this room. It was a different truth he should be pursuing.
Pointedly, he glanced around the room and set about using his time with Lady Olivia toward that end. “You must see immense potential in these blank walls. Like blank canvases to an artist’s eye.”
“Are you an artist, Lord St. Alban?” Her head canted to the side in assessment. “The subject often comes up in our conversations.”
“You mistake my meaning. ’Tis you who is the artist.” Now that he had her attention, here was his opportunity. “For example, the sketches of the Japanese scene that you”—He just stopped himself from sayingdropped. Their recent conversation in the Duke’s study assured him no good would come of using that word—“renderedwere quite well done.”
“A few drawingsrendereddo not an artist make,” she said, irritation unmistakable in her tone. “I do not care to be patronized.”
Jake swallowed another groan of frustration. There had to be some combination to her locks. He pressed on with yet a different configuration. “I was always interested in art,” he said, sounding no better than a floundering suitor. “But I never took the time to learn much about it.”
“Hmm,” was all the response she gave.
She didn’t want him here. That was clear. Whatever joy she’d been experiencing as she spun into the room had been effectively quashed by the sight of him. But she wouldn’t be rid of him just yet. Not until he’d maneuvered some usable information from her.
“Much of the Eastern art for sale in the London market comes and goes on long-haul ships like the ones my mother’s family operates.”
“Undoubtedly,” Lady Olivia replied, her tone transitioning from annoyance to disinterest. He wasn’t sure which was worse.
“Some paintings are gotten by honest merchants. Others have provenances less transparent, shadowy at best.”
He waited for a glimmer of recognition, even the scantest hint that she knew of one such painting. A set of paintings, in fact. But no such admission emerged. “To be sure,” was all she replied, her face now tilted up toward the skylight.
“In fact,” he continued, “I’ve only seen that sort of art in Japan, in a Japanese residence to be exact.”
Her gaze swung to meet his, curiosity kindling a light in her eyes. “Were you invited into Japanese homes often?”
“Once. Europeans aren’t allowed on the mainland of Japan, only on the trading island of Dejima in the Bay of Nagasaki.”
“Yet you were allowed?”
“By special dispensation. My uncles had been a year negotiating a trade deal with a powerful Nagasaki family, and they brought me along to observe the final signing.” He shifted on his feet, readying himself for the meat of the conversation. “In the room, there was a set of paintings—”
“What was it like?”
