“Oh, I don’t know the difference between a Da Vinci and a, well, anything, really,” Jeanne laughed. “I’m afraid a collection such as yours would be lost on me.”
“How about you then, Miss Sharpe? What say you?”
It was a challenge, and Logan was discovering that Faith could be baited.
“Yes. Thank you, Mr. Harris.”
“Evans?” The butler stepped forward from his position near the buffet table. “Would you light the gallery for our guest?”
“Yes sir,” Evans replied, nodding to the underbutler across the room who left instantly.
Once dinner had finished, Arabella, their father, and Jeanne retired to the parlor as the storm continued to rage. Logan waited for Faith to join him at the base of the stairs as theothers proceeded to their destination. To his equal amusement and annoyance, Faith took the stairs two at a time, seemingly unwilling to wait for him, even though she had no idea where she was going. In response, he took his time climbing the stairs, making her stay at the top.
However, just before he reached the landing, he stopped, his gaze fixated on the hem of her dress. Her skirts were several inches higher than the floor, and she only wore stockings to cover her legs. Frowning, he looked up to find her staring daggers at him.
“This is your sister’s dress,” she said, noting where his eyes had been. “My riding habit and shoes were soaked through. I had to borrow these.”
“It’s too short.”
“My, aren’t you’re the observant one?” she said smartly, the charm she had displayed for the others vanishing.
This Faith he knew, all bristly and sharp. He nearly countered with a biting remark, but the nagging idea that she could be the lady from the painting gave him pause. Instead, he just stared at her momentarily, watching her defensive armor falter.
“What?”
“I did not say anything.”
“No, but you’re staring at me in a way that…”
He took the final step up the stairs and stood before her, looking down into her eyes.
“In what way?” he asked, his tone more roguish than intended.
Faith took a step back, her throat bobbing like she was swallowing. Logan’s gaze transfixed on her neck, and he had to bite his tongue to expel several outrageous fantasies.
What the devil was wrong with him?
Faith shook her head after a moment and turned.
“Which way is the gallery?” she asked over her shoulder.
“Left,” he said, and she continued on her way, his eyes on her back.
Really, he didn’t understand his reaction to her. He loathed this woman, yet outlandish images kept springing to mind whenever he stared too long at her. Faith, wrapped in that yellow velvet, laid out on his bed. Faith, standing in front of his fireplace wearing only a seductive grin. Yet then she’d open her mouth to speak and all sorts of conflicting thoughts would enter his mind.
As they reached the end of the hallway, a marble archway on the right led into a vast room with a vaulted ceiling that had been engineered to hold as many glass windows as possible between the beams so that the natural light could come in. Still, as only flashes of lightning currently lit up the evening sky, dozens of standing candelabras and oil lamps lit the room. At the opposite end of the gallery stood two large French doors that opened onto a half-circle balcony overlooking the gardens. Logan often found himself out there at night, gazing into the nothingness of space as he tried to quiet his anxious mind.
Where all the rest of the house had been painted or lined with colorful wallpapers, this gallery was left stark white, with light wooden floors to allow the hundreds of paintings that hung from the walls to shine without distraction or competition.
The audible gasp from Faith gave Logan a tremendous amount of satisfaction, and he watched as she moved slowly into the room, her captivated gaze lifting to the artwork. Her mouth fell open slightly, and he found himself frozen, staring at her profile. Though the painting showed a sensual, flirtatious woman, this sight of Faith, lost in her reaction, caught him off guard. She was well and truly amazed, and he was in awe of how much he enjoyed seeing the wonderment in her expression.
“There have to be hundreds,” she whispered, more to herself than to him, but her words did shake him from his stupor, and he stepped forward.
“Eight hundred and seventy-two, in this room,” he said, following her gaze up to a huge painting. “Do you recognize it?”
Faith shook her head slowly. He knew she couldn’t believe what she saw.
“It can’t be,” she whispered, her hand reaching her chin.
