Page 17 of Dallying with the Diamond
“These are exquisite,” Honoria called from the far wall. “Why are they hidden?” She had discovered the landscapes he painted for no reason other than…well, he didn’t know why. This was why he spent so little time with the women he bedded. Women had a way of making a man think. None more so than this particular woman. He’d done so much thinking in the short time he’d known her he was in danger of suffering a permanent megrim.
“They’re hidden because they are a waste of canvas. My portraits afford me my luxurious lifestyle, not those dabbles.” He came to take the lamp from her and steered her towards the lascivious portraits. A vision of her naked, head back and laughing, as he pushed her higher and higher in the swing made his hand itch to sketch and then paint her. Every inch of her body was a work of art—her face, her hair, her breasts, her legs, herarse, even her hands and feet. No artist’s imagination could create the beauty that was Honoria.
Witless, Ath. You have gone witless.
She looked through the various portraits. “Have you painted my father’s mistress? These seems the sort of thing he would do, especially since Mama died.” She said the words so easily, as if she spoke of the weather. He was not deceived. His association with his four closest friends had long accustomed him to hearing unspoken pain. It had also taught him when not to press.
“I would know. I have never met the duke and no man gives his true name to a mere portraitist. You have no idea how many gentlemen named Smith or Smythe have ordered portraits of their lady loves. Apparently, the entire Smith and Smythe families are nothing but a clan of reprobates and adulterers.”
She laughed, just as he’d hoped. “That is terrible.” She looked over her shoulder at the landscapes and then back at him. “You are punishing yourself and your mother for your real father’s existence and the cruelty of the man you believed to be your father.” She placed her palm inside his banyan over his heart. “Your talent as an artist and your talent as a lover don’t deserve that, Leonidas.”
His breath turned to ice in his lungs. His heart slowed and his blood ran like unmixed paint in his veins. Too much. He’d allowed her to see too much. “The only thing my father wanted of my mother was a son. He got me. You are the Diamond of the Season, Honoria. You are beautiful, accomplished, adored by all, and the shining example against which all other marriageable ladies are measured. You have no idea what it is to know your entire life you can never be what your father wanted you to be.”
She stared into his eyes. A sudden pang cut across his heart. He’d spoken the truth as he saw it. He’d said the absolute wrong thing, but had no idea what or why. She stepped back and patted his shoulder. “I need to go before Esme sends the watch in search of me. Is my cloak downstairs?” She started for the door out of the studio, but paused to pick up her boots and pet Lucifer on the way. “He truly is a love.” She gave Leo a brilliant smile.
“I have others,” he said as he hurried after her. “Would you like to meet them?” Did he really sound as foolish and inept as he feared. He lighted their way with the oil lamp as they descended the narrow stairs to the servants’ entrance to Albany.
“Next time,” she said softly as she stopped to put on her boots.
“When?” He set the lamp on the shelf by the back door and picked up her cloak, shook it out and draped it around her over his banyan.
“You will have to decide. I want you to paint my portrait.” Even in the lamplight he saw her wicked grin.
“You do? And will you pose exactly as I wish?”
“You’re the artist. Oh, here.” She drew a bundle of paper from her cloak pocket.
“I will have to give your portrait some thought. What is your desire between now and then, my lady?” He reached inside the cloak and the banyan to run the backs of his fingers across her breast. She covered his fingers with her hand and raised up on her toes to kiss him. She finished with a sharp nip of his lip.
“Surprise me,” she murmured as she dashed out to the waiting carriage before he could stop her.
How the devil did any man surprise a lady like Honoria Eveleigh?
* * *
Cheddars sighed dramaticallyand untied Leo’s neck cloth for the third time. “Sir, you really must sit still if I am to achieve a true mathematical.”
Across the sitting room CB fed Prinny another sliver of kipper and wiped his hands on one of Leo’s tatty serviettes. “He’s nervous, Cheddars. Ballrooms tend to break him out in a rash.”
“It isn’t the ballrooms, youarse, it is the clothes. Whilst you are sitting there being useless toss that stack of pages into the fire.” Leo pointed at the bundle of paper Honoria had handed him on her way out a few nights ago.
CB glanced through the pages, raised an eyebrow, and tossed them into the healthy blaze in the hearth. “Burning your memories?”
“I’m making new memories.” Leo tugged at the neck of his shirt. “To hell with the mathematical, Cheddars. Tie one of your knots. I prefer yours to anything Brummel recommends.” His valet smiled and set to work.
“New memories? Is that why I had to beg my aunt to secure invitations to this evening’s ball, for you to create new memories?”
“Stop talking, CB.” Leo stood as Cheddars stepped back to admire his handiwork. The valet gave him one last flourish with a clothes brush, bowed, and left the room. “Shall we?” He left his sitting room and started down the main staircase of Albany. CB’s footman lowered the steps to the carriage. Once they were inside the elegant and comfortable vehicle glided into motion.
“You have four handsome carriages of your own in the mews behind your townhouse,” CB mused. “Remind me again why we must always take mine?”
“First, because you complain the entire journey, long or short, when we take anyone else’s equipage. No one else admires comfort the way you do.” Leo glanced out the window. He settled his gloved fist onto his knee to keep his leg from bouncing up and down.
“And second?” CB stared at him with that rapier-like gaze of his, the one Leo hated whenever it was turned on him.
“Those carriages are not mine. They belong to my mother.”
“I daresay Sythe, your barrister, would beg to differ.”