Page 22 of The Scoundrel of Drury Lane
“You know why, don’t you, SuzannahTownsend?” He spoke her name softly, with an intense intimacy that sent shivers through her.
She stared hard at his face, seeking the answers there as all the pieces of his puzzle fell into place.
“Youcan’tbe...” She stepped back, then gasped and stumbled as she tripped over her bag on the floor. He moved fast, and in two long strides he caught her by the upper arms. He held her close, not allowing her to flee.
“Who am I?” he demanded in a low, dangerous tone. Their faces were inches apart now, his warm breath fanning her face. His lips were parted, as were hers, both breathing hard as if they’d run up a hill together, and now she was tumbling down the other side as she was sucked into the burning rage of his gaze.
“You are...” She swallowed as his hands tightened on her arms, and she trembled, her mind reeling.
“Say my name.”
“Chris... Christopher Hollingsworth.”
His hands released her, and she felt like the connection between them somehow sharpened her awareness of him even more by the absence of his touch.Christopher Hollingsworth.She never thought she would hear that name again once her father had died.
He’d said his name was Kit, and she knew that was a nickname for Christopher, but she’d had no idea this was him. She should have known better. A part of her had always known that he would find his way to her, to take his revenge on her because her father was gone. She didn’t want to think what else he might desire, but the nebulous thought rooted itself in her mind anyway.
She sucked in a much-needed breath and was finally able to speak. “What do you want with me?”
He raised his hands again, as if he wanted to take hold of her, but then he lowered his arms to his sides as he gazed at her with an intensity that obliterated everything around her until it was just the two of them in this quiet, charged universe.
“I’ve already told you. I want you to paint me, Suzannah. Expose London’s hypocrisy. Reveal the betrayal of innocence.” He straightened his shoulders, his posture stiffening as he continued. “That will be your penance to me, for the sins your father committed by lying in a court of law and sending me to my doom. You will paint thetruth, Suzannah.”
“But my father didn’t—”
“Don’t lie to yourself.” He took hold of her again as he spoke. “Your father testified that he saw me arrange for the theft of cargo from my own ship. Helied, and I paid in blood for that lie for seven years.”
“Are you going to hurt me?” she asked.
He was dangerously silent for a long moment, and then a wave of regret washed over his features as he released her and stepped back.
“Set up your easel,” he ordered, his tone softer. “Let us begin.”
He hadn’t answered her question, but she didn’t dare repeat it. For an instant, she considered running for the front door of the house, screaming for help. Would he chase her down? Would he drag her back here? She didn’t know.
She closed her eyes, feeling his dark, enraged presence behind her. He hadn’t hurt her. She was bound to his pain by her father’s blood, yes, but this wasn’t abouther. She’d seen regret in his face just now, and he’d only asked her to paint him. She could do that. She could capture what he asked. Perhaps then he would see she had done right by him. But if he dared to try to harm her, she would flee however she could.
With trembling hands, she put her wooden easel together, unrolled a few sheets of paper, and clipped them to the easel. Then she retrieved her charcoal sticks from a small case. She stood at the easel and watched him take a seat on the settee. His chest was still bare, and his body, all muscle and power, glowed in the lamplight. He said not one word, only stared at her with those fathomless eyes. It was hard to focus at first, but soon she relaxed and found her pace.
Art had always been her refuge from the harsh realities of the world. Even now, facing someone who hated her, she focused on the shapes that made his body and face rather than the angry man. The sloping shoulders, contours of muscles, the way his hair formed waves with silky strands. She drew it all, repeating the lines, learning the shape of him with the intimacy of a lover as though she were tracing him with her fingertips instead of charcoal.
At one point she was aware of Henry entering the room and seating himself nearby, but soon he was softly snoring. She kept going, her hand moving again and again until she was bone-weary. Her subject hadn’t moved an inch in two hours. He seemed to possess a strength of will she did not.
“I am finished for tonight,” she said quietly. Only then did he stand up. He pulled his shirt back on, then his waistcoat, dressing slowly while she packed up her supplies.
He pointed to an empty card table. “You may leave the sketches on the table.”
She did as he bid and then tucked her easel and charcoal back into her bag. She glanced at the still-sleeping Henry at the same moment he did.
“You fear me,” he said softly. He’d come up behind her once more but didn’t touch her.
She raised her face bravely up to his as he towered above her. “How could I not?”
“Don’t,” was all he said, and then, before she knew what was happening, he leaned down and their lips met in a soft ghost of a kiss. “Paint the truth,my truth, and you will have nothing to fear from me.” He moved away from her and gave Henry a gentle shake of the arm. “Time to take Miss Townsend home, lad.”
The boy stood up and grinned sheepishly at them. “What? Oh...”
“Yes, it’s time to leave,” Suzannah told Henry.
