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
