She stood with absolute composure, and her voice hid no trembling fear. “Mrs. Barkley? Who is this?”
“The… model?” supplied the housekeeper, Mrs. Barkley it appeared, her arms full of Theo’s stolen clothing.
“He most assuredly is not. I chose the model myself.” She returned her attention to Theo, head tilted to the side. “I apologize for the confusion, sir. But… who are you?”
Theo moved to snap his jacket tight but found no jacket, so he crossed his arms over his chest instead. Several women sighed. He scowled. “I am Lord Theodore Bromley, your late patron’s youngest son. And you are Lady Cordelia Trent.”
The tilt of her head righted, revealing a strong column of creamy throat. Her pale-brown eyes softened. “I am. I… I heard of your father’s passing. It was a blow. But howsoever it pained me, it must have distressed you much more. My condolences. He was a good man. My savior.”
“He was a fool. Now, will you tell these women to leave, or shall I?” He wouldn’t even ask what hijinks occupied them, prompting them to undress strange men upon entering rooms. He would not ask because he could guess well enough. Models. Agencies. Easels and chalk and pencils. Now that he’d had a breath or two to think on it, he knew. He’d spent his childhood in a home where nearly naked human models were common. The better to study and paint anatomy, his father had always said. The body is a beautiful thing, almost divine, his mother had sighed, the perfect subject for the artist.
Lady Cordelia’s pink lips parted with a gasp, but she recovered quickly, clapping her hands and facing the riveted women. “I am deeply sorry for this confusion. It appears we’ll have to cancel our class for the day. I’ll speak with the agency and find out what’s become of Trevor.”
“The shivering fellow with the slender build?” Theo asked. “I sent him packing.”
Lady Cordelia sucked her cheeks in, and for a moment, her heart-shaped face grew gaunt. Then she let out a frustrated breath, short and staccato. “At least I know he’s safe.” She forced a smile for the women and ushered them toward the door.
As the women gathered their belongings and exchanged parting words with their hostess, Theo walked the edges of the room, studying it. Newish wallpaper, thick rugs. Fine art on the walls. Naturally. In all, a better room than any in his one-room apartment. A better room than any in his family’s country estate, Briarcliff Manor.
Better. He’d hoped to find composure through his observations of his surroundings. He’d found rage instead. Nothing new, that. It always bubbled close beneath his skin.
When the room quieted, he whirled on his toes to face her. “You’re teaching a class for women to paint nude men?”
She stood calm, hands folded together before her. “I facilitate it. They are all widows in need of diversion, wishing to learn a new skill. I do not have the skill to teach such a thing. Lady Fordham—the woman who attempted to relieve you of your waistcoat—teaches it.”
What a farce he had walked in on. But at least it would make an excellent print for theAckermann’snext week. He’d give the women in the sketch greedy eyes and draw his own frame as slabs of ham and chicken legs. He’d title it something like “Widows Take Solace in Learning New Skills.” He’d make it clear the solace they actually sought had nothing to do with the application of art.
She walked toward him calmly and with the precision of a soldier. “Who are you to come into my home, send my guests away, walk about as if you own the place, and—”
“Idoown the place.” At least his brother did.
Lady Cordelia rocked back a step, her body going rigid. But not for long. She flowed into movement once more until she stood right before him, her chin held high, her hands fisted tight in the green muslin of her skirts. “No. It ismyhome.”
“For now. But it was my father’s property. And now it is my brother’s.” And the only thing that kept his brother Raph from selling the house was its current occupant.
“Then why is your brother not here?” she demanded.
“Because he is in the country trying to avoid selling off all our lands and to keep the manor house from falling into complete ruin.” And being an alarmingly content newlywed. Though that was not her business. “Attempting, in short, to right our father’s many wrongs. Of whichyouare one.”
Her gaze dragged over him as the other women’s had, from his beaver hat to his muddy boots, stopping for a moment on the practical and simple knot of his cravat before popping up to his face, and she raked that, too, trying, it seemed, to learn or understand every inch of his visage. She stepped back, her hands loosening on her skirts, revealing the wrinkled inroads she’d made in the muslin. “Lord Theodore. I see him in you. Your father. Same nose, if you don’t mind me saying. Same eyes.”
Theo grinned, and he knew it showed teeth. Sharp teeth. “I’m nothing like the old man. As far from him as you can imagine. To begin, he bought you a house, kept you here like a little doll because he thought your art special—”
She opened her mouth and raised an arm to interrupt him.
He barreled forward. “But I am going to kick you out.”
Her hands became fists again. “You can’t.”
He raised a brow. “Pretty, but no brains. Pity. Look, if you need proof of the situation, you’re welcome to visit the family solicitor. I’ll give you his name and address.”
Her eyes narrowed. She would have hissed, spit poison at him if she could. “You are a devil.”
He bowed, a concession. “At your service.”
She blinked, shook her head. “You’re not joking.”
“I never joke.”
