Page 5 of His Scandalous Lessons
She stared at him a moment. “Fine.” But when he thought she might leave, Miss Sheffield let out a breath and said, “You have a small shelf of books in the foyer. For aesthetics, I gather, but the why is not important. There are thirty-three books in total, rather poorly organized, which is how I know it serves little functional purpose. Eight volumes are on the decline and fall of the Roman Empire, but you’re missing the second volume, which is a shame as it discusses various religious clashes and makes for a dramatic read. There are five volumes on philosophy, two ofA Discourse on Inequality. I ought to commend you for having one, since my father forbids me to read Rousseau and I was forced to duck into a bookshop to complete it. To add, you have—”
“Stop.Stop.” Christ, Richard was getting a headache. “For the love of god. Do you mean to tell me your father uses your memory as some sort of...record-keeping device?”
“That is indeed what I’m saying. Do try to keep up, Mr. Grey. I’m in something of a hurry. Do we have a deal or not?”
He considered requesting time to think over her offer, but he doubted she would ask it again. He'd never have another opportunity to gain information that would destroy Stanton Sheffield; it was his daughter or nothing.
His bloody daughter. Richard couldn’t believe it.
“All right,” he said, almost reluctantly. “We have a deal.”
Miss Sheffield nodded, as if she’d expected the answer, but it gave her no joy. Merely an acceptance. “Then we’ll start tomorrow night. I’ll come by again—”
“Not here.” He would not chance someone seeing her. At her questioning look, he said, “I need to speak with a friend of mine, a lady with an impeccable reputation — in public, at least. She'll issue you an invitation for a long visit, so this will have every appearance of being a proper arrangement.”
Her expression darkened. “Mr. Grey, I don’t think you quite understand my situation. My father does not allow me to leave the house unaccompanied for any reason, let alone for anything longer than a day trip. Even for ladies of impeccable repute.”
Richard leaned closer, pausing only when he heard her short intake of breath. He wasn’t certain if it were attraction or fear, and he had no desire to encourage either tonight. “He will not refuse this invitation, I assure you.”
She searched his gaze for a moment, as if she were about to argue, but she only nodded once. “Fine. I will await your word.”
When she started for the door, Richard called out to her. “I’ll have a carriage sent round for you, shall I?”
She paused. “I’ve no need of your carriage. If I don’t hear from you, I will enjoy these hours of freedom while they last. I’ve no means by which to threaten you into compliance, and I’m not my father even if I did. All I ask is that you don’t lie to me when you say you’ll help me.”
Who was this girl, to have such steel in her voice? How had she sharpened it under her father’s harsh, unrelenting gaze? Richard found he wanted to know. That he wanted to knowher. Before he could answer, she swept out of the room, past his butler.
The door shut, and the house went quiet. And Richard felt as if his world had been upended.
Chapter 3
“If you could turn just a bit towards the light, please.”
Caroline Stafford, the Duchess of Hastings, squinted at the canvas as she painted. Richard angled his body closer to the window, his limbs growing tired now. He’d been in an action pose for what seemed like hours, his entire body straining to remain upright. Which only suited Caroline, as it displayed his muscles to their best advantage in the nude.
This was only tolerable for the result. The paintings Caroline produced were breathtaking and exquisite — scenes people would be shocked a woman had done. They were so lifelike that Richard often felt as if he could reach into that fictional world she had created. Though his face was always hidden, the thousands of people who came to visit her artwork at galleries had seen his body. Women had swooned over it.
Publicly, the Duchess of Hastings produced serene landscapes that were popular and well-received. Under the pseudonym of Henry Morgan, she created grand scenes with nudes of the male body. Primarily his these days.
Flattering, yes. But damned exhausting.
“Be still,” Caroline murmured. “You’re growing impatient.”
“I’m always impatient.”
“Yes, I’ve noticed.” She sighed. “And yet I tolerate you because you’re so pretty.”
Richard let out a laugh. “You’re not painting my face, Caro.”
She leaned forward for a few delicate strokes. “No. I like to keep that for myself. Lift your arm a bit higher... There. Perfect.”
When he’d come today, the last thing Richard expected was for the duchess to herd him into her studio to pose for a painting she had stalled on six months ago. It was never easy to turn down Caroline when inspiration struck. The duchess’s eyes lit up, as if she were imagining him in a scene from one of her paintings. A new angle of his body to explore, a new character for him to play.
Right now he was a hunter, a bow firm in his grasp with the arrow drawn taut.
He had grown used to being but one of her “muses”, as she called them. Though Caroline had plenty of opportunities to conduct affairs, her relationships with her models were strictly professional, despite her husband’s absence.
Richard often wondered why. The Duke of Hastings travelled constantly and claimed to prefer cities on the Continent to the smog and filth of London — or, so he said publicly. The truth was, even when Hastings came to London, wife and husband kept their distance from each other.
