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The moon was directly overhead, high and bright, nearly full. He set down the board with a tap that seemed loud in the sudden hush.

He was in her bedroom, in the night. She hadn’t precisely invited him in. He should go.

Good night. Good-bye.

There were words adequate to the task of leaving. Humans had developed ritualized language to protect individuals from the specificity of their desires. Humdrum phrases.

He cleared his throat, and she looked at him. He saw the quicksilver beauty of her face, the transformation wrought by wonder at something as simple as the moon. Her face was tilted up, hair loose around her shoulders, the jewel-bright silk of her dress muted in the moonlight and the low light of the lamp, a deeper color, closer to claret. His arms could easily span the distance between them. It would be far more difficult to walk the two steps back to the door.

How the tables had turned. It seemed he was now a danger to her.

Chapter Thirteen

“I should go.” Weston hesitated, then bowed slightly. “Sweet dreams,” he said, the words a low purr.

The black sheen of his hair, touched by the moon’s rays, held blue lights. Was it the alcohol that made her blood effervesce in her veins? Something else was working upon her. Her little garret room, so safe and familiar, her haven—standing in the center of it, she suddenly felt poised on a precipice. She wanted to take the step that would send her plummeting. She tried to smile and suspected the result was lopsided. But he smiled back, dimples forming in his cheeks. His irises had expanded, a band of emerald encircling celadon flecked with orpiment. Gorgeous, many-hued.

He shifted his weight, and his boot knocked against her paint box. A brush rolled off the top onto the floor.

“Don’t mind that,” she muttered as he crouched to pick it up. “I’m always kicking things over.”

He rose. His smile had faded. There was calculation in his eyes. He glanced about and what he saw seemed to decide him.

“This room, it’s certainly not lifeless,” he began.

“Are you referring to the mice?” She folded her arms. That brought the smile back to his lips. She watched them curve. Despite their fullness, they weren’t feminine. They were too sculpted, the upper lip sharply peaked, the lower lip almost squared off.

“I refer to your dislike for domiciles defined by empty fathoms of air.”

His memory was keen. She shrugged her acceptance. There was something novel, and rather nice, about a man adopting her terms.

“That is, it’s charming as a bedchamber.” He noticed that this bit of condescension lit her temper and hurried on. “But as a studio it lacks the bare minimum of light and space. Come to Weston Hall to paint.”

Her mouth had fallen open.

“Not to the house per se,” he added. “I want to avoid complications. With Yardley, the gossipmongers. Everyone. I do plan to gain control of the dukedom. Even if I were afraid of the responsibility . . .”

She felt her cheeks warming.

“I would overcome my fear. For many reasons, not the least of which being it’s the only way I can make certain my sister is provided for.”

Her face flamed.

“I deceived you,” she said haltingly. “Exploited your fondness for your sister . . .”

“Because I gave you no cause to trust me. Like you said.” His voice hollowed, but the anger—if it was anger—didn’t seem directed at her. He looked at her squarely. “I will talk to Mabeldon.”

She swallowed some lump in her throat, those bubbles of champagne.

He glanced at her easel, at the chalking on the canvas, the Cantrell girls in outline, a boyish excitement playing over his face.

“Effie has an easel. I could set it up for you. Lucy . . .”

He didn’t seem to notice he’d used her Christian name.

“Consider it. It’s a small space in a private corner of the garden. A glasshouse, originally for growing flowers. You couldn’t ask for more light. My mother had it built and walled off. No one accesses it from the main house. There’s an entrance off the mews. I’ll show it to you. You could come and go as you please.”

His excitement had gripped her. She chewed her lip, daring to imagine it. A glasshouse, dazzling with light.