Page 34 of The Lady is Trouble
Three. She was a heavy sleeper, as the day was sliding by and she continued to slumber without a care in the world.
Four—and this was the point that made his stomach knot. Made his heart pump in hard beats against his ribs.
She was searching. While he slept, she’d investigated. He noted the subtle shift of his ledgers; the movement of a canvas. Paints and brushes on a side table that had been on the floor.
What genuinely terrified—were she to go deeper—she now knew where to look.
He sipped tea, balancing the cup on his thigh as he tried to arrive at a compromise with himself. An alternative to the concept his body proposed: licking away the dab of paint on her wrist, lifting her skirt past her waist, and sinking his teeth into the supple flesh of her thigh.
She would scream when he found what she liked—and he would find what she liked.
But the deal, the damned promise and not only to her grandfather, was that he keep his hands, his cock, his cursed gift, to himself.
There were elements of his life he could prudently share. His artwork, his plans for the League. She now knew about the first and deserved to be part of the latter.
If he opened the door standing between them instead of straining to hold it shut, perhaps the influence she had over him would lessen. Friendship could flow in, friendship they’d shared before. It sounded logical, though he wasn’t sure he believed it with his body poised and ready, pulse zipping through his veins as he watched her sleep.
He had never enjoyed watching someone sleep.
Moments later, Piper woke as he’d have expected. Alert in an instant, quelling an expression he couldn’t decipher. The wheels in her mind whirled as she scooted to a sit, checked her clothing, evaluated the situation, surely his aura, before deciding on her strategy.
She would have made an excellent gambler, clever and fearless, able to make a bold choice when pressed figuratively against the wall.
He’d never seen someone vacillate less amidst disaster.
As she watched him watching her, her smile grew, though she brought her hand to her mouth to cover it.Damn it. He wanted to be a stern presence, even got so far as opening his mouth to admonish her for the inadvisable situation they found themselves in. But he couldn’t come up with one reasonable statement as her delight seeped through his skin, unleashing his smile.
He shook his head, glanced at the detailed sketch, erotic in its stark simplicity, and wondered what the hell he was doing.
He did not want to be—become—lost in Piper Scott.
The stillness playing havoc with his nerves, he pushed off the floor with a grunt, his shoulder stretching in protest. Placing the sketchpad on his desk, he turned to the breakfast tray, arranged a plate of food, poured tea. The visions he encountered were governable. No need to involve the healer. All the while, the intensity of her regard burned a hole through his thin cotton shirt.
Sidestepping the tempting puddle of stockings beside the sofa, he handed her the plate. Knocking aside a tube of shockingly expensive Dutch paint, he set her cup and saucer atop the table. “Breakfast, Lady Elizabeth, as your reputation takes its final bow.”
Balancing the plate in one hand, with the other, she completed a quick modesty pat down her wrinkled bodice. Notwithstanding the bare feet, which she took the instance of his review to wiggle, she was otherwise covered.Thank God. Lifting her gaze to his, she brushed aside his comment with a flick of her fingers. “Another benefit of country living.”
With this avowal, she commenced eating.
Delicate sips, poised bites, as if unchaperoned, barefooted, sleepy conversation over poached eggs, kippers, and toast was not only wholly acceptable but preferable. With a muted groan of capitulation, he flipped to a blank sheet in his sketchpad and settled back against the desk. The drawings he’d completed this morning pulsed on the pages beneath his fingers, but he was unsure if he wanted to share them. His image of her was drawn from a secluded place and likely a version of herself she didn’t see when she looked in the mirror.
All she would see was his desire, chalked in every charcoal stroke. Trapping him with its tangibility.
He wanted to paint her, he thought in desperation. Sketches were a good start, although charcoal was not enough to capture the golden splash flowing through the window, the way it lit her skin where it struck her.
Not enough to capture the contradictions. Dreamy innocence and bold challenge. He shaded the stubborn tilt of her chin, struggling to portray the look.Herlook. “Head up,” he instructed, then banged his on the desk when he realized he’d said it out loud.
“So, the viscount is an artist.”
He held up a hand, urging her to let him take another stroke. Releasing a tense breath, he stepped outside the sketch and looked up in time to see her slide her knuckle from her mouth, jam clinging to her bottom lip. Feeling like his brain was going to explode, he forced himself back to outlining the sweep of hair tumbling over her shoulder. “The artist is a viscount,” he corrected. “He always was.”
“The boy my grandfather located in the rookery…”
He didn’t want to think, much lesstalkabout that boy. This sketch was thenow, taking shape in ways he’d not planned. Art calmed the chaos in his mind, and he wanted to embrace whatcalmed the chaos.
Only a healer’s touch, if he let himself accept it, calmed more.
When he understood the silence was going to draw out like she’d placed him on a rack with her comment, he said so low he hoped she didn’t hear, “A rebellious, furious young man. So bloody angry.” He grimaced at the pathetic recollection. Maybe if he painted that boy, he’d retreat gracefully into the past, too.