“An oil on canvas landscape by Alexander Nasmyth, who has been called by some the father of Scottish landscapes. Untitled and fairly recently done, probably within the last fifty years,” she answered promptly.
“Untitled, hmm?” he raised a mischievously skeptical brow. “Seems rather convenient to me.”
Hero laughed merrily. “You doubt my skills, Lord Ayr? Choose another then.”
He stepped back a pace and scanned the wall, picking out another that seemed nearly indefinable to him. Just an average farm scene edged in forests with a little farmhouse and wagon. “That one.”
“Hmm,” she considered, drawing closer to the piece. “Constable for sure.TheHay Wain, I’m certain. Early 1820s.”
“There.”
“The Gleaning Field. Palmer, 1833.”
“This one?”
“Windmills, Montmartre. Georges Michel. French, eighteenth century.”
“You know, for all I know, you could be making this all up?”
Hero tittered gaily. “I assure you I’m not, though without proof, I suppose you’ll just have to take my word.”
He pointed again and again and began laughing as she shot out the answers without hesitation. “Bernard Manskirch’sSmiling Village. It should be in a museum, you know?”
“Perhaps I should just donate them all,” he said lightly before pacing a few steps down the wall. Ian shook his head at the pleasure he was taking in this odd moment. Watching her face light with confidence and deviltry as she displayed her knowledge was as gratifying to him as her more appreciative glances. Taking joy in such a small thing was new to him. He could stand there all night listening to the laughter lurking behind her scholarly tones. “How about this one?”
It was a night scene of a wooded park done in blues with a couple waltzing in the moonlight. It was a very romanticized scene. “That’s one of mine,” she whispered softly then, drawing Ian’s eyes back to her.
“You painted it?”
“No,” she amended. Her expression held sadness and…longing? He wasn’t sure. She went on, “I brought it with me when I came here. It’s Mongin’sVue de Marly. It was painted around the turn of the century. I loved it so much as a girl that Papa let me take it when I married Robert.”
“It’s certainly of a different feel than the other landscapes.”
“Robert thought it romantic twaddle,” she told him more briskly, stepping back from the painting. “His words, not mine. I always thought it was lovely, if a bit fantastical. I mean, who would actually waltz alone in a moonlit park? It’s such a silly thing.”
“I would if I were dancing with you, Hero.” Ian surprised himself with the husky tone of his voice, if not with his words, and frowned with no small amount of disgust. Where those sappy words had come from, he had no idea. He’d never considered himself a romantic, had never seriously courted a woman—or wanted to, for that matter—in all his days. Though he had read the great poets, like most men he considered voicing a recitation in earnest an insult to his manhood.
It just went to show a man should never say never. In the right situation, with the right woman, poetry was no longer mere words but so much more. Inspiration was obviously the missing element of his long-held dismissal of ‘romantic twaddle’ as Hero called it moments ago, and she was a most inspiring lady.
Still, it was an affront to his principles to spout such nonsense to a woman he’d just met. He shook his head to clear the thickening webs of desire away but they clung to him tenaciously. Aye, and wouldn’t that be just the thing to prompt her to leave Cuilean? The unwanted attentions of a man Hero considered a cousin.
But did she? Ian studied her through heavy lids as she rubbed her palms down her skirts. With her brilliant eyes wide, she looked uncertain but not chagrined by his words.
Heavy silence fell around them but it was not as weighty as the desire pulling at him. She was so lovely in the candlelight cast by the wall sconces. Her golden hair gleamed, her skin shone like ivory, her lips were moist and full. The shadows ebbed and peaked over the swell of her breasts with every breath she took. He wanted nothing more than to take her in his arms and to press those delicious curves against him, to feel those breasts well against his chest. He wanted to touch those lips. Make love to them—nay, worship them—with his own.
What he wanted most was to know that the desire to do so was mutual.
Hero’s pulse beat visibly along her long neck as she stared at him in surprise, making him believe that it was. If he ran a finger along that line, Ian wondered, would he find it fluttering as madly as his own? Whether her eyes were wide with excitement or the fear of a deer ready to bolt, he wasn’t certain.
Clearing his throat uncomfortably, he took a pace back in an attempt to break the spell. “You mentioned you enjoy the ramparts as well. Would you care for a stroll before we retire for the evening?”
A deep sigh escaped her. Disappointment? Gratitude? Ian wished he knew.
“Thank you, Lord Ayr. I believe some fresh air would be lovely.”
“I thought we agreed you would call me Ian,” he reminded her in a brogue still heavy with desire. Again he tried to cast it away, only to remain entrapped.
Hero’s lips parted with a swift intake of breath before she released it shakily. “I’m sure that would be most inappropriate, Lord Ayr,” she countered softly as Ian led her down the length of the picture room.
