Page 32 of Forgery, Love, and Other Lies
The butler handed him his hat, and he stepped out into the busy London street, thinking.
A masquerade doubling as an art auction. All the most interested collectors in London, likely some from further afield, grouped in a single location for one likely scandalous night where fortunes would be made (because Currington needed to make a fortune) and lost. Poor Mrs. Katsky. At least her husband had a modicum of self-control regarding his art acquisitions if not regarding his amorous exploits. Unlike Zander’s father—though his eye never roved to another woman, it had roved over every piece of art in Christendom—who bought ravenously without considering the consequence.
He found his feet leading him to Frampton and Son’s. He’d made an interesting discovery today, and Fiona would want to know. Everyone of interest would be at the auction. Perhaps even, if alive and free, the Dowager Balantine. Zander would be there, too.
Fiona would want to be. He stumbled over his feet.Damn. She’d want to attend with him, and he couldn’t let her. For so many reasons. She was a sexual innocent if not a moral one. She’d not even been able to face his kiss. He’d recognized the blinding pink in her cheeks for what it was—fear of the unknown. The woman had never been kissed until he’d kissed her. He’d felt that truth in every movement of her body, in every sound she’d made. He couldn’t bring her to a masquerade where men brought their mistresses, likely took advantage of their disguise to do what they pleased in full view of the other guests.
Added to that, if they were caught together in such a situation, he’d have to marry her. He would marry her, no questions asked, neither of Raph’s fists required, though they’d no doubt be hovering to do him harm. And he could not burden the family with the cost of a wife, a forger for a wife at that, with the shadow of a noose hanging over her.
And finally, she couldn’t join him because if he had her near again, he would absolutely finish that kiss, take it to its natural conclusion. A kiss, long and sultry andthorough, was the only way to purge himself of this infatuation, and he would take it. To free himself and her of a growing obsession that would do neither of them any good.
But he could leave her a note. He would not deny her information in a matter so delicate for them both. So he slunk into the alley beside Frampton’s and hastily penned a note with the slip of paper and stubby pencil he kept in his pocket, his fingers brushing against a piece of wire he’d taken from the floor of the workroom the night they’d planned their attack there. He left the note behind the brick and knocked, then ran, his hands slipping into his pockets once more, brushing against that wire again. Stiff silver and gold threads twined together, discarded as useless, forgotten beneath the beaten worktable. Until he found it and saw its worth.
Twelve
The sketch unfolding beneath Fiona’s hand winked at her. She winked back. A good sign. A wink meant she was capturing something true, something she never saw in her paintings. But the necklace taking shape beneath her charcoal pencil seemed lively. It liked a good time. The perfect strand to warm a… debutante’s neck? No. Too ostentatious. It needed a red gown, certainly, not pallid white. This necklace and its winking rubies were meant for garden trysts and kisses under starlight and—
Oh. She should not think about kisses. Trouble was, she could think of very little since Lord Lysander had kissed her, since she’d been a coward and turned her cheek to his seeking lips and he’d turned her right back to him then stepped away when he’d learned how ill she performed.
She could do better with more experience, though. She had no doubt. But with only one kiss to warm her memory, she knew so little. How did one breathe and kiss at the same time? Was one to kiss at a straight angle or tilt the head a bit? Should other parts of the body be touching? And were bites—like the one he’d given her—perfectly allowable? She thought so, thought it marvelous, thought she’d die if it never happened again. She’d likely never kiss again, would die without answers to all her questions.
She had dreamed of the kiss last night, a waking vision before sleep had taken her. She’d not turned away at first but met him confidently, as if she had a right to his kisses, and while her mind had remained in control, it had been a delicious vision that sent starlight skittering across her skin and grew an ache between her legs.
But then she’d fallen asleep. And the dreams had continued, but they had changed from a young woman’s fancy to a spinster’s embarrassment. Her dreaming mind had conjured disasters. They’d kissed. He’d gagged. She’d woken mortified then fallen asleep again. And they’d kissed, and he’d laughed, that wordamusinghanging over them both. She’d woken again, groaned into her pillow, and when she next awoke, cheerful morning light proved unpleasant company for her still-present mortification.
She tried adding another row of rubies to the necklace on the paper, but the vision had vanished. Frustration slammed through her, and she slammed her feet to the floor.
She had determined to kiss Lord Lysander again, but what if… what if… what if she was horrid at kissing, having never had the opportunity to practice.
Practice! Precisely what she should do. She just needed an opportunity to practice before kissing Lord Lysander. Of course that meant mortifying herself with some other man, but that did not seem to matter so much.
She put her sketchbook away and entered the front shop. “Posey, have you seen Daniel?”
Posey looked up from a display case she was rearranging. “He just returned. I believe he’s in the mews.” She stood slowly, her grin growing with each inch she gained above the case. “Why do you wish to speak with him?”
Fiona rolled her eyes and left, Posey’s laughter ringing in her ears.
In the mews behind the shop, Daniel brushed the horse in long smooth strokes, and he looked up when she entered.
“Good afternoon, Daniel,” she said, stopping just inside the mews. This… was a horrid idea.
But…
Not as horrid as kissing Lord Lysander and having him cast up his accounts on her slippers.
She must do it.
“Good afternoon, Miss Frampton.” Daniel put the brush down and dusted his hands off on his riding breeches. “Can I help you with something?”
“Well… yes. Um, are you busy? At the moment?”
“Not as much as I’d like to be. Done with morning deliveries. Only one more this afternoon.”
She stepped closer. Casual steps. A saunter really. “Good. Excellent. Not us not having nearly enough jewelry to deliver, of course. That’s decidedly not excellent, but I am glad I’m not inconveniencing you with my request.”
“And what request is that, Miss Frampton?”
She stopped her saunter and closed her eyes. She had to say it. She had to. She must.
