Revenge was certainly tempting. And there was a particular satisfaction that came from the idea of seducing him. And, as she considered it, imagined pushing him against the wall and placing his hands on her, imagined the way his breathing would change and his cock would strain against the material of his breeches, an answering heat bloomed inside her.
No, that was too dangerous an idea. She might hate him now, but her body still remembered what it was to want Henry Beaumont.
Caroline glanced over her shoulder and sighed. “Lord Peter’s approaching,” she said. One of her lovers, the second son of a duke. “I’ll leave you or you’ll be obliged to endure his conversation, which I can assure you is subpar. There is only one benefit to his company, and unfortunately this is not the place for it.”
Louisa raised a hand in farewell and eased her way through the crowd. In her first few Seasons, she had felt less confident in her own company, but time, age, and the benefit of widowhood had blessed her with poise she could not have emulated as a girl. There was something to be said for marriage after all, if only after one’s husband was dead.
As though compelled through thoughts of her husband, her gaze travelled to the large painting that sat in pride of place above the fireplace.
Several years ago, Lady Huntington had commissioned Lord Bolton to paint a portrait of her. Unbeknownst to poor Lady Bolton, Louisa had been the one to paint it, sat in a tiny roomconstructed entirely for the purpose of spying on the guests her husband entertained. While Lady Huntington had posed and Lord Bolton postured, Louisa sat in that cramped space and painted.
When it was done, Lord Bolton had delivered it personally, taking full credit.
It had not taken long for rumours of his skill to spread across London; even less time for his portraits to have become that Season’s must-haves. Anyone who was anyone wanted a portrait by Lord Bolton.
Louisa had despised her husband with every breath in her body, but his fits of rage had convinced her that the easiest way to a life of harmony would be to acquiesce to his demands. Thus, she had continued to paint. Every few months, she would produce a new painting that thetonwould fawn over, and if she ever balked, Lord Bolton would put his hand over her mouth and warn her to keep her silence or he would ruin her in every way he knew how.
He was not a clever man, her husband, but he was a sly one, and cruel, and she doubted not a bit that he would have followed through with his threats.
Bile rose in her throat at the sight of the portrait she had so unwillingly painted, and although she knew it was greatly admired, it appeared to her then as though it had been sketched in blood.
As though a shark scenting her open wound, Mr Knight appeared at her shoulder, a glass of champagne in his hand and a contemplative look in his cold eyes. “Lady Bolton,” he said, handing her the glass. “What a delight to see you here.”
Evidently he had not been humbled by her rejection. “Mr Knight,” she said, accepting the champagne and looking from him to the golden liquid. “I trust you’re well?”
“Perfectly.” He nodded at the painting. “Admiring your husband’s work?”
“He certainly has a way of making his presence known even beyond the grave,” she said, and turned, looking for Caroline. “Pray excuse me.”
“Wait one moment.” He put a hand on her arm, but although the gesture was casual, the grip in his fingers was not. “I have something I would like to say.”
She glanced down at his hand. “Release me or I will make sure you will never hold a pistol again.”
“And to think Bolton said he never had any trouble with you.” He chuckled, but the sound was devoid of humour. “You know, it’s a shame it’s come to this. I had hoped you would accept my suit.”
He finally released her, and her hand trembled with repressed anger. She could toss the glass of champagne in his face or slap him, but that would mean making a scene, and she would rather not. “You have said nothing that leads me to think I will regret my decision.”
“No? Perhaps not yet. But you will. You see, your husband confided a few things about your marriage.”
Louisa’s heart sank, although she kept her expression blandly contemptuous. Even years after his death, Bolton’s skeletons continued to emerge from his past and chase into her future. “What a place of distinction you must have held,” she mocked.
“Indeed.” Mr Knight gave a cold smile as he leant closer, demanding her attention with obnoxious insistence. “In particular, he mentioned your talent with a brush. You truly are prolific, Lady Bolton. I must congratulate you on your success.”
Dread lurched in her stomach, but she gave him a disdainful look. “I’m afraid I don’t know your meaning.”
“Oh, I know you do. And I’ve heard the Prince of Wales is particularly taken by a selection of erotic pieces you made.” Hetsked under his breath. “Whatwouldpeople say if they knew the things you’d painted under your husband’s name?”
Louisa kept her expression blank, though panic and fury erupted in her chest. For three years, she had been content to let all the awful, degrading things she’d done settle in the past. She had thought that with Bolton’s death, she would be free to escape it.
And now this man, whom she had thought a suitor—and who had attempted to marry her—knew her secret.
“I doubt anyone would believe you,” she said contemptuously. “Now I believe this conversation is over.”
He caught her wrist again, this time a good deal harder. “I was not done talking.”
“Unhand me.”
“Not until I’ve finished.”
