“Impersonating your husband and deceiving people out of their money will cause some uproar,” he said, “but your talent is undeniable, and you are still a Bolton. How very bad can it be? There have been other female artists.”
Ah, so he was unaware of the whole. Many of thetonwere; it was only a few, including the Prince Regent, who had seen her more erotic works.
“If that were merely the situation, I might claim ownership,” she said.
Ahead, the man stopped, drawing a cigar from his pocket, lighting it in a flare of match light. He shook out the light and tossed it to the ground as he continued on.
Henry tensed beside her. “What do you mean ‘if’?” he asked, voice so low she hardly heard it. Vibration more than sound, passing straight through her.
“Do you think Bolton merely left it at that?” she asked. “His tastes were more sordid, and he liked to throw parties that would make you blush.” She could imagine them now. From a purely artistic viewpoint, there had been something inordinately beautiful about the sight, pale skin and sweeping curves against taut lines. Bronze and gold and porcelain. Hooded smiles and gasping laughs and the slow undulation of soft bodies against hard. Candlelight spilling across the scene like the dawning sun.
Debauchery, such debauchery. And she, the lady painter, had been the one to commit it to a canvas.
Understanding dawned slowly, and Louisa might have been mistaken, but she thought she saw Henry’s face redden. “Are you telling me that you painted . . . that?”
“Shocked?” She laughed, though nothing about her situation was funny. “Have I lowered myself in your estimation? Do you renounce me, declare me morally corrupt beyond measure?”
“Not you,” he said, teeth clenched. “Bolton.”
For an odd reason, his defence of her made her want to push him until finally he behaved the way she had expected him to. “The Prince Regent has several copies,” she said, looking up at him. “Believe me when I say this scandal will not be resolved after a small rustication. The future king will have a vendetta against me, and he will not hesitate to make my transgressions known to the world.”
His throat worked, and she thought she had finally reached him with the depths of her ruin when he caught her arm, turning her and pushing her against the wall. “Quiet,” he said, his knee pressed against her thighs, his hand on her wrist, holding it between them as though it could prevent them from being so close.
Louisa’s stomach dropped, the heat in her body rushing south, and as she looked into Henry’s darkened face, she wondered if he was thinking the same thing as her. How it would feel if he allowed himself to touch her. Whether he would press his mouth to her in the name of disguise.
“I had not thought you were this sort of gentleman,” she murmured, looking up at him. His jaw was sharp and tight, his eyes gleaming, their colour obscured. Yet even though she couldn’t see their precise shade, she had never forgotten it.
“If you had not forced my hand, I wouldn’t be.”
If she kissed him now, would his lips taste of the night mists?
“Is he watching?” she whispered, wishing she were not so conscious of the way his knee pressed against her skirts. Hisbody was hot, greatcoat falling open to partially encompass her, and she could feel the trembling from his heartbeat.
Perhaps he no longer cared for her, but he was not immune to this, at least.
He glanced a little to her right and shook his head. “He’s entered a tavern.”
“Then we should—”
“No,” he said firmly, stepping back to give her some much-needed space. The hands that fell to his sides were clenched tight. Her nipples pinched, hardening utterly against her will. “That I draw the line at.”
Perhaps he was right to, but she would not give up so easily.
“You forget,” she said, marching past him, “that you have no power over me.”
When he reached out for her wrist, she dodged him, and entered the tavern. The stench of ale and unwashed bodies hit her, along with the noise. With Bolton, she had been to her fair share of coffee houses and inns, but this was something different. Pockmarked tables gleamed sticky in the light from what might be tallow candles, the stink immediately repulsive. Barmaids perched on patrons’ laps, giggling, their dresses low-cut.
Their target, his gait recognisable even through the crowd, tramped along the straw and spilt ale to a table at the back.
“Now then, pet,” one of the buxom maids said to her, and glanced over at Henry. Her smile widened. “What can I do for you, sir?” Her voice dripped with lasciviousness, and when Louisa looked up at Henry, the red was back in his cheeks.
“Who is that man?” Louisa asked, nodding to their target, whom it transpired had a broken nose. He wasn’t so much as looking at them, too occupied in dealing cards on to the sticky wood of the table. A barmaid bought him a tankard of ale, the pale liquid sloshing over the sides.
“Him?” The girl raised her brows. “What makes you think I know him?”
The ease with which the man had moved across the room told Louisa that this was not his first visit. And she suspected all the maids knew the names of the regulars.
Henry held out a shilling. “Perhaps this might help you remember.”
