An Artful Seduction (7 page)

Chapter Eight

The snow continued to fall heavily overnight, finally stopping in the early morning hours. Eliza parted the curtains in the front window of the shop and gazed outside. Snow covered the street, crisp and pristine. The row of small, bow-fronted shops appeared uninhabited, her view of the street far from the usual bustling London business district. Sunlight reflected off the snow-capped church spires in the distance. The effect gave one a feeling of bottomless peace and satisfaction, like gazing at a lovely watercolor.

But no matter how beautiful the snow appeared, the weather was bad for business. The shoppers they relied upon seemed to be hibernating. There hadn’t been one customer all day, and she worried about the remainder of the week. No one wanted to buy artwork, prints, or bric-a-brac decorations in such weather. They needed necessities, food and coal. Items Eliza would have to venture out to obtain as well.

Chloe’s cough had worsened overnight, and to Eliza’s dismay she’d developed a fever. Both Eliza and Amelia were up all night laying cool cloths on Chloe’s forehead in an attempt to bring down the fever. They’d given Chloe their warmest blankets and then had huddled together on the same mattress for warmth, until Eliza had broken down and burned their small, precious store of coal. Without customers, there was no reason to keep the shop well heated during the day. And coal wasn’t all they needed. They were running low on tonic for Chloe. Eliza knew she’d have to make another trip to the apothecary.

Later that afternoon, Eliza approached their shop with another small bottle of tonic and paused at the sight of the fine coach and matching bays stopped in front. The horses tossed their heads restlessly and snorted, steam curling from their nostrils in the frigid air.

Eliza’s pulse quickened with a strange inner excitement.
Grayson.

Hurrying inside, she scanned the room for the tall, handsome earl. The shop was blessedly warm, heat radiating from the grate in the corner. A burly footman was setting down a heavy burlap sack of coal to the left of the fireplace. Multiple lanterns burned brightly adding a cheerful glow to the prints on the wall.

Amelia rushed forward, her cheeks flushed with excitement. “Look what Huntingdon sent. Warm cloaks for all three of us. Blankets, too. And enough coal to heat the place for at least three months.” Amelia thrust a fur-lined cloak at Eliza.

The cloak grazed her cheek, and Eliza gasped. The fur was sable and the softest she’d ever felt. It was too much to comprehend. She thought of the last time Huntingdon was here, when they’d kissed. He’d said the place was freezing.

She removed her own threadbare cloak and went to the radiating grate. Peeling off her wet gloves, she held out her cold hands and tried to calm her racing heart. “What is he thinking?”

Amelia approached. “Perhaps he’s simply being nice.”

“First the list, now this,” Eliza muttered.

“Maybe he’s concerned.”

“Men aren’t intrinsically altruistic, Amelia. They are a self-serving lot,” Eliza argued.

Just like Father
. The one man they’d believed they could trust above all others—their flesh-and-blood parent—had abandoned them. If her own father was so selfish, how could Eliza trust any man?

Turning from the fire, Eliza spoke to the footman. “Where is his lordship?”

“He’s not here, miss. He gave orders to deliver the coal.”

She stiffened her spine. “Take it back. We’re not in need of his charity.”

Amelia groaned behind her.

The footman straightened to his full height. “I have my orders. Lord Huntingdon was most insistent.”

“Then will you deliver a note to his lordship?” Eliza asked.

He nodded and Eliza took paper and pen from the counter and hastily scrawled her brief message.

Lord Huntingdon,

Thank you for the coal and cloaks, my lord. But as I recall our arrangement did not include gifts of any nature.

Mrs. Somerton

She sealed the envelope and handed it to the footman.

“Wait!” Amelia cried out. “What about the doctor? You cannot think to send him away. You must do what’s best for Chloe.”

“What doctor?”

“He arrived shortly after the coach with the coal. He’s upstairs examining Chloe as we speak.”

Just then a rotund man wearing thick spectacles and clutching a black bag came down the stairs. “Miss Chloe is resting peacefully now.” He handed Eliza a dark bottle. “Cease giving her the tonic from the apothecary and replace it with this instead. If you keep the place warm and have her drink plenty of water, she should recover quickly enough.” He proffered a card with his details. “I shall return in two days’ time to check on her. If she appears worse, I may be reached at this address.”

Eliza glanced down at the card in her hand, then back at the doctor. “Thank you. I’m afraid I will have to pay you for your services over time.”

His eyes warmed behind his spectacles. “You misunderstand, Mrs. Somerton. My services were paid in advance by Lord Huntingdon.”

Amelia handed the man his hat and coat, and he departed with the footman.

Eliza stood staring at the door, dumbfounded.

Amelia approached and touched her arm. “For the first time in so long it’s blessedly warm and the cloaks are wonderful. Don’t be a fool, Lizzie. Take what the earl’s offering. How else will we get through this horrid winter until a steady business returns?”

Eliza’s mind reeled. “I agree we need such things. I’m not a fool. But what does Huntingdon want in exchange?”

…

Grayson’s answer to Eliza’s note arrived the next day along with a tin of medicinal tea for Chloe.

Mrs. Somerton,

I’m perfectly aware of our arrangement; however, you are useless to me if you catch a cold. Burn the coal and wear the fur.

Huntingdon

The arrogance of the man! She knew she should accept what he offered without a qualm. Any woman in her position would do so. He was a wealthy earl; she was a struggling shopkeeper and a forger’s daughter. But she had pride. She didn’t want his charity, hated having to accept it. They’d managed their own affairs and survived just fine for five years without him.

Yet how could she refuse the doctor’s services or the medicine for Chloe?

It was all troublesome. She hadn’t been able to stop thinking about him since his kiss. Common sense told her he wanted something from her other than what she’d already agreed to.

But what more could he want? Dorian Reed wasn’t expected back in town for four more days. Why couldn’t Huntingdon just leave her alone until then?

Eliza paced around the racks of prints in the shop, clutching his letter in her hand, when the shop’s bells chimed. She whirled to the door, hopeful that a customer had finally arrived. A short, lanky youth stepped inside with a gust of cold air. A dusting of snow covered his shoulders and battered hat.

“Mrs. Eliza Somerton?”

“Yes.”

“I ‘ave a delivery for ye,” he said, thrusting a package in her arms.

Eliza glanced down at the bundle. The package was wrapped in plain brown paper and tied with string. “Who sent it?” she asked, even though she already knew the answer.

“I don’t know, miss. I only get paid to make deliveries.” He left the shop as quickly as he had come.

Eliza set the package on the counter and unwrapped the brown paper to find three beautiful shawls made from the softest wool she’d ever felt. Each was a different color—green, blue, and rose—and she could picture a fine lady sitting in her parlor on a cold afternoon sipping oolong tea with one of the colorful shawls draped around her shoulders.

Heart thrumming, Eliza searched for a note, but didn’t find one. It really wasn’t necessary. She knew Grayson had sent them.

Footsteps sounded on the stairs as Amelia descended. “I heard the bells chime. Have we a customer—” she halted as she spotted the shawls spread across the counter, “Oh! How beautiful!”

An hour later, Chloe had joined Amelia, and together they giggled with glee as they admired the workmanship of the shawls and the fine wool. Chloe sat before the fireplace with the rose shawl draped around her shoulders, drinking tea. Her health had slightly improved since using the doctor’s tonic. The lingering cough had lost some of its concerning force, and the fever was down.

“I told you he was courting you,” Chloe said to Eliza.

“There’ll be a price to pay, I’m telling you,” Eliza muttered.

Chloe settled in the cushions of the settee. “Maybe he’ll visit the shop after he finds the stolen painting. His reputation alone as a premier art critic will increase business tenfold.”

Eliza didn’t have the heart to contradict Chloe.

All men left. They were selfish and untrustworthy. She certainly couldn’t rely upon them. Hadn’t Father abandoned them to fend for themselves? Eliza had been left behind to care for her two younger sisters with little more than a shilling. She’d learned to trust herself. Lord Huntingdon was no different. He was worse, in fact. As soon as he had what he wanted—the stolen Rembrandt—then he would leave as well.

Eliza pulled Amelia behind the counter. “I’m going to see Huntingdon.”

“What for?”

“He’s after something. I want to know what it is.” She’d demand an answer, and this time, the earl would give her one.

Chapter Nine

Eliza decided to wear the sable cloak Grayson had provided just so she could leave it with him. She wouldn’t make her sisters give up theirs. They had few niceties in life and she wouldn’t let her pride stop them from enjoying the gifts.

As she left the shop, a blast of frigid air struck her face. For a fleeting instant, she wanted to turn and rush back into the shop, where Grayson’s coal burned brightly in her fireplace grate.

Strengthening her resolve, she plodded onward. She had difficulty hailing a hackney in the snow-packed lane and was forced to walk three blocks to Bond Street before finding a vacant cab. With shoes soaked through, her feet and hands numb, she was grudgingly grateful for the warmth of the cloak.

This time when she knocked on the front door of the earl’s Mayfair mansion, the stern-faced butler recognized her.

“Mrs. Somerton to see Lord Huntingdon,” she said.

The servant arched a knowing brow. “Is he expecting to conduct business with you again?”

“We already have an arrangement,” she said.

The butler remained composed as he held the door open. Stepping inside, Eliza nearly sighed out loud as warm air surrounded her. A liveried footman came forward to take her cloak.

“No, thank you. I’d like to keep it until I see his lordship.”

A flicker of surprise crossed the footman’s face.

The butler appeared unmoved. “This way, Mrs. Somerton.”

Passing the drawing room she’d been taken to on her previous visit, he led her further down the carpeted hallway. She passed a second drawing room, a music conservatory, and a spacious dining room with a table that could easily seat fifty guests. A dazzling chandelier holding dozens of candles hung from a ceiling frescoed with frolicking cherubs from the Baroque period. He opened a closed door and motioned for her to enter.

She swept inside. Huntingdon sat behind a massive mahogany desk of what could only be his study. Tall shelves lined with scores of books bound in supple leather occupied both sides of the room. Set in the opposite wall a large fireplace topped with a stone mantle held a crackling log. A gilt framed portrait of a jet-haired man wearing a neck ruff hung beside the mantle. Glancing at the figure’s sinfully dark eyes, she knew it to be one of Huntingdon’s ancestors.

“Ah, Mrs. Somerton. I’ve been expecting you,” he drawled.

“Am I that predictable, my lord?”

He stood and walked around his desk. For such a tall man he moved with remarkable grace. His jacket of navy superfine stretched across broad shoulders, and a diamond pin glittered in his snowy cravat. He was strikingly handsome, every inch the aristocrat and exuded an air of command. She’d forgotten what a powerful opponent she had chosen. But here…now…among his wealth and splendor her own position struck her in stark contrast. The difference in their stations could not have been more pronounced.

He halted before her and raised her gloved hand to his lips. Her skin prickled pleasurably.

He smiled lazily and his gaze traveled her form, missing no detail—even to the damp hem of her gown and her sodden shoes. “I thought you would come, but I hoped you would wait until it had ceased snowing. By the look of your shoes, I’m concerned you walked here.”

“I took a hackney, my lord.”

“Did Stevens not offer to take your cloak?”

“You know very well that he did. I suspect you train your servants better than to omit such a detail.”

His eyes crinkled at the corners, and a lock of his dark hair rested across his forehead. She had a ridiculous urge to reach out and smooth back his hair.

“Then I can only hope it’s that you simply can’t bear to part yourself from my gift,” he said.

“To the contrary, I’m here to return it.” She attempted to take off the beautiful cloak and hand it to him, but he stopped her with a hand on her shoulder.

Their eyes locked, and a strange tingling began in the pit of her stomach.

Her voice was shakier than she would have liked. “My family is not a charity project, my lord.”

“I don’t consider them to be one.”

She swallowed hard. “I don’t need your pity.”

He dropped his hand from her shoulder. “Pity?” he chuckled. “You are not the type of woman to inspire pity. Other emotions, perhaps. But never pity.” His eyes darkened a shade, and her traitorous heart skipped a beat.

“Then why?” she said.

“Pardon?”

“The coal. The shawls and cloaks. Why send them?”

“I thought I made my intentions quite clear. You are to accompany me to interrogate Dorian Reed, remember?”

She tilted her head to the side and shot him a disbelieving look. “You’ve already ensured my cooperation. If I fail to meet my end of the bargain, you will turn over the forged painting to the constable.”

He frowned as if he wasn’t pleased with the memory. “I need you in good health. It bothered me that your shop was so cold. There’s no reason for it to be so.”

The sincerity in his tone took her aback. “Is that all?”

“Yes.”

“You expect nothing more?”

“No.”

She bit her lower lip. “You must understand I’ve done just fine without your gifts. My sisters, however, are a different matter. I do not have the heart to deny them any comfort that may come their way, but I suspect you very well know that.”

“Your sisters are charming ladies, and I’d rather they be warm this winter.”

He was making her feel churlish. “I am truly grateful for the doctor you sent to see to Chloe. I will reimburse you for the man’s services as soon as I’m able.”

“That’s not necessary.”

“It is to me.”

He tsked. “Stubborn.”

She raised her chin a notch. “I prefer prideful.”

He smiled easily, as if expecting her vehement protest. “Fine. I’m in need of your opinion. Consider it recompense for the doctor’s services.”

“My opinion?”

“Your professional opinion as the owner of a business.”

She halted, looking up at him with surprise. No man had ever asked for her opinion.

“May I?” This time he was the one to reach for her cloak. She stood still as he whisked the fur off her shoulders and laid it across a chair. Her simple brown wool dress was crude in comparison to the rich luxury of the sable.

Taking her hand, he placed it on his sleeve and led her to the study door. Curiosity welled within her, and she followed docilely. With a simple proposition and charming smile, he had easily disarmed her.

As they ventured down the hall, side-by-side, she could not help but notice the muscles of his forearm beneath the fine fabric of his jacket and the pleasant scent of his shaving soap. His nearness kindled unwanted feelings and her pulse quickened. Fearful of meeting his gaze, she glanced down to discover that her sodden soggy shoes were leaving wet marks on the polished marble floor. His butler was sure to raise a brow.

Then every mundane thought fled as he opened a door and escorted her inside a sun-lit room.

Oh, my.

A multitude of brilliantly colored works of art lined the walls. Her eyes were drawn to portraits of his ancestors by Thomas Gainsborough, Francis Cotes, and George Knapton, sporting artists George Stubbs and John Wootton, and cloud-tossed landscapes by John Constable and George Lambert. The collection wasn’t limited to English painters as splendid Dutch, Flemish, and Italian artists were also displayed.

His private gallery. And it was
stunning.

“It’s beautiful,” she breathed.

“Yes, beautiful,” his voice was husky.

She turned to find him watching her. The invisible web of attraction was building between them again. She glanced away nervously to study the art. It was much safer than studying
him.

Eliza walked the perimeter of the room, taking in the hanging canvases like an aspiring artist gifted with her first set of brushes. Even though her father had been a talented painter, she’d never had an opportunity to visit museums or the Academy as a child. He’d been too busy working to take her.

She pointed to three vacant spots on the wall. “Are there missing paintings?”

“Those are on loan to the British Museum. I don’t believe in keeping artwork hidden in a private collection. It’s the duty of anyone blessed to own such work to share it with the public.”

She stared at him in astonishment. “Not everyone would agree with you, my lord. Many of Father’s clients never loaned their priceless artwork. They hoarded it, obviously believing it existed for their sole viewing pleasure.”

A wry grimace thinned his lips. “I’m not surprised. Jonathan Miller’s clientele were not the most moral.”

She stiffened slightly, unsure whether he was passing judgment upon her, but the hardness and dislike that usually turned his eyes to glacial ice whenever he spoke of her father was absent in his gaze.

“Tell me, Eliza, what do
you
believe?” he asked.

She hesitated for a heartbeat, then sighed. “Masterpieces should be shared with the world.”

He smiled in approval. “Good. Then as a lover of art, please tell me which ones I should loan next?”

“You’re asking me?”

“Yes.”

Again she was surprised by his willingness to seek her opinion. She turned back to the paintings, gazing at them in wonder. Which ones to choose? Each was breathtaking in its own way.

“These,” she said, indicating two watercolors by Paul Sandby, a founding member of the Royal Academy.

“Excellent choices. Anything else?”

Walking slowly, she studied each piece and halted by an engraving. “This one,” she said, pointing to
Icarus
by the Dutch artist Hendrick Goltzius.

“It’s from Goltzius’s 1588 series,
The Four Disgracers
, and the only engraving in my collection. Why do you like it?” he asked.

She sighed with pleasure. “His talent with the burin is magnificent. His repeated patterns of swirling lines…his ability to reflect light and shadow on Icarus’s rippling muscles and convey the fear on his face as he falls to his death is remarkable.”

“Fascinating.” She jumped at the sound of Grayson’s voice close behind her and whirled to find him studying her.

“I felt the same way when I first saw the engraving, and I knew I had to possess it, no matter the cost.”

She was reminded of the first time he’d spoken similar words to her when he sat beside her at the Tutton auction. But this time, she was strangely flattered by his interest. A tingling began in the pit of her stomach.

His gaze traveled over her face and searched her eyes. Keenly aware of his scrutiny, she felt exposed, emotionally naked in a way that alternately thrilled and frightened her.

“You lied to me,” he said softly.

“Excuse me?”

“You lied about the Jan Wildens painting.”

A prickle of unease ran along her spine. “Whatever do you—”

“You are not the forger of the painting.”

Her heart thumped madly, and fear knotted inside her. “Of course I am.”

“No. You are not an artist. Amelia is responsible.”

“That’s ridiculous!”

“Oh, I realize you have a love for art, but your father’s talent did not fall to you.”

Denial was her only option. “You’re wrong,” she said, shaking her head.

“No more deception.” His voice, though soft, carried a silken thread of warning.

The tension between them increased frighteningly. For breathless seconds he held her panicked gaze. There was no lying to him, no escaping it. Impossible as it was, he knew.

“Please…please keep Amelia out of this,” she pleaded.

He grasped her arms and the shock of his touch ran through her body. “I’m not interested in turning Amelia in to the authorities.”

“Then what? What do you want?”

“This.” He jerked her into his arms and his mouth swooped down to capture hers.

Unlike the first time, his lips were hard, demanding. He grasped her firmly about the waist, walked forward until she found herself pressed against the wall between two priceless paintings
.
He tilted his head, slanted his mouth more fully across hers and ravaged her senses.

She was trapped, her hands crushed against his hard chest. Gasping, her lips parted beneath his onslaught. He took the advantage, his tongue sweeping inside her mouth.

She tried to resist, but the combustible spark between them flared to life and stole her will. The wanton in her responded, to his scent, to his heat…to
him.
Her tongue grazed his and then sucked him into her mouth. He groaned and somehow her hands were free and grasping his shoulders and then tangling in his hair.

She loved the feel and texture of the dark locks and her nails raked his scalp. He kissed her, long and deep, causing desire to course hotly through her veins. His hand caressed her waist, then moved slowly up her side to cup the fullness of her breast. His thumb grazed her nipple through the worn material of her gown. She gasped as exquisite pleasure radiated from her breast and liquid heat pooled low between her legs, making her long for more…so much more.

Sensing her need, he deepened his kiss, his hands explored the soft lines of her back and hips, then lowered to grasp her buttocks and press her tightly against him until the hard, throbbing part of him thrust against her belly. Shocked, she gathered every last bit of her resistance and yanked viciously on his hair.

He grunted and lifted his head to look in her eyes. “Hellcat! I want the truth. Who are you, Eliza Somerton?”

For a heart-stopping moment, she feared he could read the truth behind the mask. That he could see her for who she really was.

Vulnerable. Lonely. Tired.

She had to end this. He couldn’t be trusted.

No man could.

Her mind churned, groping for the most damaging thing she could say.

“I’m my father’s daughter, Jonathan Miller’s offspring. You’d best not forget it, my lord.”