Nothing But Deception. Allegra Gray

her way across stones and ivy, careful not to disturb anything, until she reached the reflecting basin, now empty.

      A broken robin’s egg rested in the center. She touched it tentatively, then looked up, searching for the nest from which it must have fallen.

      “Stop.”

      She froze, face lifted, breath held.

      “Oui.”

      He moved to her, angling his head, pausing, considering. He gently repositioned her right hand on the stone basin. “Just so,” he murmured.

      Her body quivered at his touch, though she did her best to hide it. The tingling rush that always filled her at the beginning of a new poem was present now. The suspicion that he felt it too was confirmation of his earlier declaration—the process of painting someone, though they’d hardly begun, was an intimate one.

      He stepped back, circled her slowly. “All right, relax a moment while I fetch my sketchbook.” He went to rummage through the satchel.

      Bea slowly released her breath.

      “You like this, then?” She gestured toward a wrought-iron arch, overgrown with the woody vines of roses gone wild.

      “Very much. In a week, perhaps two, it will be perfect. A bit more hint at life, but not yet full bloom. We will have to hurry, if I am to have the canvas readied by then.”

      He fished out the sketchbook, a tin of charcoals, and settled himself against the trunk of a tree, taking in the abandoned garden. “Now, chérie, if you would resume the pose you held a moment ago…” He selected a thin charcoal stick and propped the sketchpad against his knee. His deft hands went to work, quick short strokes on the paper as Bea did her best to recreate the pose he liked.

      She stood until her arms and neck ached, shifting only when Monsieur Durand would lift his head and gesture to her, indicating a minor adjustment to the pose. He spoke little, his entire concentration on the connection between her and the images he was creating on paper. His absorption in his work was a relief, for it spared her the necessity of inventing carefree banter when all she could think of was him.

      Finally, his charcoal stilled and his intense focus on her mellowed as he gestured toward the garden as a whole. “Whose was it?”

      “I know not,” Bea answered, sagging in relief as she allowed her arms to drop. Elizabeth hadn’t known either, when they’d first discovered the place. “A past duchess, perhaps. It has been some time since it was tended.”

      “Ah, the misty veils that shroud the past. A forgotten place, though not a lonely one. It is perfect.” He smiled, stood and stretched, then came to stand by her side. “I was not mistaken. You, Lady Pullington, are most definitely the muse I have been seeking.”

      “Beatrice,” she whispered. It seemed absurd that the man attempting, as he’d said, to capture her true spirit on canvas should use her formal title. But her request was improper. She was a lady, he an artist. Use of her title was an acknowledgement of that gap.

      He knew it, too—she saw the serious consideration in his eyes. “Beatrice,” he repeated slowly.

      He stood close. Too close. Close enough for her to know the woodsy scent of his soap mingled perfectly with their surroundings.

      “What am I doing here?” she whispered.

      He tilted his head and the corner of his mouth lifted in a half smile. “Call it…un coup de coeur.”

      A spontaneous attraction. She could hardly deny that.

      His eyes went dark, but she couldn’t drag her gaze away from that fathomless blue.

      This was more than she had bargained for. Flirtation, yes, and the flattery of being the subject of his beautiful artwork. But never…this. This intense need to have him know her, care for her.

      He was an artist, a Frenchman, and a known seducer of women. Hardly a man to whom she could trust her heart.

      This was desire, this was passion—nothing else. But, oh, Lord, she’d never felt the sort of heady rush she did when he looked at her like that, and her heart argued to be given its chance.

      He leaned in.

      There was no stopping this. She would rather die than pull away now.

      His lips grazed her temple, a light touch. Warm. He drew back just long enough to meet her gaze.

      He would see her acceptance, her pleading, the same way he always saw through her, to the core of what she felt. Bea knew it and looked him in the eye anyway.

      Never breaking her gaze, he set the sketchbook and charcoal tin on the edge of the basin. The tin slipped and clattered to the bottom, ignored by both.

      He captured her face with strong hands, barely a moment before his mouth fused to hers. Slanting, again and again. This was no light caress. Her lips parted under the pressure, and he drove inside, gripping her tight with hands that sought to possess, rather than pose her.

      Bea was drowning. Her hands slid to the wall of his chest, stroking, seeking. Waves of sensation crashed over her as his tongue plundered her mouth, exploring, then thrusting, mating with hers.

      He drew her closer yet, his hand at the small of her back, until their hips met, her thigh nestled between his legs. His lips moved to her neck, and her head tipped back at this new pleasure.

      His tongue traced the line of her throat, down to her collarbone. Her back arched, her body wantonly seeking more. The movement brought her in direct contact with his arousal.

      Bea pulled back sharply. Dear God, what was she doing?

      Philippe dropped his hands, his breathing labored.

      “Did you lure me into the woods to paint me or to seduce me?” The question slipped out before Bea could consider the wisdom of asking it.

      Philippe frowned, the intimacy of the moment shattered. “You English are so…orderly. No mixing of business with pleasure. Why is this so? The French do not see it thus—though, whatever you may have heard, I do not make a habit of seducing my subjects.”

      She waited.

      He sighed. “I intend to paint you. And I made a promise not to do anything you did not desire. Je suis désolé. I apologize. I shall not kiss you again—unless you wish me to do so.”

      “It was my fault as well,” Bea acknowledged softly. “But it would be better if it does not happen again.”

      “Better?” Philippe echoed with a rough laugh. “An odd choice of word. Safer. More proper, perhaps. But I would not say it will be better.”

      Once more, Bea could think of no appropriate rejoinder.

      He chuckled, but the sound held a note of regret. “No matter. I believe I’ve enough sketches for this day. Let us go. With luck, Lady Bainbridge will be recovered enough for the return journey.”

      He did not offer his arm as he had before, so Bea trudged silently behind him as they retraced the path through the woods. Never in her life, and especially never in her brief marriage, had she felt that desperate leap of desire she’d experienced at the touch of Jean Philippe Durand.

      From the moment she’d agreed to this outing, she’d sensed it would be dangerous. Now she knew why.

      Philippe arrived late to the Wilbournes’ on Wednesday night. The trip to Montgrave had yielded an ideal setting for his next work, but had also consumed the full afternoon and evening. The estate might be close to London by the ton’s standards for country homes, but it would not lend itself to daily trips back and forth.

      Had the rose garden been any less perfect, he’d have been tempted to find something closer. But it was perfect—Bea and he had both felt it. Philippe had felt a great deal more, too, during the outing, but it was too soon to speculate about the implications of that.

      The Wilbournes, Philippe