The Wicked Baron. Sarah Mallory

dancing and laughing as though she had not a care in the world. It was only as she was waiting for her cloak that she discovered Luke had left early and had not witnessed her vivacious behaviour.

      ‘Well, it really does not matter,’ she told herself as she climbed into the carriage. ‘We have met, the sky did not fall and I know now that we have nothing to say to one another. I can forget all about the odious Lord Darvell.’

      ‘I beg your pardon, my love, did you speak?’

      Lady Broxted’s gentle enquiry made her jump and she hastily disclaimed. Pulling her cloak about her, she subsided into one corner and stared disconsolately out of the window. She was determined not to think of Luke Ainslowe, but his image was as persistent as the man himself; she recalled how he had come to Malberry Court, armed with a picnic basket, and insisted that she take luncheon with him. She had refused at first, but she could still hear his voice, deep and seductive, persuading her to leave her painting and eat with him.

      She was very conscious of her boy’s attire as she seated herself on the very edge of the rug, but Luke never mentioned it as he fed her tidbits of cheese and bread and fruit. She explained how his brother James had sought out her father and commissioned him to paint Malberry Court. Luke responded by telling her something of his life in the army and of the great battle that had taken place at Waterloo. Sitting out in the sunshine with the soaring white pillars of the house at their backs and the calm waters of the lake spread out before them, she soon lost her shyness. He was very easy to talk to. She liked to make him laugh and see the merry glint in his hazel eyes. It seemed quite natural to accept Luke’s invitation to join him again the next day, and the next. She was so comfortable in his company, talking of everything and nothing. They understood each other so well. Or so she had thought, until the day he had ridden out of her life forever.

      With everything so new and exciting, Carlotta found much in London to divert her. Lady Broxted was determined that she should enjoy her first Season and spared no pains to keep her entertained. There were rides in the park, shopping with her aunt, promenades and balls, assemblies, masquerades and parties. Carlotta threw herself into such a round of enjoyment that she declared to her aunt she did not have a moment to think. It was not true—there was too much time to think. Even two weeks after the Prestbury ball, when she was out riding with her friends, it was so easy to allow the chatter to flow over her and to lose herself in her own thoughts, remembering how attentive Luke had been at Malberry, bringing food to share, escorting her home in the evenings—it had been an idyllic, happy interlude. She had felt safe with Luke. He had not attempted to kiss her again, even though she knew she wanted him to do so. She remembered that she had been very close to kissing him, the day he had climbed the scaffolding. She had peered over the edge of the platform to find him grinning up at her…

      ‘Good morning, Major—or is it past noon now?’

      He made a great show of getting out his watch, saying severely, ‘It is gone three, madam. Are you so caught up in your work that you do not know the time?’

      A laugh trembled on her lips but she tried to frown. ‘I am very busy, sir. Pray do not disturb me.’

      ‘Can you not come down?’

      ‘No, sir, I cannot. What are you doing?’ She laughed. ‘You cannot come up here.’

      ‘I can, and I will,’ he said, setting his foot on the first ladder. ‘I want to see you in your eyrie.’

      She felt the platform shake as he began to climb and she quickly collected up her palette and brushes out of the way.

      ‘So this is where you work.’ He crawled onto the platform. ‘Good God, how do you manage?’

      ‘It is a little cramped, to be sure. There is no room to stand and one has to work crouching or lying down. But it is easier for me, because I am so much shorter than you.’

      He pointed to the large roundel in the centre of the ceiling. ‘Is that your father’s work?’

      ‘Yes.’ She giggled as she watched him twisting his long frame around, trying to look at the fresco. ‘It is easier if you lie on your back, only you must not, of course. You will make your coat dirty.’

      Ignoring her warning, he stretched himself out on the platform. ‘Ah, yes, I can see it much better now. A god and his attendants.’ He shifted his position. ‘And the other roundel, the smaller one at the far end?’

      She slid down beside him and gazed up at the ceiling. ‘I painted that one. You are still too close to see it all properly; it will look so much better from the ground.’

      ‘It looks wonderful to me now,’ he said. ‘I am impressed.’ He rolled over and propped his head on his hand, smiling at her. ‘Now, when will you come down?’

      The frescoes were forgotten. His face was only inches from her own. What if she was to reach out to him, to take his face in her hands and pull him down to her, to kiss him? The urge to do just that had been so strong she shivered. Such wicked thoughts!

      ‘Carlotta.’

      She jumped. No longer was she lying beside Luke Ainslowe on the high scaffold at Malberry; she was ambling through Hyde Park on her docile little pony. The rest of her riding party had moved ahead and, to her dismay, she found Lord Darvell was beside her on a sleek, long-legged bay. Her cheeks grew hot—had she conjured him with her musings?

      She had not expected him to seek her out after her performance at Prestbury House. She thought she had made her feelings perfectly clear, but here he was, smiling at her and causing her heart to flutter in the most foolish way imaginable.

      ‘We had no opportunity to talk, the other night,’

      ‘There is nothing I want to say to you, my lord.’

      She urged her mount to a trot, wanting to catch up with her party, but Luke’s hand shot out and caught her bridle.

      ‘Not yet, Carlotta. Allow me to enjoy your company for a little while.’

      She stiffened. ‘I did not give you leave to use my name.’

      ‘No? I told you I would do so. At Malberry, do you remember?’

      She hunched a shoulder. ‘I have no wish to remember Malberry.’

      ‘No?’ he said again, his slow smile slicing through her defences. ‘Why should you not—did you not enjoy our time together there? Have you forgotten that I commissioned you to paint me?’

      She stared ahead of her. Of course she remembered. She remembered every word he had spoken to her. She realised she would very much like to paint him, not posing statesman-like in a studio, but as he had been at Malberry Court, relaxed and reclining on the grass. For his brown hair she would use a base of raw umber and add fine brushstrokes to represent the blond sunstreaks—mixing in a little Indian yellow, perhaps. And his eyes—it would not be difficult to recreate their colour, like polished hazelnuts, but could she capture the smile that lurked in their depths, or the way his mouth quirked into a smile?

      Carlotta looked away suddenly. This was too dangerous a game—she was only a memory away from crying. She assumed a haughty look and raised her brows at him.

      ‘You would commission me, my lord? But it is well known you have no money.’

      ‘That will not always be the case.’

      She curled her lip at him. ‘But it is irrelevant, since I shall not be painting you. Indeed, I have no need to do anything, now.’

      ‘Perhaps not, but I thought painting was your passion.’

      She managed a tinkling laugh. ‘Oh dear me, no. How unladylike that would be.’

      She noted with satisfaction that his hand on her rein tightened, and the little mare side-stepped nervously.

      ‘What has happened to you, Carlotta? At Malberry you were…different.’

      He was watching her intently. Carlotta knew she would have to look at