His lips twisted ruefully, and he gestured at the sketch pad. ‘Keep going.’
I turned to the next page and nearly gasped aloud. Cecilia was completely naked and lying full length on a settee. The sketch left nothing to the imagination. Her body was drawn in detail, though her expression in this one was unsmiling ... Oh good Lord, I did not want to see any more! Indeed, I wished to now unsee it!
I closed the sketch pad, struggling to keep my composure. ‘It seems that you have compromised Miss Spencer’s reputation in more ways than one, Mr Hart,’ I said evenly. ‘Did she ask for these drawings back after you were banned from seeing her?’
‘Of course, but I see no harm in keeping them if they are for my eyes only, though theyarepart of my portfolio,’ he mused. ‘I am thinking of applying for art school, you see. Who knows, she may end up on the wall of the National Gallery for everyone to gawp at after all.’ He laughed, a touch cruelly, I thought.
‘I should go. It is late,’ I muttered, pushing the sketch pad aside and standing up. But Mr Hart shot out of his chair at lightning speed and stood in front of me.
‘Not so fast,’ he said, and I was forced to step back so that I was pressed against the edge of the desk.
My legs trembled as he inched closer, and fear must have shown in my face as he murmured, ‘I will not hurt you—only encourage you to give in to your desire.’
‘That will never happen as I do not desire you.’ To my dismay, heat crept into my cheeks, belying my words.
He laughed softly. ‘Then why are you blushing, Mrs Fitzroy?’
With a finger, he softly traced my cheekbone, and the blood in my veins fizzed. But I could not move as his position prevented me from accessing the door back to my bedroom. Gently lifting my chin, he tilted my face to the candlelight. ‘Your bone structure is quite exquisite. Would you like me to paint you? I have been experimenting with oils.’
I shook my head abruptly, making him chuckle.
‘We could do aGirl with a Pearl Earring–type pose. Itwould be fully clothed and so seemly that even your husband would approve. You could hang it in the dining room, and he could look upon my fine work every morning at breakfast.’
They shouldn’t have, but his words struck a nerve as I was reminded of my dead mother’s portrait.
Tears pricked my eyes, and I turned away, not wanting him to see that he had affected me. But he grasped my jaw and turned my head back towards him so he could look into my watery eyes. I was like a wooden puppet in his hands.
‘What is it? What did I say?’ he asked, sounding concerned, but I knew it must be a feigned consternation. Why would it be anything else?
‘My mother died whilst giving birth to me. Until recently, her portrait hung in the dining room of my family home. My father has since moved it to the parlour. I ... I think he must be trying to forget her.’
Mr Hart’s gaze softened. ‘If I had known that about your mother, I would not have said it.’
He wiped a brimming tear from the corner of my eye with his thumb. It was a strangely intimate gesture, but I allowed it. If I was pliant, he might relax his attention, and I could scuttle past him to the door.
‘How could you have known? You do not know the firstthing about me,’ I replied flatly.
‘I know that there is an attraction between us that burns as bright as a flame—no, no, do not do that, Felicity,’ he said, frowning as I rolled my eyes at his flowery falsehood.
‘You would be attracted to a stump of wood if it was wearing a muslin dress,’ I said with a sniff.
‘That is not true. I actually have very particular tastes ...’
‘What? Married women?’
His lips twisted in amusement. ‘No, beautiful, smart, funny women.’ His warm fingers trailed down my neck, brushing over my pulse point, which was fluttering erratically. He shifted closer, pressing a leg in between mine, and the way he was looking at me was causing goosebumps to stud along my flesh. Though my body was responding to him on one level, I was not stupid. He was relaxing me on purpose, melting my resolve, so he could seduce me.
‘Ah, what about your own mother?’ I asked to get him off the subject of our mutual attraction (which I was going to deny until my last breath). ‘I have never heard you speak of her. Is she locked up somewhere in the castle too? Like your poor father.’
Mr Hart’s expression hardened. ‘My father is neither poor nor locked up. What do you know of him?’
‘I know he is ill and confused, and you have not once been to visit him since we arrived. And I know you aretrying to make him sign the castle over to you—not exactly the behaviour of a loving son.’
Mr Hart smiled grimly. ‘I see. So you feel sorry for him, do you? Well, I do not. He caused my mother’s death, so I can never feel love nor pity for him. I can only despise him.’
I was a bit shocked at that. ‘H-he killed your mother?’
‘In a way. He never loved her the way she loved him. Oh, he may have held some affection for her at the start, but it didn’t stop his womanising ways. He was usually discreet about his affairs, but one night, he foolishly arrived from London with his latest mistress in tow. It was too much for my mother, and she rode off on her horse in despair. A search party was sent out. But it was a wild, stormy night, which made conditions difficult for searching. They eventually found her horse, but not her. She was discovered two days later with a broken neck.’
