The King of Threadneedle Street Page 6

  “I didn’t mean to harm your prospects.” He had to swallow twice before he could say, “I confess I have long assumed you would be mine.” She traced his bottom lip with one finger, watching his mouth instead of his eyes. “I see now that I was foolish and presumptive. I beg you will forgive me.”

  “Yes.”

  He was too young and ignorant to realize that with her one-word concession, Alysia resigned herself irrevocably to the class of society that was not respectable. The demimonde.

  Andrew studied her expression, and the thought struck him that she very much appeared as though she wanted to be kissed. So soon after wanting to kill him. He didn’t understand the bizarre workings of her mind.

  His hands were already exploring her. He couldn’t believe the softness of the skin on her throat and across her collar. He traced her eyebrows, and her eyes dropped closed. He thought her breath sped. It seemed she was responding to him. A surge of triumph accompanied the realization.

  He experimented with teasing her; stroking her lips, toying with her earlobe, grazing his fingertips along the winged shape of her collarbones. Finally she opened her eyes and met his gaze with a smoky desire even his blundering adolescent self understood.

  He dipped his head until he was only inches from her face. He held the distance, stunned by the force lulling him in.

  Alysia wanted him to kiss her. He knew it.

  “May I?” The gruffness of his voice sounded odd to himself.

  “Yes.”

  He slid an arm under her neck and cradled her head. Slowly he lowered his mouth and brushed his lips across hers. Experimentally, cautiously. He caressed the apple of her cheek and down her throat with his lips, and back again until he coaxed her to part her lips. He closed his mouth over hers, and she answered with the same movement. He kissed her lips slowly, then again deeply, reveling in the luxurious softness of her mouth on his.

  The slow burn became consuming. He hadn’t imagined that when he kissed Alysia, he would also taste her; a honey, cocoa and spicy nutmeg flavor she always smelled of after breakfast. He moved his mouth hungrily on hers, and she wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him even closer.

  He was surprised how naturally the act came, like a conversation. Andrew pursed his lips on her bottom lip and gave it a gentle nibble. She answered with a breathy sigh that made him feel wild.

  Feeling daring, he teased her lips with the tip of his tongue, and when she opened her mouth in a gasp, he kissed her as though he was a starving man — desperate, rough. He had no idea where it came from; he couldn’t help it. She raked her nails across his shoulders and kissed him back the same way. She liked it, then.

  Acting on impulse, he trailed kisses from her chin to the corner of her jaw, and when he sank his lips into the soft spot where her ear joined her neck, she erupted in a naughty-sounding moan. The single most erotic noise he could imagine. Delighted with his discovery, he kneaded her neck with his lips while she tilted her head and arched her back, offering herself.

  He experimented, brushing feathery kisses up and down her neck then attacking her with wild, deep kisses and playful nips with his teeth. She loved all of it; she writhed beneath him, gasping appreciatively all the while. He learned where the nerves on her neck were, where they traced down in sensitive lines.

  He made her shudder, made her rise and curl herself around him. Finally as he dotted slow open-mouthed kisses down her neck in a line past her collar and dangerously close to the lace edging of her shift, she exclaimed in a wordless sob and melted into him, meeting every line of his body with her own. He understood then he had conquered her, and that he could have done anything he pleased with her. She would not have protested. She wanted it, would perhaps even beg for it.

  Andrew kissed her lips again, incredulous, pondering his newfound power. He resisted the urge to let his hands roam where they shouldn’t, and he banished the thoughts reminding him that kissing was in parody of another act. If he didn’t cherish her so… if she were not so young… If only they were married, then he would gladly give in to the slow burn he finally identified as arousal. If only.

  The pleasure of kissing her would be enough for now. He wouldn’t be greedy. The sheer ecstasy of the moment was more sublime than he had imagined. And he had indeed been long imagining this. Andrew grunted in satisfaction and let his mind float away while he submersed himself in the act of kissing his soul mate.

  ****

  The women went to Worth’s in London for Elizabeth’s wedding gown fitting. The men had gone out hunting that morning and Alysia supposed she had the manor to herself. She sat alone in Lord Courtenay’s favorite salon. Daisy, the matronly mastiff, who was too old to go on the hunt, slept on Alysia’s shoes as she sketched on a large pad with charcoal and pastels.

  The salon was a splendid art gallery, home to the marquess’ prized sculptures and paintings; replicas of great works, and many original pieces even the Louvre would be proud to exhibit.

  Today Alysia was smitten with a copy of the Dying Gaul in marble. The life-sized piece had beckoned to her the moment she stepped through the doors and saw beams of sunlight displaying the fallen warrior in all his glorious agony. Alysia had been pushing the thought from her mind all morning that her fascination was not entirely scientific. She had been imagining Andrew as a Gallic warrior since he had arrived last week.

  She had studied and sketched the statue from two other angles and now sat facing his pierced torso. Perched on his altar-like slab of marble, he seemed to incline his head to her, including her in his suffering. Alysia liked Lord Courtenay’s copy. Ancient, marvelously detailed, and unimproved. She had seen idealized replicas, smoothed and cleaned, and thereby robbed of the interesting elements, in her opinion.

  His lips parted in a hiss of pain visible only from below, his head bowed to his chest. From that angle she finally discovered what exactly about the statue evoked her admiration. It was the square, defiant set of his shoulders as he sat upon his shield, confronting death. The idea of railing against a cruel fate — meeting it with proud defiance, struck her as inspiring. And irresistibly romantic.

  It also made her feel wretched, to some extent. She couldn’t deny that she desired to fight her own fate, but like the Dying Gaul, misery would come whether she displayed bravery or not. The Gallic warrior couldn’t escape his death in battle, and she was doomed to the empty life Andrew so succinctly illustrated for her a few nights past.

  The forceful beauty of the art, combined with her own tumultuous feelings, moved her, and she was glad to be alone. She caught a stray tear and cursed under her breath as another dropped onto her sketchpad, smudging the charcoal.

  “Such scandalous language from a lady,” came Andrew’s velvety deep voice behind her, raising the hair on the back of her neck with his breath. Alysia cried in surprise, tossing her papers and pencils into the air.

  Poor Daisy leapt up in fright and growled. She cast a doggish, annoyed look at Andrew then settled back on the rug, covering a few of Alysia’s pastels with her massive belly. She dropped her head onto her paws and shot a scolding look at Lord Preston.

  Alysia was not much more pleased to see him. He bent to gather her things and muttered an apology through his chuckling. Alysia quickly wiped away the remainder of her traitorous tears and hurried to compose herself before he noticed. She held out the case with her eyes cast down so he could place the pencils back inside.

  “Ha! Sorry, Lisa. I didn’t mean to frighten you, only tease you a bit.” He turned before she managed to erase her melancholy expression, and his face fell. “Oh, Lisa. What is it?” He tried to gather her in an embrace, but she pushed his arms away.

  “Thank you, my lord. I am quite well.” She changed the subject. “You have returned from the hunt already?” A sideways peek at the clock confirmed it was yet mid-morning. She had expected them home that afternoon.

  “Oh. Aye. Well, I went with them as far as Tilmore Lodge, and we had a few pheasants each. The othe
rs decided to ride on across the stream and circle back around this afternoon. I didn’t want to spend my day listening to that horrid Belmont’s boasting and floating my eyeballs in grotty tavern ale.”

  That earned a half-smile from Alysia; one corner of her mouth pulled up. “You didn’t say so, of course.”

  “Of course not. I claimed my gelding threw a shoe — I pried it off when no one was looking. I only hope my father will look after Christian.”

  Alysia could not help her full-fledged smile at this. Andrew didn’t trust the marquess to take care of his own son? She sighed and closed her book.

  “No — let me see.” He made a grab for it and amended, “Please?”

  Alysia conceded and retreated to her chair while Andrew thumbed through her sketches. The front of the book held vignettes of the family, scenes of the waterfront at the lake and various animals at the park. She enjoyed his knowing smiles; she had captured Andrew’s family at rather telling moments, mostly flattering but others less so. She could see Andrew understood her perspective, and it afforded her no small pleasure.

  It was obvious when he arrived at her drawings of the Dying Gaul. He turned his head to the east windows and followed the line of light as it cast upon the statue. His eyes narrowed in understanding. His face fell, and he studied each page soberly. Then he sank into the chair next to her and dropped his head into his hands.

  “Alysia…”

  She couldn’t tell what he was thinking, but only guessed that she had perhaps been too private in her interpretation of suffering.

  He held out a finger to trace the lines, but withdrew. “The Dying Gaul?” He turned his discerning gaze on her.

  “One of my favorites. He reminds me of you,” she confessed. The heat of his stare was too intense; she diverted her eyes to the case of pastels in her hand.

  “But I have no moustache.” Playful, but she knew he was trying to draw her out.

  “The resemblance is in his form and his masculine expression.”

  “But he is dying.”

  “But not in despair. He is brave. He meets his fate proudly.”

  His eyes gleamed with mischief. “He is naked. Surely you don’t imagine me that way.”

  “As an admirer of great art I am quite unaffected by heroic nudity in the erotic sense.”

  His eyebrows raised into his tumbled hair.

  She took her book back and looked again at the drawings he found so disturbing. Admittedly, from the perspective of an objective viewer, there was indeed a great deal of emphasis on suffering.

  Alysia noticed Andrew was removing his clothes. He often shed his jacket, waistcoat, and necktie in her presence, but he now had his shirt off and was unfastening his trouser buttons.

  “Andrew! What are you doing?”

  “You said you wanted to sketch me?” He held his arms out. “I want to be sketched. No better time than now.”

  He shut the door of the salon. The turning lock echoed, a sinister sound.

  “But — I… I had a portrait in mind. A decent one.”

  “Oh, it will be better than decent.” He tossed his boots and stockings into a chair.

  “I mean, presentable. To the public.” She watched with wide eyes as Andrew wadded his trousers and launched them into the chair as well.

  “You said you aren’t averse to heroic nudity.”

  “But not yours!” She felt on the verge of panic. “Besides, what is heroic about this?”

  “You are the artist with the vivid imagination. Make something up.”

  He tossed his drawers into her lap, and a whimper squeaked from her throat. She heard him drop onto the settee opposite her.

  “Well?”

  Alysia reined in the giddy feeling making her lightheaded and opened the book to a blank page. She selected a pencil then looked up at him.

  Andrew reclining on the settee, naked and glorious, took her breath away. His long limbs draped casually over the sides and propped on the cushions, were perfectly muscular, with a latent strength she wanted to capture. His proportion measured closely to the heroic canon, the template physique Michelangelo used to sculpt the gods. A living specimen lay before her like a fantastical offering.

  Right away she noticed the details that mattered; the lazy turn of his foot so near the powerful stretch of leg, the impatient curl of his fingers indicating skilled and sure hands, and the sunlight glinting on the ends of his hair and eyelashes.

  He was more beautiful than her beloved Dying Gaul, and more powerful. Broad, proud shoulders framed a torso splendidly muscled but not so bulky or dramatically veined that it lacked romance. His chest invited touch; it looked warm and promised shelter. She wanted to capture that as well.

  Andrew stared back, unashamed as she studied him. Flattering, the way he tilted his head, flexing the muscles of his neck and shoulders; she would tell him to hold it that way when she drew it. He wore the expression she desired from him; confident, playful, with that familiar bewitching sparkle of mischief in his clear brown eyes. The near-perfect harmony of his striking angular features could only be the product of a dozen generations of beautiful people breeding more beautiful people. That was academic to reproduce, but the stormy sweep of his brow and eager humor of his mouth would be a challenge.

  What she had been discovering piece by piece, was that Andrew lived in harmony with his dramatic extremes: His jovial humor and dreadful temper, his inclination to be lazy and his financial genius, his London sophistication and fondness for his home in the country.

  This was her Andrew, precisely as she would capture him in her memory. If he was willing to admit by word and deed they were in love, then she could declare it in lines and strokes on paper. She tucked the pad under her arm and approached him, returning the devilish smirk he sent her. “The light is perfect, Drew. Hold this pose if you can.”

  She adjusted how his arm draped over the back of the settee and nudged his shoulder back a bit to remove the shadow it cast on his chest. His fingers toyed with the embroidered pattern of the fabric but stilled when she noticed. “No, go ahead and do that.” She tilted his jaw and angled it directly forward then slightly downward, so that he was looking from under his eyebrows. Lastly, she ran her fingers through his hair and let it fall carelessly on his forehead, then took a step back.

  “Does my lady approve?” His voice was thick with humor, and a tremor of nervousness she hadn’t known he felt. He didn’t look nervous at all, a vision of a dark incubus primed for seduction. But there was a contradiction of soulful tenderness in his expression that softened his erotic impact. Again, another fascinating contrast in extremes.

  “Andrew, you are an artist’s dream.” She kissed him on the forehead and brushed across his jaw. He hummed in response, a sound of satisfaction. The simple exchange caused a bizarre reaction; she was seized by a whim, a temptation that flashed in urges and uncivilized hungers before she quelled it.

  Unaffected by heroic nudity, indeed!

  She sat back in her chair and began to draw after taking a deep breath. It came easily, seemed simple. She was hardly aware of smiling as she sketched. Andrew was a perfectly-behaved model. He didn’t distract or tease her and obediently adjusted his pose when she asked.

  Alysia used light and shadow dramatically but reserved brilliant colors for the most intense expressions such as his eyes, the glint of sunlight in his hair, and to highlight his musculature. Muted tones shaped all else, which drew attention to his imposing demeanor. Indeed she prided herself on her meticulous detail and lifelike representations, and this was her finest yet.

  The only problem? Now she was feeling short of breath, overheated, and achy with a burning feeling that crawled from her core to the tips of her fingers, brushing every nerve along the way. Now that she had layered the shading with color, the Andrew in the drawing appeared as though he was deciding whether to snooze or prowl off the sofa and ravish the viewer right there on the floor. His dark, direct gaze seemed to say, If you like what you see,
then come and get it.

  Was it the subject or the drawing that provoked her so?

  A heady sensation escalated her agitated state — fascination with his navel as it contracted with his exhalation. She had to stare then draw, stare then draw, and again and again, to capture it just right. In a way she was touching every glorious inch of him. Not without great effort did she clear her mind and resume blending flesh tones in pastel over the ridges of his abdomen and the provocative lines over his hips.

  Mindless of the time as it passed, when she had nearly finished, she saw that the light through the windows had crawled higher into noon skies. Only one task remained. She had waited in hope that the lapsing time would resolve the situation. “Andrew?” She willed herself not to sound as dry-mouthed as she felt. “Can you, ah, do anything about that?”

  He knew what she meant. “Only one thing, my love, but I don’t think you would go that far for the sake of your drawing. Or would you?”

  “No.”

  “Then you will have to render as you observe, ma belle artiste.” He winked. “And you will do me justice, I trust?”

  Alysia pursed her lips and set her pencil to the paper.

  Chapter Five

  And thus I clothe my naked villainy

  With odd old ends stol’n out of holy writ,

  And seem as saint, when most I play the devil.

  King Richard III, William Shakespeare

  She was summoned for an audience with Lord and Lady Courtenay. Unsurprisingly, they knew. Andrew did not have subtlety in his repertoire.

  No, she had not taken Lord Preston as a lover. No, she assured his mother, she was not carrying his child. Not even she, the Incomparable Delilah could work so swiftly, she had jested. Lady Courtenay had mistaken her incredulity for insolence. Yes, she understood the potential Lord Preston stored in his future and all that lay at stake.