Читать книгу The Wastrel - Margaret Moore, Paul Hammerness - Страница 10

Chapter Three

With the suddenness of an apparition, Lord Paris Mulholland appeared in the music room, a wry grin on his handsome face.

Startled and embarrassed, Clara unfortunately said the first thing that entered her head. “What are you doing here?”

Hester Pimblett gasped and Aunt Aurora gaped. Rightly so, Clara thought helplessly as the full realization of the rudeness of her demand came to her. She flushed hotly, thinking of all the times she had secretly condemned her aunt for doing the same thing.

But where had he come from? How much had he heard? She surveyed the room, desperately seeking some avenue of escape. There wasn’t any, for his muscular body blocked the door.

“The general answer is fulfilling a social obligation,” his lordship replied as if there were nothing untoward in her unorthodox greeting. His lack of affronted shock did not assuage Clara’s embarrassment, and she wished she had stayed in the drawing room. Being bored was infinitely better than her current state of flustered feelings.

“As for my presence here,” he went on smoothly with a graceful wave of his aristocratic hand, “I am merely being decorative.”

Coming from any other handsome man, such words might have been taken as outrageous vanity; in his case, there was enough evidence of self-mockery in his tone and his blue eyes to lead her to believe he was trying to be amusing.

Clara told herself that she didn’t find his efforts charming, or his way of playing the droll comedian humorous. He was an intelligent man and, judging by his conversation in the drawing room with the pompous and ignorant Lord Pimblett, one with at least a particle of social conscience. Why did he hide those qualities? Or was it simply that it was so much easier to play the lighthearted gadabout?

Why should she care?

“If you think I’m intruding, I shall take myself off,” he finished.

Before Clara could speak, Aunt Aurora recovered. “Oh, dear me, no! We are so glad to see you!” she cried happily. “We were just discussing you.”

“I hope you were only saying good things of me,” Lord Mulholland said genially, looking at Lady Hester.

Although Hester Pimblett’s smile lighted her good-natured face, Clara couldn’t help noticing that she did not meet his gaze. “I believe I hear the music for dancing,” she said softly, moving toward the door. “So if you will excuse me, I shall look forward to meeting you again at Mulholland House, my lord.”

She hurried out of the room, and Clara fought the urge to follow.

“I have been reconsidering your offer,” Lord Mulholland said.

“Really?” Aunt Aurora cried, clapping her hands like an excited child. “How delightful! How wonderful! I do think you owe it to posterity, Lord Mulholland.”

“That shall be for posterity to decide,” he answered. “I only know I should be honored to sit for you.”

He sounded so sincere, Clara could almost believe he meant it. Nevertheless, she kept her attention firmly fastened on Aunt Aurora, who was apparently perfectly content, and further, quite delighted to think she had achieved so much so soon.

Then he frowned slightly. “However, I am leaving London tomorrow, so it occurs to me that you must come to my house in Lincolnshire to do the picture, if you are able.”

“Oh, my lord! How marvelous! Of course we shall be only too delighted to go! Clara, isn’t he just too kind?”

“Too kind, indeed,” Clara replied flatly. Her mind was full of suspicions. Why would this rich, titled man want Aunt Aurora to do his portrait?

“I will happily pay your travel expenses,” he offered.

“Well, my dear man, this is so sudden — so unexpected. I shall have to finish one or two small commissions—a matter of mere days—and a few trifling bills to pay...then the house must be shut up.”

“Aunt, we cannot abandon the household,” Clara protested.

“Bring the household along, by all means,” Lord Mulholland said languidly. “Or perhaps your niece would prefer to remain in London?”

To her great chagrin, the idea that he could so easily leave her behind disturbed Clara immensely. Had she somehow imbibed far more wine than she realized?

Fortunately, Aunt Aurora looked as if he had proposed doing away with her niece. “I certainly could not! She cannot remain alone in London, Lord Mulholland. It would not be proper.”

There! Clara thought triumphantly. This man had best understand that she belonged to a family every bit as moral as his own. Or, considering what she knew of the upper classes, considerably more so.

“Very well,” he acquiesced graciously. “Then she must come, too, by all means.”

Damn him! She didn’t want to find him gracious, or charming or handsome. Nor did she want to go to his house in the country, even if it meant getting out of London for a while.

Had Aunt Aurora forgotten everything they had heard about Lord Mulholland? The flippant bets, the mistress who had made a bonfire of all his clothes when she thought he was dallying with another woman who was said to be married, the money he wasted on frivolous entertainment? Surely Aunt Aurora wouldn’t wish to expose her niece to such a man, not even for the sake of a major commission.

“Perhaps we should settle the details of our arrangement at once,” Lord Mulholland said, his deep voice persuasively soft as he gazed at Clara. “Then your niece will believe that my desire is a serious one.”

Clara had read of women’s knees weakening at certain romantic moments, but she had always considered it an invention of fiction, until Paris Mulholland said, “desire.” Now she knew that it could indeed happen. Nevertheless, she would die before she would let him know that his words or tone had any effect on her at all.

“You are too gracious, my lord!” Aunt Aurora cried, obviously completely oblivious to the undercurrent of anxiety her niece was experiencing.

“Don’t you wish to see examples of my aunt’s work?” Clara asked, a hint of desperation creeping into her voice.

“Not at all,” he said. “I’m sure I will be completely satisfied.”

She risked a glance at the noble wastrel, and saw the laughter lurking in Lord Mulholland’s eyes. So, he found them amusing, as if they were clowns he could hire? Perhaps, while having her guardians for jesters, he thought to practice his seductive skills on their surely easily-wooed niece.

Anger built inside Clara. Aunt Aurora could be absurd, but she was a kind, generous woman who truly thought of herself as an artist. Despite his lack of skill, Uncle Byron took his writing career seriously. As for seducing her, she was no easy prey for any man, not even the famous Paris Mulholland, as he would inevitably learn.

She summoned every reserve of calm she had, so that when she faced him, her countenance was bland and her voice controlled. “Don’t you want to know my aunt’s usual commission?”

“I must go tell Byron about your proposal, my lord!” Aunt Aurora said excitedly, obviously believing that only the details remained to be settled.

“Aunt!” Clara said swiftly. “You can’t—!”

“Oh, never fear. I’ll find him somehow. And you know I never like talking about money!” With a dismissive wave of her hand, Aunt Aurora trotted off in search of her husband, leaving Clara alone and unchaperoned with the most notorious wastrel in London.

“I won’t bite,” Lord Mulholland remarked coolly.

“This is most improper, my lord, as you well know,” Clara said, wanting to run out the door, but just as determined not to seem frightened or flustered.

“Then you can afford to pick and choose who your aunt will paint?”

Like the Paris of the myth who shot and killed Achilles, he had found her weakest spot. They did need the money, and badly, too, a weakness she hesitatingly acknowledged.

“Very well. Let us do our haggling and rejoin the others before there can be any hint of impropriety.”

“Oh, yes, we wouldn’t want your reputation to suffer,” Clara replied sardonically.

He tugged the cuff of his jacket into perfect alignment with his shirt. “I was thinking of yours.”

To her surprise, he sounded absolutely sincere. But then, he had sounded the perfect fop in the drawing room. She decided it would be better to settle the price at once, and get away from such a chameleon.

When she met his interrogative gaze, she thought it might be better just to get away. She would run and fight another day. “The hour is late,” she said abruptly.

“Not very,” he said, glancing down the hall with his mocking little smile, as if he knew very well why she was sidling toward the doorway, and found her concern amusing. “You seem less than delighted by the prospect of your aunt rendering me.”

Since he spoke the truth, she did not deign to reply.

“Don’t you want your aunt to paint me?” he asked.

“What shade did you have in mind?” she retorted.

“What color would you suggest?” he countered. “Perhaps something to bring out the color of my eyes?”

His response made Clara look at his eyes, which were a shade of deep blue like the sky in springtime. Then she realized he was laughing at her. She could see it in those merry, mocking, sky blue eyes, and detect it in the slight upturn of his sensual lips. He reminded her of a sardonic satyr.

She was no plaything for his amusement, and it was time he learned that. She wouldn’t have fled from him now if he pulled out a pistol.

Instead, she thought of a reasonable sum for the portrait, and quadrupled it. Then she doubled that. “Four hundred pounds,” she announced gravely.

“Very well.” Lord Mulholland reached into the breast pocket of his jacket with his long, slender fingers whose warmth she well recalled, and drew out his wallet. “Will a check do, or would you prefer the cash?”

In spite of her anger and resolution to remain cool and calm, she gasped. “Surely you...you don’t carry such a sum on your person?”

He simply smiled.

Good heavens, he was a fool. Rich, but a fool!

“Since I have never paid for my portrait before, I will have to trust that this is an honest rate.”

Clara’s gaze faltered. She was ashamed of herself, despite her reasoning. For an instant, honor and a desire to hoodwink him battled in her breast; honor quickly triumphed. “No, Lord Mulholland. It is not,” she said quietly. “I inflated the sum.”

“Why? Did I strike you as an easy mark?” He did not look angry at her admission, which she rather wished he would. He made another calm, inquisitive smile.

She straightened her slim shoulders and gazed at him staunchly. “I thought you were making sport of us.”

“Ah!” His eyes grew serious.

“You would not be the first.”

“I give you my most solemn assurances that I truly want your aunt to do my portrait, and I have no ulterior motive beyond that.”

He was so unmistakably earnest that she felt some of the anxiety flee her body. Nevertheless, she did not relax. She couldn’t, not when she was alone with him.

She nodded stiffly. “Then we shall accept your commission.”

“That makes me very happy,” he said softly as he reached out to take her hand. “I am suddenly all aflame to have my portrait done.” She held her breath as he bent down and kissed her fingers gallantly.

She yanked her hand from his. It had to be the unexpectedness of his action that took her breath away and made her heart race.

“The real price is fifty pounds,” she said huskily, hoping he was in no mood to haggle. She had discovered that some of her aunt’s wealthiest patrons were the ones most unwilling to part with a penny. “Twenty-five before she begins, twenty-five when she is finished.”

His expression mercifully returned to languid normality. “That much?”

“It will be a large picture,” she said quickly. “My aunt does them life size.”

“I see. So I will be certain of getting my money’s worth. Perhaps I could use it as a substitute for myself in the House of Lords when the debates get too boring.” He opened his slender wallet and drew out twenty-five pounds.

Clara took the offered money, then chewed her lip as she considered where she should keep it. Her reticule was too small, being made with the idea that a woman need only carry a delicate lace handkerchief and smelling salts to be prepared for any emergency. After another moment’s consideration, she turned away from Lord Mulholland and swiftly tucked the folded bills into her bodice.

“I envy my money,” he remarked with a gleam in his sparkling eyes, all his indifference gone.

This man was indeed seduction personified! “As well you should, since it is safely where you will never venture,” she answered defensively.

He sighed melodramatically. “Hard-hearted wench!”

He drew out his watch with such a knowing smile that she cursed herself for a fool and a ninny. She was reacting like some green schoolgirl! But he was surely a master of seduction. She must be on her guard.

He glanced at the timepiece. “I perceive that it is time for me to leave, and as much as I would dearly enjoy chatting with you, I have friends awaiting me. If you will excuse me, Miss Wells, I look forward to meeting you again in Lincolnshire.”

She watched him stroll away unconcerned, as though nothing of any import had happened. She felt as if one of the Greek gods had suddenly appeared before her in mortal form and invited her to Olympus.

Most surprising of all, she wanted to go.

Paris leaned back against the cushions of his carriage, oblivious to the sounds of London as Jones took him to White’s.

Paris knew he should have been feeling quite pleased with himself, for he was going to get a considerable sum from old Boffington, and could probably dine out on the tale of this wager for the rest of the year.

However, there could be no denying, even to himself—and Paris Mulholland was a past master at denying any troubling twinges of emotion—that his little interview with the artist’s niece upset him far more than it should. By rights, he should be quite immune to the opinions of others, and especially those of a very serious, disdainful young lady whose social station was so below his own, even if she did proclaim them in a delightful voice, her eyes shining with indignant passion. When was the last time he had seen authentic passion, even of an angry sort? He couldn’t remember—and he shouldn’t be trying to.

What did it matter if her shrewd observation that he was planning to get some amusement from her aunt’s foibles had been correct, at first? She said it had happened before; she should be used to it. Indeed, he told himself, if she were really clever, she would have been exploiting her aunt and uncle’s eccentric ways as a means of living. They could easily be a traveling circus.

He wrapped his cape tighter against the damp chill. No, he didn’t mean that. He knew how it felt to have the adult in one’s life make embarrassing remarks. He, too, would have bristled at such treatment, had he been in her place.

Paris Mulholland suddenly had the distinct sensation that this perfect stranger, this hazel-eyed embodiment of outraged familial loyalty and pride, had not just upset the equanimity of his life. She had managed to touch his heart and set it strumming in understanding sympathy.

He didn’t want his life disturbed, or any sympathetic feelings roused. He didn’t want to feel very much of anything. Life was much safer and so much more pleasant that way.

He wished he had never extended the invitation to her aunt that they all come to Lincolnshire. Perhaps he could undo it...but then, he would miss the pleasure of her guardian’s company.

They were amusing and interesting, and would certainly liven up his dull days. What was so very wrong with taking advantage of that?