A Scandalous Liaison. Elizabeth Rolls

bits forever escaping, now it was confined severely—just that one shorter lock tumbling down to tempt a man’s fingers. And her mouth, once so soft and quick to smile, looked as though it had forgotten what a smile was.

      “Dammit, Loveday,” he said, stepping past her. “What in Hades is Lionel about, bringing you to this…dump!”

      Her eyes sharpened to blazing daggers. “Did I invite you in, my lord?”

      The icy tones slashed deep, touching hurts he’d rather forget.

      “If you didn’t intend to invite me in, why open the door?” he demanded. And wanted to bite his tongue out. This was Loveday, and she had every right to want his hide for a hearth rug.

      Her fists clenched, and her mouth flattened. “Good question. Easier to push you down the stairs with the door open, do you think?”

      He dragged in a breath and forced a lid on the roiling ferment within. He had deserved that.

      “I’m sorry. All right? I never meant to hurt you!”

      “You didn’t mean anything!”

      Lord! Where had that frozen whip come from?

      “I made a mistake. I never should have touched you.”

      “You made a mistake?” Her teeth were clenched, eyes narrowed., “How unfortunate for you.” And as quickly, the blaze was extinguished in a cool smile. “You were told not to come here. That was part of the agreement, as I recall.”

      “Did you make that stipulation?”

      She shrugged. “Why would that make a difference?”

      It shouldn’t.

      “Where is he? Lionel made good money as a painter. Judging by the sketches he sent me, he still could. Why are you living like this?”

      The delicate brows rose. “Like what? In squalor? Fashions change, my lord. In art…as well as women.”

      “Don’t do that!”

      “What? Stop speaking the truth?”

      “Stop ‘my lording’ me as though I were a stranger!” He fought down hurt and anger. “For God’s sake, Loveday—let me help you. Let me give you some money. I can—”

      “No!” It burst from her.

      “Dammit, Loveday! It’s just money. It doesn’t mean anything!”

      Her lip curled. “Easy to say when you’ve plenty of it. Anyway, money for what? Money for what we did six years ago?”

      Money for…His hands balled to fists as her meaning slammed home, and the cool speculation in her eyes scored deep. He closed his eyes, reaching for control.

      Opening them again, he found her still watching, her face a mask. His own control shredded, he gritted his teeth against the rising tide of fury…and saw, really saw, the stacked canvases around the dingy room.

      “Paintings,” he heard himself say.

      “I beg your pardon.”

      No, that should be his line, but the blank mask had at least been replaced with a puzzled frown.

      “I’ll buy paintings.” Surely if he bought enough paintings it would help Lionel get her out of this…this hell without trampling their pride in the mud. Without making her feel that she had been paid off like a whore, albeit belatedly.

      “What? You haven’t even looked at any of them!”

      He didn’t really need to; they were Lionel’s. “Easily remedied.” He strode past her to a stack leaning against a battered table, and crouched down, flipping through them backward and forward. Mountainscapes; Italian, he supposed. Beautiful, evocative, painted by the old Lionel. Any or all of these could grace his collection. Evelyn put one aside…and his breath stopped. The next canvas glowed. A lonely shore with a single, distant figure standing bathed in golden light where the sand met a dreaming sea…Silently, he set it aside, and kept looking through the stack until he came to the last one…

      His hands shook as he drew it clear. He knew this one. Not the painting; he’d never seen it before. But the subject—the young girl curled up reading in that shabby old wing chair she’d loved, one hand caressing a tabby kitten asleep in her lap, red-gold tresses tumbling over her shoulders, glimmering against the dark, cracked leather.

      Lionel must have painted it just before or after…as a reminder?

      “How much for these three?”

      She stared. “You want those? Even the seascape?”

      “Yes. Especially that one. How much?”

      The mask had crumbled. Instead there was panic in the wide golden eyes and parted lips. “I…I don’t know.”

      “Fifty, then?”

      “Fifty? For three?” Some of the spark rekindled and she scowled at him.

      “Fifty each.”

      “But that’s too much!”

      “No, it isn’t. They’re good. Better than good.” They were, too. Especially the beach scene, which must have been painted after whatever cataclysm had transfigured Lionel’s style; it had the same quality of yearning that infused the murals.

      “What happened to him, Loveday?” he asked, without looking up from the painting.

      “What…what do you mean?”

      Glancing up, he tapped the beach scene. “The man I remember didn’t paint this.”

      She paled, eyes huge. “What—”

      “Something must have changed him,” said Evelyn, watching her. “Oh, the technique might be his, but the rest isn’t.”

      Her expression eased very slightly. “Oh. Well, nothing, just…just Italy. Yes. Just Italy.” She finished in a rush, her face now red and her hands, those expressive hands, twisting together. “We’ve all changed, my lord.”

      “I see.” She’d never been able to hide a lie. He let it go. For now. “I’ll take these three today, deposit the money at Hoare’s with the rest, and come back tomorrow for the other paintings.”

      Her jaw dropped. “What other paintings?”

      “The other paintings I’m going to buy. I’ll look at them now.”

      Loveday watched, heart and stomach inextricably tangled, as Evelyn worked his way through the stacked paintings. Dear God in heaven—what now was she to do? He was putting so many paintings aside!

      Looking down, she discovered that her hands were twisting in her paint-smeared apron. Sweet Lord! If he noticed that! Trying to be unobtrusive, she tugged off the apron and stuffed it into a drawer.

      He was absorbed in the paintings, though, and didn’t so much as glance up. She watched, imprinting every detail on her mind, renewing and overlaying memories. He crouched, flipping through canvases, and she knew the easy strength it took to hold the position, could see in her mind’s eye the taut stretch of muscles hidden by the elegant trousers. Her trembling fingers remembered the ripple of muscle under warm skin in his broad back as he set one painting aside and reached for another. Icy fingers of fear clenched to a fist in her gut. How close was he to realising the truth?

      As if catching her thoughts, he looked up, frowning. Her mouth dried.

      “I’ll have to bring a carriage tomorrow,” he said. “What will you tell Lionel?”

      She took a shaky breath, her brain scrambling for coherent thoughts, for an honest answer.

      “When did I ever tell Lionel anything but the truth?”