Page 38 of Seductive Reprise
“Ah,” Dr. Collier responded, as if that explained it all. “I don’t know him well myself, I’m afraid. I was surprised to see him here.”
“Oh? How so?” Rose glanced at him, relieved that he’d ignored her admission that she might be acquainted with the local lord. How did people do this? Talk to one another for hours on end without truly saying anything at all?
She felt him shrug. “I was under the impression he found Mr. Hartley…” Unease seeped into his voice, not enjoying having to speak ill of their host. “Exhausting. I usually encounter him in more informal settings. We have a mutual friend, you see.”
That startled her, and she nearly tripped as they crossed the threshold. He reached out with his other hand to steady her, though more out of courtesy than actual need. Embarrassed, Rose tucked a wayward lock of hair behind one ear.
“A friend?” she scoffed. “I wasn’t aware he had friends.”Let alone befriend the likes of us, she thought, biting her lip to keep from breathing a word of such cheek. Who might Dr. Collier associate with that Joseph would deign to call afriend? In her mind, Joseph lingered in cavernous ballrooms and gilded drawing rooms with a bored look upon his face as he swapped indifferent banter with buttoned-up aristos. Or he rode out with them on hunts all day, before they all returned to their palaces to abandon their muddy boots for some servant to tidy up while they drank an entire year’s wages in one evening.
Dr. Collier was anything but that. Humble, earnest, and a bit awkward, it was as if he had walked right out of some soap advertisement inPunch. He released her from his arm and she stepped aside, her eyes searching the drawing room for Joseph. She could barely make out his back, hidden behind the elder MP,Mr. Towle, and his wife. A maddening curiosity gripped her. Just what else didn’t she know about Joseph?
“Oh yes, from his time abroad, in Smyrna.” The doctor’s voice cut through her thoughts, bringing her back to the here and now.
“Smyrna?” she said, incredulity creeping into her voice. Once, when she was eighteen and away in London studying art, she’d come across a map laid out for a still life. How many times had she walked her fingers across the different countries, wondering which one might claim him? It had never seemed appropriate to ask. Now she wondered if he’d have answered, had she been bolder. A slight blush heated her cheeks.
“Smyrna, yes.” Dr. Collier furrowed his brow, not sure what to make of her response. “He had business in the Ottoman Empire.” He cleared his throat, a pained look on his face as he added, “In the opium trade.”
“What?” Rose dragged the word out, scarcely believing what she was hearing. He hadbusiness? Atradesort of business? She swung her head back to where she’d spotted him. The crowd parted, and there he stood with one hand casually in his pocket and those dark, handsome eyes watching her, as if he’d been waiting for her to notice. A slow, languid smile crept across his face. Warmth spread across her middle and down her legs.
But before she could interrogate Dr. Collier further, Mrs. Hartley grabbed her hand and whisked her over to the easel with an excited flurry of chatter.
She couldn’t even hear the lady’s words as she addressed the party. She didn’t know where to look, lest she look at Joseph and reveal something she really ought to keep to herself. So she smiled shyly to the gathering and tried to keep her eyes on the gloomy paper and brass sconces on the walls. Her hands clutched one another for dear life.
And then Mrs. Hartley took a step back, tugging at the portrait’s covering as she went.
Rose held her breath and looked up, not at the newly revealed, half-finished painting of Walter, but at him.
The sound of gentle applause echoed in her head along with the delighted, high-pitched squeals from Mrs. Hartley as she extolled the virtues of Rose’s fine brushwork. But it felt as though they might all be worlds away, merely distant laughter from the village she’d left behind as she wandered into the wilds, ensorcelled by something that hid in the deep, dark woods. Something she knew better than to seek.
Joseph stared back, not moving a muscle. His dark eyes bored into her, commanding her to approach. He begged her to bare herself to him once more. Not just her soul, of course—the entirety of her being. Rose Verdier the artist. The awkward girl with gapped teeth and a temper. An earl’s bastard. The one whom no one claimed, save for him.
How could it be? What hypnosis was this? How could he pull at her heart, or induce such a helpless trance with one look? She should turn around and run away. Avoid him at all costs. Then she might keep herself safe; always hidden, never revealed, never hurt. She would never know him, who he truly was and who he’d become after all these years. She could remain ignorant and indignant about her betrayal. She could run.
Finally Rose tore her gaze away. Every inch of her body was hot, alive and buzzing with awareness.
She knew she wouldn’t run. Her defenses were crumbling.
Taking a steadying breath, she plastered on a fake smile for Mrs. Hartley and offered what she hoped sounded like sincere thanks. More guests offered their praise: commenting upon the draperies, the way the paint was laid, her choice of pigments. Rose inclined her head and smiled sweetly, clasping her hands. Minutes ticked by, then hours.
And even as she did her best to play the role of the gracious artist to everyone who approached, her mind was occupied with just one person.
And how impossible it was becoming to resist him.
Chapter Thirteen
“Tell me, how manyprospective sitters have you engaged this evening?”
Mr. Hartley’s voice startled her, and she jerked up from her work of rolling up the unfinished portrait of Walter.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to intrude—”
“Oh no, I was only worrying about the fastenings we used on the painting, hoping it hadn’t marked the corners and…” Rose cut herself off with a sigh, and gave him a wan smile.
He returned it perfunctorily. “You’re exhausted, I’m sure. Allow my man to escort you home; I’ll have him run out to fetch a cab.”
The room was empty now, save for the pair of them and a footman who was going about his work of dimming the lamps. He paused to yawn into the back of his gloved hand, then looked guiltily at them before setting back to work with a renewed vigor. She glanced at the clock on the mantel. Midnight. Ruth would already be abed, then. Rose had told her she’d be home late and not to worry. She thought of Mullock and his bright outfit, hanging about the cabstand. Had he been postedwhen her shopgirl housemate returned? Had he exchanged any pleasantries with Ruth?
Rose frowned, wondering at such a silly thought. She’d never cared two whits about what transpired between Ruth and the friendly cabbie. So why did her mind insist on coupling them now?
