She raised her gaze to his face, letting her lip curl with all the derision she felt. “It takes a certain type of man to force his attentions on an unwilling female.”
“It takes a certain type of stubborn, hot-headed female to snub the only man who knows her secret.” His mouth twisted into a sneer. “We both know how disappointed Prinny would be to hear a mere woman painted some of his favourite pieces. When he discovers you and your husband have been making him look a fool—he will not take that kindly.”
No, he would not. Weak men could never bear to be made to look foolish, and he would go out of his way to ruin her.
Likely he would succeed, too. Perhaps in time the scandal would be forgotten enough that she could return to London, but she would lose her friends, the respect of theton. No one would want to associate with her again; she would be cast out as a disgrace. All the fortune in the world would not be enough to salvage her reputation.
Bad enough that she was a woman who painted with oils; bad enough that she had deceived everyone who had purchased a painting from Lord Bolton. But she had painted lewd acts. Ones that would shock even the most liberal-minded. She, a woman, whom the Royal Academy did not allow to paint from anatomy, had painted the nude form in a myriad of compromising positions.
Prinny would not let this die. She would have irrevocably made an enemy of the future king.
Long-forgotten fear spiralled through her. For five years of marriage, she had been afraid, and she had vowed never to let fear rule her life again. Yet here she was, her lungs stopping in her chest and cold dread passing through her body.
“You know that would be the reality as well as I do,” Mr Knight said, his breath hot on her cheek, fingers almost painfully tight on her wrist. “This life you had cultivated for yourself would be over with a snap of my fingers. And not all the money in the world could prevent it.”
For a moment, she was twenty-one again and helpless in the face of a man who wanted to control her. Then she blinked, and the illusion was gone. She was a matter of months away from thirty years old, and this was a man desperate enough to threaten her in a public place.
She tilted her head, fear receding enough that she could breathe and regain her calm. He had offered for her, and she had assumed it was for money, but she had never known he would besovery desperate.
I had hoped it would not come to this.
When Bolton had first introduced her to Knight, stating his intention of bringing him into polite Society, she had thought him familiar. And now, as he looked at her with an expression close to resignation, she had that sense again, her memory trying and failing to place him.
She dismissed the thought; now was not the time.
“I presume this is your attempt at blackmail,” she said, and sipped her champagne. Clarity returned, and the panic was a mere dark feeling at the base of her stomach. “You must be in a lot of trouble. Did my husband lead you that far astray?”
“He has no relevance to this, save for the fact he told me about you and gave me the proof I needed.”
“Which is?”
“Letters in his hand confessing to the whole.” Knight glanced at the painting with an expression of indifference. “We were due to enter into a business arrangement together; I requested the letters as collateral. Naturally I had not expected him to die, but I still have them in my possession.”
Of all the hard-headed things for Bolton to do. She clicked her tongue in irritation. No doubt he had thought that Knight, being sponsored by him, would be loyal enough to keep his secret.
A fool. She had been married to a fool.
“I see. Well, what’s your price, Mr Knight? Are you going to demand I marry you after all?”
He frowned, discomfort passing across his face. No doubt he was expecting her to panic, or perhaps succumb to a fit of the vapours. But she was a woman who had survived a marriage designed to break her, and she would not crumble now.
And, now her faculties were returning, it occurred to her that few, if any, would believe that she was the true artist behind the paintings.
“No, not marriage,” he said, regaining his composure. “True, that would have been easier had you not refused me, but you did.” He lifted one shoulder in a lazy shrug. “My terms are this. You have until the end of the summer to pay me fifty thousand pounds. If you fail, I will publish my evidence and destroy your reputation.” He gave a vicious smile. “What say you to that?”
Chapter Five
To Henry’s surprise, he found Miss Venetia Winton entirely more tolerable than he had expected. To be sure, she was tall—some would say unnaturally so—and she had very little beauty. But there was rare self-possession about her as she looked at him, and no visible inclination to flutter her fan, giggle, or otherwise make a spectacle of herself.
“Mrs Winton,” his mother said, addressing herself to Miss Winton’s grey-haired, matronly mother. There was a hint of frost in his mother’s voice, but he could hardly blame her for coldness when he knew that was his entire reputation. “Allow me to introduce my son, Lord Eynsham.”
Mrs Winton understood the assignment immediately, and after a brief, shrewd glance in which he had the impression of being chewed up and spat out, she extended a hand.
“Pleasure to meet you, m’lord. This is my daughter, Miss Venetia Winton, although I expect you already knew that, seeing as that’s the reason you made the journey to our corner of the room.”
Miss Winton took her cool grey gaze from him and glanced at her mother. “Mama.”
“Yes, yes. Lady Shrewsbury, shall we take a turn about the room and leave these young people to it? No doubt they will want to dance, and I confess myself partial to the lemonade.”
