Nothing But Deception. Allegra Gray

the faintest arch of Elizabeth’s brow at their interaction, but then her friend simply smiled.

      “Here.” Philippe gestured toward the large windows, where the curtains were pulled back. “Come over where the light is best, if you will, my lady. I was just about to set out the sketches I began the other day. I have worked on them since, and while I have my thoughts, I would like to hear yours as well. It is important that my subject be pleased with the work meant to honor her, no?”

      “You are too kind—I am sure an artiste of your experience needs no input from an untrained eye such as mine,” Bea replied, determined to match his charm and flattery.

      “Au contraire,” he argued, extracting a sheaf of papers from a leather satchel and spreading them across the long narrow table near the window. “I am told you have an eye for fashion—is that not, in its own way, also art?”

      “Perhaps,” she allowed, leaning over the papers. She forgot all about their banter at that moment, as her mind was drawn back to the rose garden at Montgrave. The sketches were rough, but the talent behind them undeniable. The images popped from the page as though living. She could see where he’d experimented with angles and perspectives, rough charcoal strokes overlapping in the quest to breathe life onto paper.

      “You choose,” he prompted.

      “Me?”

      “Oui.” A smile played at his lips as he watched her eyes rove over the sketches.

      He stood close. Bea inhaled the male scents of leather and sandalwood. Suddenly it was difficult to concentrate, knowing he was watching her study his work. The intensity emanating from the man was just as evident in his sketches. How could so much passion be present in one human?

      She straightened her shoulders, forcing herself to view the sketches with a judgmental eye.

      One did stand out above the rest. Her paper self stood at the stone basin, an expression of delight on her face as her fingertips grazed the twigs of a tiny bird’s nest, nestled in the branches of a just-budding sapling. She recalled the moment precisely—she’d been looking for the source of the broken robin’s egg at the basin’s bottom. She just hadn’t expected Philippe’s sketches to capture the occasion so completely.

      The choice was clear, but Bea hesitated nonetheless in making it. What if there was something magical about one of the others that she could not see? Would her choice disappoint him? Finally she pointed. “That one,” she whispered.

      His smile broke out in full, and he nodded approvingly. “Bon. That is my favorite, too.”

      A bubble of pleasure, absurdly large, rose in her.

      Elizabeth peered over her shoulder. “Oh, how lovely.”

      Philippe picked up the chosen drawing and motioned Bea to the settee. When she sat, he joined her, keeping enough distance to prevent them from “accidentally” touching, but close enough for both to study the sketch he propped on his knee.

      Would she ever have the opportunity to kiss this man again?

      Philippe swept a finger across the drawing, indicating the angle of light he hoped to affect in the final painting.

      What had he just said? Bea bit her tongue, hard, and tried to gather her foolish thoughts back to the task at hand.

      Elizabeth sat serenely, seemingly absorbed in embroidering a tiny pillowcase. Since Bea knew how much her friend despised the monotony of embroidery, this was either testimony to her joy at impending motherhood, or a sham designed to allow her to observe Bea and Philippe without seeming like an overbearing chaperone.

      Could she sense the tension between them, or Bea’s barely-quelled desire to touch Philippe, to scoot closer, or touch his arm as they discussed various aspects of the sketch? How obvious were they? She probably could; Elizabeth, Bea knew, was no stranger to passion.

      Philippe, she did not doubt, knew exactly what she was feeling. He always seemed to know.

      Fortunately, he did not press her on those feelings, as he had when they were alone. Instead, he maintained a professional focus that Bea had trouble matching.

      “I would like to rework this sketch on a larger scale,” the Frenchman said, “with greater detail, before setting paint to canvas.”

      At this, Elizabeth spoke up. “I have already informed the staff at Montgrave that you are using a site on the grounds as the setting of your next work, and that you may come and go at will. They are ever so pleased to have the notable Monsieur Durand as a regular guest, and I am certain you will find them eager to accommodate any need.”

      “Your Grace, you are beyond kind,” Philippe declared. He turned to Bea. “I am at your disposal, Lady Pullington. I must travel briefly to Kent during the early part of the week, but should return on Thursday. I hope not to delay too long beyond that, for the season is nearly perfect to begin the full-scale work on canvas.”

      Bea blinked. “I am happy to oblige, Monsieur Durand, although I must consult my schedule…”

      “Saturday?” Elizabeth suggested brightly. “I can’t think of a thing going on in town—at least during daylight hours—on Saturday, save for Lord Sidmouth’s cousin’s recital, and I dare say no one should be sad to miss that.”

      “Oui, perfect. If that would suit Lady Pullington?” Philippe glanced back at Bea, eyebrows raised.

      “Saturday, then,” she confirmed, wondering if Elizabeth’s suggestion indicated her friend was once again offering the services of a companion.

      Philippe took her hand as he bid her farewell—and pressed a tiny, folded square of paper into her palm. Bea’s heart began to pound as she clenched her fingers around it. For the second time since meeting him, she’d received a secret note—though this time, she knew from whom. But what could the normally flamboyant Frenchman wish to tell her that he dared not say in front of Elizabeth?

      Somehow, she maintained a calm façade as Philippe exited the room. She turned to Elizabeth, heart still racing as she resumed her seat and surreptitiously slipped the square of paper between the cushion and the back of the settee, praying it had escaped her friend’s notice. And praying, as a second thought occurred to her, that this note was in no way related to the first, more nefarious one she’d received.

      “So…” Elizabeth’s grin was impish. “Monsieur Durand is very…intense, is he not? And quite taken with you.”

      “Oh. Well. Yes, I suppose he is quite intense…I cannot say about me, but he pursues his art with great passion.”

      “Great passion, hmm?”

      Flames engulfed Bea’s neck and face, but it was too late to take back the revealing words.

      “Oh, Bea, you know I will not judge. You remember better than anyone how much trouble I was in before Alex and I were married. If he pleases you, let him pursue you—I’ve no doubt he will anyway. And you deserve to have some fun. You’ve been a dutiful wife and a respectable widow long enough.”

      It was true—Elizabeth had broken nearly every rule of propriety, including running from home, hiding from her family, and taking Alex as a lover—though only Bea knew that this last was true. It had taken every ounce of her friends’ and family’s influence, and London’s respect and fear of the duke, to put her back in Society’s good graces. Bea wasn’t ready to go quite that far…But Elizabeth was right. She was ready to have some fun.

      “Some chaperone you are,” Bea teased.

      “Me?” Elizabeth placed a hand on her hip, mocking the expression of one offended. “I’ve no intention of playing at chaperone, my dear friend. I’m playing at matchmaker.”

      Bea stifled a groan. Heaven help her now.