Page 46 of Lord Carlisle's Enticing Lure
Her long lashes flickered, but her eyes met his. “I am tired.”
“As am I. Of so much. Come. Drink with me.” He indicated the two whisky glasses on the table to his side. “Please.”
She’d removed her muslin gown, her petticoat, and, as far as he could tell, her chemise as well. Days ago, she’d given up her corset. The curve of her breasts in her gowns had transformed him into a ghoul of desire. He’d allowed himself to look at her only above her chin. Now his gaze devoured every inch of curves. He snatched his reason and crushed it close to his heart—and planned his next words.
She came forward, her robe of translucent pink silk billowing around her form and the more modest translucent white muslin night rail. As her gaze sank into his, he saw her understanding of the severity of his intent.
She took the overstuffed chair next to his and picked up one glass.
“My apologies. It’s Scotch, not French cognac,” he said as he raised his glass to his lips. “Campbell could not get another bottle of the cognac.”
“It will do.” She drank, closed her eyes as she swallowed, then sighed. “More than. It’s very smooth.”
“You are nearly finished with the sketches of Brighton.”
“I think they are complete.” Her blue eyes locked on his, her request for honesty bold. “Do you agree?”
That last he appreciated. She’d predicted his knowledge of the shore. “The eastern sector of the town needs a bit more definition. But otherwise, yes. It is well done.”
A ghost of a smile of satisfaction curved her plump lips. She considered the whisky in her tumbler.
“So then.” He swirled the liquid in his glass. “My father was in the Royal Navy. A captain, at last rank when he was wounded in the siege of Charleston in ’80. Minus his left eye, he returned home. His older brother died soon after, and my father inherited the title and the estate. He lived, often in pain that made him grind his teeth. Yet he found great joy from my mother, who loved him dearly, and from Terese and me, rascal that I was.
“Each spring, he would take us to Brighton. He bought a small sloop, moored it there. He would take us out each day, sometimes twice. He taught me about tides and wind, how to fish and how to sail his precious, one-masted little boat. I was never a sailor. I like the sea, but could not live there. I prefer land and stability and the grit of soil under my fingernails.
“Of all the cities and towns along the Channel, I know Brighton best. Of French towns, I’ve often been to Le Havre and Calais. Once during the Peace of Amiens three years ago, I traveled to Dieppe. I understand the lay of the seascape. I have seen the plains of Boulogne and I understand why Bonaparte sent his army there to train and to frighten us.”
Giselle had listened patiently to his words. But in this lull, she nodded, appreciating the story of his life. “I have watched you examine my sketches and watercolors. I know you search for what I do.”
Grateful she had said that, he grew bold to move onward. “I no longer search, Giselle. I know. I see it plainly. What’s more, I have inklings of how you wish to use these drawings to their purpose.”
“Clive,” she whispered, curling her shoulders about her delicate frame, “you know I cannot tell you all.”
“All?” Once that would have angered him. Now, he would take her along to his own conclusions. “You must tell me now if there is a need for all.”
She set her teeth. “I do not wish you hurt.”
“As a measure of how you care for me, yes, I take that. As an indication of how you are involved in something nefarious, I understand that, too.”
She tipped up her chin. “I remain your friend.”
“When we met, you told me you were not my enemy. I believed you.”
“I thought so.”
He would not be pacified by small truths. He needed the bigger ones. “I have seen you with your friends. The Ashleys and Ramseys are more than fond of you. They know you. You have met them publicly and, I venture to say, privately, too. I know both couples work for Scarlett Hawthorne, the merchant in the City who has more ties to the Continent than we in the government could ever count. You work for them.”
Her lashes fluttered closed.
“You do. And these,” he said as he waved an arm toward her easel and her stacks of work lined up upon the wooden floor, “these are your contribution to the defeat of Bonaparte. That drawing of Brighton is so false. The seawall is shorter in your drawing than it actually is. The breakwater is positioned farther west than in reality.The elevation of the beach is lower. You make these illustrations to delude the French.”
She set her jaw and met his gaze straight on. “I do,” she whispered.
He waited for the rest of her explanation. He was not moving until she gave him all.
She picked at the ripples of silk in her lap, then locked her gaze on his. “I learned how to draw and paint when I was young. Madame Le Brun and her friends were friends of my mother, and they were kind to me. Indulgent and sweet.
“As I grew older, I perfected my art. Before I married, I had commissions from two book publishers in the Rue du Bac in Paris for maps for travel books. I made some money and a good reputation. When I was forced to marry, my husband made me stop. He did not wish for a wife who challenged him in any way.
