Georgie Lee – Rescued From Ruin (страница 8)

‘Yes, he’s very fortunate indeed. It’s a wonder people don’t speak more favourably of you when you’re obviously such a generous gentleman.’

A muscle in his jaw twitched and shame flashed through his eyes before he looked away. For a moment she felt sorry for him. She’d seen this expression once before, ten years ago, when they’d stood together under the large ash tree at Falconbridge Manor, the shadows shifting over his father’s plain headstone. Like then, the look didn’t last, but fled from his eyes as fast as he’d fled back up the lawn, hard arrogance stiffening his jaw.

Footsteps sounded in the hall outside the studio.

‘Sir Thomas is returning,’ Randall announced, moving to examine a large landscape near the window, his back to her as Sir Thomas’s footsteps grew louder. He stood still except for his fingers. They toyed with the walking-stick handle, betraying a certain agitation, as if her words had struck a chord. Did he feel some guilt over what he’d done to Lord Westbrook? No, surely it was only the shock of being dressed down by a lady, something she was sure he rarely experienced.

‘Are you ready to continue?’ Sir Thomas asked, taking his place behind the easel.

‘Yes, please.’ Cecelia resumed her pose just as the curtain flew open and Madame de Badeau swept into the room.

‘You won’t believe what Lady Thornton just told me. Lord Falconbridge, you’ll think it sinfully good when you hear it.’

‘I’m sure, but for the moment, you’ll have to entertain Mrs Thompson with the story. I have business to attend to.’ He snapped his walking stick up under his arm and made for the door.

‘What a bore you are,’ Madame de Badeau chided, then turned to Cecelia. ‘My dear, wait until you hear what’s happened to Lord Byron.’

* * *

Randall barely heard two words of Madame de Badeau’s gossip as he stormed from the room, catching Cecelia’s reflection in the mirror near the door, disapproval hard in her eyes before she looked away.

He passed through the dark shop and out into the sunlit street beyond, tapping his walking stick in time with his steps.

He hadn’t expected to meet her in the studio today, especially not in a silky robe wrapped tight around her narrow waist, exposing the curve of her hips and breasts and making him forget all business with the painter. Once together, he hadn’t been able to resist tempting her with a few words, or trying to draw out the alluring woman who’d met his daring innuendoes at Lady Weatherly’s. Who knew his efforts would be rewarded with a reprimand?

Randall sidestepped two men arguing on the pavement, a crate of foul-smelling vegetables smashed on the ground between them.

Who was she to chastise him? What did she know of London habits? Nothing. She’d spent the past ten years among provincials, cavorting with heathens and who-knew-what society. Now she seemed to think it her duty to shame him the way his father used to.

He slammed his walking stick against the ground, the vibration shooting up his arm.

Why didn’t she stay in America?

Instead she’d returned to London, dredging up old memories like some mudlark digging for scraps along the Thames, determined to berate him like some nursemaid. She was mistaken if she thought she could scold him with a look, or if her chiding words meant anything to him. He wasn’t about to change because of her or anyone else’s disapproval.

He swatted a tomato with his walking stick, sending it rolling into the gutter, trying to ignore the other, more dangerous feeling dogging his anger. He’d caught it at the salon the other night and again today when he’d complimented her and for a brief moment she’d almost believed him. It was the faint echo of the affection they’d once enjoyed. Whatever she thought of his behaviour, somewhere deep beneath it, she felt the old connection, too.

He turned a corner into a square of fine houses, trying to concentrate on the bright sun bouncing off the stone buildings and the steady clop of horses in the street, but his thoughts remained stubbornly fixed on Cecelia.

His anger changed to interest as he walked, twirling his stick. He’d ached to trace the line of her shoulders with his fingers, push back the tumble of brown hair sweeping her neck and draw her red lips to his. Even angry she was beautiful and he wanted her, more than he’d ever wanted any woman before.

His pace slowed and he trailed his walking stick along the wrought-iron fences surrounding the houses, the quick clicks echoing off the buildings.

What weakness kept bringing him back to Cecelia? He’d enjoyed and left a number of women over the years without regret. Why couldn’t he forget her?

Because at one time, he’d loved her.

He stopped, his walking stick pausing against the metal before he snapped it up under his arm.

Love, he snorted, resuming his walk. This had nothing to do with love or any other ridiculous sentiment, but the excitement of a challenge. There wasn’t a woman he’d known who hadn’t thrown herself at him once he made his interest clear. Until today. He’d nearly forgotten the excitement of the pursuit and the pleasure of the capture.

Despite Cecelia’s caustic words, he’d caught the flashes of desire his suggestions brought to her eyes and how her parted lips practically begged for his kiss. He recognised her reprimand for what it was—an obstacle to overcome. After all, most women found it necessary to put up some charade of resistance, even after showing up at his house in the middle of the night wearing little more than a pelisse.

He turned a corner, stepping out on to busy Great Russell Street, the energy of the people rushing past him feeding the anticipation building with his determination. She might sneer at his reputation today, but once she surrendered to him, and she would, they’d enjoy enough pleasure to ensure she forgot all about his previous escapades.

He tapped his fingers against his thigh, eager to feel her soft skin against his and taste the lips which had been so tantalisingly close to his in the studio.

It would be so different between them this time. With her wealth, she wouldn’t demand more of him the way she had before, and when the passion faded, as it always did, they could part without regret, all the old sins forgiven and forgotten.

For the first time in a long time, he looked forward to the chase.

Chapter Four

Cecelia and Theresa sat astride two geldings from Lord Strathmore’s stable, slowing their horses to match the leisurely pace of Madame de Badeau and Lord Strathmore’s mounts as they entered Rotten Row. It was the first ride for either of them during the crowded fashionable hour. Cecelia sat up straight in the saddle, savouring the gentle gait of the horse beneath her and the fine spring evening. It was well worth the pain of enduring Lord Strathmore’s endless chatter about his carriage to be on horseback again.

‘I painted it red and ordered gold crests to match the gilding along the top,’ he explained to Madame de Badeau, who offered a perfunctory nod, her attention on the riders surrounding them. ‘I’m also rebuilding the carriage house in stone. I much prefer the smooth texture. It’s quite alluring, especially when rendered into the curves of the female form.’

His hungry eyes fixed on Cecelia, sliding down the length of her. She offered him a wan smile, then leaned back in the saddle so Madame de Badeau and Theresa blocked her from his view. Theresa rolled her eyes at Cecelia, who shot her cousin a reprimanding look betrayed by the smile sneaking in beneath it.

‘Look at Lord Penston’s mount,’ Madame de Badeau interjected, inclining her head at a round man with white hair riding past them. ‘What a shame. Someone of his standing should invest in a better bit of blood.’

Lord Strathmore responded with an ‘hmm’ before returning to the topic of his carriage, his words keeping pace with the horses as they continued down the Row.

Cecelia smiled at two passing gentlemen, grinding her teeth as their stony faces stared past her. One would think all London were afraid to crack a smile for fear of sending the city sliding into the Thames. Adjusting the reins, she wanted to tap the horse into a sprint and ride like she used to at Belle View. Let the spectacle of a horse truly exercising bring some emotion to the other riders’ staid faces. Instead, she rested her hands on her thighs, rocking with the horse and settling into her thoughts, the mounting pile of bills at home preying on her.

She’d spent the better part of the morning calculating the value of her few possessions against their mounting debts, her depression growing by the minute. The one small ray of hope was the inheritance payment she’d soon receive. It was the only money left to her by her father, his share of a sugar plantation in Barbados, the single investment to have ever made him any money. The payments were never large because there were so many other investors, but even the paltry amount would be enough to ease some of her present worry.

She ran her hand over her wrist, feeling the small bump of the gold bracelet beneath the velvet, not wanting to think about the last time she’d so desperately needed the money. Her mother hadn’t been able to rouse herself for even two hours to see to this small matter and Cecelia had ventured alone to Mr Watkins’s office to collect the payment. Cecelia had railed at her mother afterwards, no longer capable of holding back all her fears and frustration, wishing her mother would wrap her arms around her and tell her everything would be all right. She hadn’t.