The Wastrel. Margaret Moore

Aunt Aurora had no inkling of the antics of some of her male customers and models.

      “Why, you needn’t stare so, Clara, although I’m sure a girl of your moral fiber didn’t even notice their cruder behavior.”

      Clara certainly had; the wonder of it was that Aunt Aurora had not been oblivious. “You...you never sent anyone away,” she said slowly.

      “Why should I? They were harmless enough, and I certainly had no fear that you would not see them for the vain puppies they were!”

      Clara didn’t know whether she should frown or smile. It was good to think her aunt had faith in her perception, but was it not her guardian’s place to guard Clara from her customers’ attentions?

      There was a soft knock on the door, and Clara opened it to find a pretty, smiling young woman in a maid’s uniform who dipped a curtsy. “Good day, miss,” she said nervously. “I’m to be your maid while you’re here.”

      Clara was about to protest that they didn’t need a maid when Aunt Aurora rose as majestically as any queen and gave Clara a most triumphant look. “How thoughtful of Lord Mulholland! I am Aurora Wells, and this is my niece, Clara.”

      The maid dipped another curtsy. The young woman looked so keen and anxious, Clara didn’t have the heart to send her away, and on second thought, it occurred to her that it might be a pleasant break not to have to help Aunt Aurora for a little while.

      Nor should she make too much out of Lord Mulholland’s generosity. Providing a maid for their assistance was surely to be expected of any gentleman.

      Of course, it still remained to be seen if Lord Mulholland was worthy of such an appellation.

      

      Paris opened the door of his bedchamber at the far end of the corridor to discover that his valet was in a state of such excitement, the fellow could barely stand still. He looked not unlike one of the drunken revelers depicted in the medieval harvest tapestry hanging in the small drawing room.

      “My lord!” Jean Claude exclaimed with true Gallic enthusiasm. “At last you bring home a young woman worthy of your attention!”

      “What are you talking about?” Paris demanded as he closed the door, although he thought he could guess what Jean Claude was talking about. “The only young woman new in the house is Miss Wells,” he said coolly, shooting the bolt home when he recalled Hester’s tale about another young lady spying on him. “And she’s no beauty. Pretty, perhaps, but surely not worth your fulsome praise. Now where’s my dress shirt?”

      He went over toward the large canopied mahogany bed and began to undress, still wondering why the laughter in Clara Wells’ beautiful hazel eyes had died and her mouth had become a hard, grim line.

      Because he had teased her a little?

      Then, when her aunt had shouted for her, she had started and looked around as if she expected to see a bevy of Robert Peel’s bobbies waiting to arrest her. Because her aunt was a little boisterous?

      Perhaps he would regret his hasty decision to have Aurora Wells paint his portrait, he thought grimly as he unbuttoned his shirt. It was not going to be a blissful experience, having such a stern, censorious miss in his household.

      He could send them away, he supposed, and he had to admit that the thought was tempting. However, he couldn’t deny that Clara Wells was rather tempting, too, in a challenging sort of way. Besides, the family could use the money this commission would provide.

      Jean Claude frowned darkly as he brought forth a fresh white shirt while Paris divested himself of the one he had been wearing. “Ce n’est pas possible! Am I in the presence of a dolt? A fool? A simpleton? Have I not taught you better than that, you...you Englishman! Anyone of any breeding and discernment would see that she is une jeune fille très magnifique!” He handed the shirt to a half-naked Paris and crossed his arms, daring his employer to disagree.

      Which naturally Paris did, for it appeared that Jean Claude was going to outdo himself in defending Miss Wells—and his own judgment, of course. “I think she’s a prim-and-proper bourgeois prude,” he said.

      “Are you blind?” Jean Claude demanded as Paris changed his trousers. “That woman is a powder keg waiting for a match!”

      “Why don’t you try lighting her up then?”

      “Because she is not French,” Jean Claude announced huffily.

      “I’ll agree she’s explosive,” Paris replied, lifting an aristocratic eyebrow as he tied his white cravat. Jean Claude impatiently adjusted it before providing Paris with his white satin vest. “However, that is not a quality guaranteed to recommend her to me.”

      “It should be,” Jean Claude retorted while Paris put on his tails.

      The valet picked up a clothes brush and attacked Paris’s jacket furiously, nearly knocking Paris backward with the violence of his strokes.

      “Besides, she is not of my social class,” his lordship said.

      Jean Claude’s brush strokes became even more aggressive. “You are not such a pigheaded cabbage to think that way,” the Frenchman admonished. “And even a pigheaded cabbage could see that she must have royal blood in her veins.”