Nothing But Deception. Allegra Gray

but fate had handed her an opportunity. And for once, she planned to take it without question.

      Bea tucked the note into her desk drawer and turned down the lamp. She yawned again. Tonight she would dream of charming French artists and night-blooming jasmine. After a good night’s sleep, she hoped, her mind would clear and the mystery of the note would reveal itself.

      What was he to do without a studio?

      Philippe paced the length of his hotel room. Ordinary furnishings, poor lighting—there was nothing here that could do the lady justice. And, of course, she was a lady. He could hardly expect her to visit the room of a strange man. After his very public request of her at last night’s salon, the gossips had, understandably, been abuzz. He’d gleaned enough to know Lady Beatrice Pullington was a widow, and a respectable one.

      He laughed. Had anyone in Paris told him he’d be fascinated, driven to use his artistic talent to portray a respectable English widow, he’d have laughed them out of his well-lit studio. But something about this particular widow spoke of life, of burgeoning but hidden passion.

      So many of the English mademoiselles seemed to have inherited their looks directly from their country’s landscape—pale and watery. Not Beatrice Pullington. She was a study in contrasts, her dark hair rich like French coffee, her complexion of the finest cream, tinted by delicate roses. He couldn’t wait to study her further.

      Unless—could he have been wrong? The excitement of the salon, a few glasses of wine. Had his mind played a trick on him, making the lady something more than she was?

      He could simply finish his business in London, inquire as to Lord Owen’s whereabouts, request a perfunctory meeting with the man, and return to France. Until twelve hours ago, that had been his plan.

      But as he’d told Lady Pullington, his instincts were almost never wrong. And he never made an offer if he didn’t intend to follow through.

      Philippe realized that while his mind had wandered, his gaze had fixated on the brocade covering the chaise opposite him. An unremarkable piece, except that the fabric featured roses, entwined with gold thread. He’d compared her to a rose. An idea began to take form.

      It was the beginning of the Season, with warmer weather just around the corner. He didn’t need a studio. The lady didn’t belong cooped up in an artificial, indoor setting. She belonged somewhere natural, somewhere primitive and just beginning to grow, to bloom. He would paint her as an enchantress, bestowing life and magic on an otherwise gray countryside.

      The creative rush filled him, as it always did at the onset of a new project. It was what drove him, and was the reason he never accepted commissioned projects. He’d done so once, and the work had been bland and boring, so much that he’d hesitated to sign his name to the completed work. Never again.

      Thankfully, he had no need of that now. The only thing he needed now was a plan to convince the respectable Lady Pullington to venture off into the wilderness with nothing but him and his paints.

      Bea was having second thoughts. Elizabeth, her closest friend since their schoolroom days at Miss Fletcher’s Academy for the Refinement of Ladies, did not seem to notice.

      “I cannot believe I bowed out of attending the salon and missed the Season’s most exciting moment!” Elizabeth lamented.

      “The Season has hardly begun,” Bea argued.

      “A mere triviality.”

      Elizabeth had arrived as soon as the hour was decent, just before noon, forcing Bea to once more set aside her mysterious letter. It was a code, she was certain now, though she’d yet to puzzle out the full message.

      The ladies were seated, as usual, in the family salon, sharing a light repast. Although, Bea noticed, she was the only one actually eating. Elizabeth sipped plain tea, and had selected a bland biscuit over the delicate and creamy finger sandwiches on the tray.

      “Are you still feeling unwell?” Bea asked.

      “Not too badly.” Elizabeth smiled. “It’s to be expected, I believe.”

      The reminder of her friend’s delicate condition brought Bea’s thoughts back to her own dilemma. If she wanted to achieve the same state of marital and familial bliss as Elizabeth, she ought to be looking for eligible gentlemen—not playboy artists.

      “How did you hear everything so quickly, anyway?” Bea asked.

      “Charity, of course. I do believe she sent that poor messenger out before daylight in her determination to be the first to share the news.”

      “She wasn’t put off by the turn of events?” Bea worried. “She said nothing last night while we were there, but after all, it was her interest in Monsieur Durand and his work that brought us there.”

      “Not at all,” Elizabeth laughed. “Charity enjoys being the center of attention, to be sure, but I’ve never known her to be jealous. Besides, I doubt she could associate long with a man whose popularity might rival her own.” The warmth in Elizabeth’s voice made it clear she spoke with love and amusement over her sister’s antics.

      “Well, I shan’t get too carried away. It may yet come to nothing.” But the hair on Bea’s neck prickled as she made that declaration. She stood, uneasy, and rifled through the day’s correspondence—neatly arranged on a silver plate on her writing desk.

      Bea sifted through the usual assortment of calling cards and notices, when one envelope drew her attention from the rest. The bold flourish of the handwriting was unfamiliar, but the moment she slid it open, she knew.

      Lady Pullington,

      As you can see by this missive, I am sincere in my hope that you will allow me to paint your likeness. After considering the matter, I believe an outdoor setting will best allow me to achieve the effect I envision. I am unfamiliar with England, and therefore beg of you to accompany me on an outing to the countryside so that we may discover an appropriate location. If you are amenable, I shall send a driver Wednesday afternoon at one o’clock.

      Veuillez agréer, Madame, l’assurance de mes sentiments distingués,

      Jean Philippe Durand

      “What’s caught your attention?” Elizabeth leaned over her shoulder.

      Bea handed her the note.

      “Oh. My, he is bold. A bit improper, but then, he is French.” She fluttered a hand over her heart and giggled. “‘It may yet come to nothing?’” she teased, mocking Bea’s words of moments before. “I think not. You, darling, are about to become the subject of Monsieur Durand’s considerable talent.”

      Bea retrieved the card, reread it.

      “You’re going, aren’t you?”

      “Oh…” She set the card carefully back on the plate. “I, well, perhaps this isn’t the best idea. As you said, it’s improper.”

      Elizabeth cocked her head. “The most coveted invitation in London, yet you are considering turning it down? Have you lost your mind?”

      Bea searched for an excuse as her friend’s eyes narrowed. “Ah. It’s the attention,” Elizabeth pronounced, as though she were a physician diagnosing an ailment. “It makes you uncomfortable. No. That’s not quite it. He makes you uncomfortable.”

      Sometimes, best friends saw things too clearly.

      How could she explain that she’d had the sense it hadn’t been her polished self, her fashionable gown, that Philippe Durand had been looking at, but something else? Something internally, uniquely her. And Bea was afraid of whatever it was he might have seen.

      Elizabeth had no such qualms. “You’re going,” she declared. “And I’m coming with you.”

      “I won’t hear of it. You can’t possibly traipse through the countryside in your condition.”

      “I most certainly can,”