Page 35 of His Mistress, His Muse, and Other Madness
“Ah. Well, excellent interpretation of a kiss.” The man backed away, eyes scanning the crowd for a conversation to join, an easy escape from the uncomfortable Lord Theodore.
Cordelia would tell him to be nicer. He turned to face her lecture head-on and found her frozen, her mouth slightly open, no easy breath lifting and dropping her chest. She’d paled.
He placed a hand on her wrist where her pulse beat rapid as a rabbit’s run. “Cordelia?” No reply. No movement. He wrapped his hand around her wrist, squeezed. “Cordelia. Are you unwell?” Words spoken in a gruff tone that turned to gravel the next he spoke. “What’s happened? Do you know that man? Tell me or I’ll—”
“I do not know that man. But I know Mr. Simon Oakley.” Her lips barely moved when she spoke, and her voice wavered.
He knelt before her, taking both her hands in his. Cold, they were, and trembling. He cupped her cheek in one hand, forced her to meet his gaze. “Tell me.”
She licked her lips, and her eyes darted side to side before settling back on him, heavy as a winter coat. In the end she stood her ground, as he’d come to expect from her. “He was my betrothed.”
Betrothed. The word a slap in the face. No, a hole in the street he’d stepped into with no warning, the one that twisted his ankle and threw him face-first into a pile of horse dung. The word a secret blown wide open. He unclenched his fingers, realizing with the small flinch of her lips that he squeezed her too tight, and sat back on his heels.
He’d been worried about bringing her here, guilt-ridden they could not hide her identity in some way. He’d told her about Sir George. And the entire time she’d been hiding something from him. She’d been betrothed. What other secrets did she have that could harm their purpose here?
“I want to know more,” he finally said, keeping his voice low and his touch light. She nodded, and he returned to his seat, picked up his notebook and chalk and stared at the blank page.
“Yes. Of course.”
She’d been engaged, but that told Theo nothing. Had she cared for the man? Why were they not now husband and wife? Had this happened before or after his father had all but adopted her? He had no information of much value. But he could be patient. He set his charcoal to the paper and pretended to watch the lines he drew there. Her eye the shape of a kiss? Ha. For some other man, perhaps, but not for him. He should remember that. Beauty always deceived.
He would not let the siren call of beauty distract him from his purpose here. He would not lose himself in art and creation. He watched the others, waiting for something explosive, something that would make the ton twitter.
When he felt like the explosion had happened right beside him, inside the body of the calm beauty with the regal tilt to her chin who he couldn’t look at without thinking about a kiss.
Damn.
Nine
The clink of cutlery and the flicker of candles in the chandelier above the long table cast a golden glow over the dinner guests, and though everyone around Cordelia chatted and laughed, she did not. Could not. Was too busy plotting, planning—panicking, truth be told.
Was London too far away for walking? Perhaps Lord Pentshire would not care if she stole—erm, borrowed—a horse. Yes, she’d contemplate larceny to escape her current predicament, to escape the cold, calculating, sharp-as-a-pin gaze of Lord Theodore. Theo.
The man who’d kissed her before God and every guest of the house party. For no particular reason. Perhaps he meant to throw her off balance, to prepare her, as he’d said in the coach. Perhaps it had been meant as revenge for all her winks and innuendos. She regretted them now.
She’d thought she’d been prepared for a kiss. She’d not been. Not for the warmth and strength of it, the patience and the brimming promise burning just beneath that. Not for the firm shape of his lips or for the hush of his breath. Not just on her lips. But everywhere too, somehow. She’d suspected it before—a softness in him, hidden well. And the kiss had given her a peek at it. Because he’d kissed her to calm her. It had felt like protection, and she’d wanted to grasp his lapels and haul him closer, to part his lips with her tongue and show him she knew more than he likely thought she did.
It had been much too long since she’d last been kissed. A clear conclusion considering her reaction to such a tame offering. She should kiss men more often, so she did not become so obsessed afterward. She glanced at the lips of the guests. There were more assembled for dinner than she’d met that afternoon. At least a dozen guests sat on one side of the table and another dozen on the other. None of the lips she could see from her seat beneath the chandelier compared to Theo’s. She snuck a glance at them—chiseled, a lovely pale pink, quite soft, she now knew, yet firm. Kissing him had been an experience in contradictions.
Much like knowing the man was proving to be.
Why did she feel so compelled to seek out the hidden softness in him? Even if she did discover a lonely, longing center similar to her own, what good would it do? No good at all. But a gargoyle high above, perched upon a ledge, always watching but never participating must be lonely, and she knew loneliness well, hated to see it calcify anyone’s heart.
If only his heart was truly calcified, but she did not believe that to be true. She pressed a hand to her heated cheek and reached for her wineglass, passing her arm over plates and cutlery as the guests at the dinner table chatted on every side.
A tinkling of glass as Pentshire stood, clinking his knife on his wineglass. “Attention!” The low roar of dinner chatter quieted as everyone turned to their host. “Thank you,” he said. “I believe we should all retire to the parlor for drinks and joviality, but first, I would like to explain the schedule for the next few days. I have taken the initiative to fill the gap caused by the loss of the late Lord Waneborough’s yearly art party. I even have one of his sons here to help christen the event.” He lifted his glass to Theo, who tried to smile but ended up merely looking like he’d smelled something horrid.
“As many of you know, I am a patron of the arts, though not one nearly so generous as old Waneborough was.” A chorus of disagreement rose from the guests, and Pentshire settled them down with open palms and a gently raised voice. “I do what I can, and while you are here, what is mine is yours. If there is anything you need, do not hesitate to let my—to let Miss Mires know, and she’ll make sure your stay is one of utmost comfort.”
An awkward silence, then Pentshire started again. “I give to you all not only these two weeks of learning and creating before us, but also”—he paused much longer than necessary—“a prize.”
Gasps, discomfort forgotten.
“What kind of prize, Pentshire?” Armquist demanded.
“A rather large one,” the earl said. “A thousand pounds to the artist who produces the most stunning body of artwork from our two weeks together.”
Whistles and murmurs and whispers rose around them.
