Page 1 of Lord Carlisle's Enticing Lure
Chapter One
June 16, 1805
Brighton, England
Clive Davenport couldn’tbelieve his eyes.
He took a few steps closer to the vision in pink and lavender. She stood silhouetted against the sweet blue sky, motionless, facing the sea, her head thrown back, her midnight hair billowing around her as the wind off the Channel buffeted her whole, slender body. But she did not move. Arms out, she fought the force, then let it sway her. She seemed so determined and yet so ethereal that she did not even seem to breathe.
“Papa! Papa!” His daughter of three gazed at the lady, too.
He was certain, however, what attracted Annabelle was the lady’s kite.
“Birdie!” the child exclaimed, tugging on his hand. She flapped one arm as if she would fly away.
“Well, my poppet, I’d introduce us, but we do not know the lady.”Only I know of her. And only by her actions.When had she come to Brighton? And where were her sketchpads and pencils? She always had some to hand. “We’re going for cake and ices, remember?”
His little girl pouted. “I want t’ fly.”
He winced. He hated to go, now that he had sight of this lady and an opportunity to make her acquaintance. He’d been intrigued by this beauty when first he saw her. Spotting her near his Richmond countryhouse on the Thames, he’d been drawn by her elfin form. Black hair, large, gamin eyes, dainty limbs—she’d appeared on the banks of the river most mornings in fair weather and in not so fair. Arriving early, before nine usually, she’d set up her chair, easel, a few large palettes, and basket of paints about her on the grassy knoll above the flow of the river. Before she began her sketching, she’d walk to the river’s edge and, bending, trail her fingers in the ripples of the water. February was no time to be outside for long. The forest along the Thames could be thick and sheltering, but the wind could cut through one’s coat and make one yearn for a cozy fire and hot tea.
Yet this lady, petite as she was, had fortitude. Braving the cold, she had remained to sit and paint for at least one hour, more often two. She would snuggle in a sturdy coat, a forest-green redingote that draped about her legs as if she were receiving subjects. The coat blended so well into the evergreens that even with his superb binoculars, Clive, at first attempt to spot her, often mistook her for part of the woods. Still, he’d had to hunt for her each morning. He’d walk along the Thames. Find her newest spot. Then debate with himself if he should introduce himself.
But then one morning as February turned to March when she had come closer to his house, sighting her through his magnified lenses, he saw she painted a verdant forest. Watercolors of pale limes and verdant greens, browns and umbers, adorned her canvas. Her forest along a silvery, flowing river was a dark, deep mystery. Even from afar, he was called to it. Yet propriety had pulled him back, resisting the pull of her artistry.
Then as days passed, he noted something odd. Two things, really. The first was that she switched from painting her forest scenes to using charcoal to draw towns. Buildings. Nothing he could identify. It was as if she practiced a town upon a coastline, sketching quickly a house, a cottage, a shop nearby, then a Palladian mansion.
The second thing that surprised him was that as the days warmed,she came to the river only every other day. In late March, she disappeared. He had mourned her loss and his failure to introduce himself.
Certainly, it would have been a pleasure to meet her. Of course, it would have been the polite thing to introduce himself in Richmond.
Even now. He could use his daughter’s attraction to her kite as the excuse.
Yet he had stayed back, arguing with himself that he did not need to engage a stranger. Besides, he had work to do. His daughter to amuse. No time for folly. The lady pursued her hobby of kites, amazingly. No need to disturb her.
Now, in warm and sultry June, he admired her for another rare reason. Her abandon to the bounties of sun and sky and sea stirred a growing elemental need in his own life. One he could not define except to say he needed something new and invigorating to his days. Something to amuse and fulfill his lonely nights.
“Papa!” His daughter tugged at his hand in the direction of the lady. “Fly!”
He should take Bella’s interest in the thing and introduce himself. Finally.
Yet the reason he’d stayed away from her, the reason he did not introduce himself, was clear. Simple and frail.
Then and now, her looks should mean nothing. Five years ago, he’d sworn off any attractions to pretty women. Bitter experience had taught him lessons he vowed to follow for the rest of his days. This woman might lure him, but he had no illusions about how a gorgeous pair of eyes could tempt and a pretty set of lips could lie. He preferred humble girls. Plain, with education and a small measure of wit.
That first time he had noticed her and every time thereafter, she had her drawing supplies with her. Every time thereafter, she put pencils, paper, or a tray of a few watercolors to dedicated use. Today, though, she was without. He could question why, but then his headand his heart—like his daughter’s—were filled with her amusement of her kite. A small bit of red and yellow, the thing remained aloft.
As if she too marveled at her abilities, she suddenly shook herself to awareness. She turned toward him and Annabelle.
Had she felt his eyes upon her?
No, how could she? I am nothing to her. It’s the kite she’s concerned about. Or Bella’s interest.
His daughter grunted, then stamped her little foot and pulled at his hand.
“Yes, yes. We’re going.” If he left this shore now, would he find this lady again? He hated to turn toward the town.
But Bella had a different idea. She broke away from him. Wobbling toward the lady over the treacherous little rocks, she stuck out her chubby little arms as if she were a ballerina, and good Lord, was she fast. Certainly, she was quicker than Clive, who was utterly surprised at her!
