Rescued From Ruin. Georgie Lee

in a low voice. She strained to hear, but the laughter of two men on the street muffled the words. Then, Sir Thomas rose from his stool.

      ‘If his lordship and the lady will excuse me, I need another pencil. I shall return in a moment.’

      ‘Don’t hurry on our account,’ Randall called after him.

      ‘You asked him to leave, didn’t you?’ Cecelia accused, wary of being left alone with him.

      ‘You really think I’d stoop so low?’ He came closer to the dais, moving with the grace of a water snake through a lake in Virginia.

      She struggled to remain seated, eager to place the distance of the room between them as he rested one elbow on the half-Corinthian column beside her. ‘Based on the gossip I hear attached to your name, it seems you’re fond of ruining people.’

      He dropped his chin on his palm, bringing his arrogant smirk so close, all she needed to do was lean in to feel his mouth against hers. ‘You think a moment alone with me will ruin you?’

      She glanced at his lips, wondering if they were as firm as she remembered. ‘It’s possible.’

      ‘I shouldn’t worry.’ His breath brushed her exposed shoulders and slid down the space between her breasts. ‘Sir Thomas is a very discreet man.’

      Neither of them moved to close the distance, but she felt him waiting, expecting her to weaken under the strength of his charm and throw herself at him like Lady Weatherly and heaven knew how many others. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of meeting his expectation.

      ‘You, however, enjoy boasting of your conquests.’ She leaned away and Randall jerked up straight.

      ‘You’re truly mad at me?’

      ‘Why shouldn’t I be?’

      ‘Why should you be?’

      ‘Because you ruined Lord Westbrook.’

      ‘Lord Westbrook?’ He had the audacity to look surprised before a scowl replaced the suggestive smile of only a moment before. ‘What interest do you have in him?’

      ‘None, but I can sympathise with his plight, something you’re obviously incapable of doing.’

      ‘How can a rich widow sympathise?’

      Cecelia looked down, pulling the cloak closer around her shoulders. Her situation was already precarious. She needn’t arouse suspicion by showing so much emotion. ‘Whether I can sympathise or not doesn’t matter. What you did to him is still wrong.’

      ‘Is it?’ Randall paced the studio, swinging his walking stick in time with his steps. ‘Lord Westbrook is a man with responsibilities and capable of deciding whether or not to risk his future at the gaming table. You should be happy it was I who played him. Others wouldn’t have been so kind.’

      ‘You believe ruining him is kind?’

      He halted, jabbing his stick into the floor. ‘I haven’t ridden to his estate and turned him out as I assure you is quite common. Nor have I forced him to the moneylenders and outrageous terms.’

      ‘Yes, he’s very fortunate indeed. It’s a wonder people don’t speak more favourably of you when you’re obviously such a generous gentleman.’

      A muscle in his jaw twitched and shame flashed through his eyes before he looked away. For a moment she felt sorry for him. She’d seen this expression once before, ten years ago, when they’d stood together under the large ash tree at Falconbridge Manor, the shadows shifting over his father’s plain headstone. Like then, the look didn’t last, but fled from his eyes as fast as he’d fled back up the lawn, hard arrogance stiffening his jaw.

      Footsteps sounded in the hall outside the studio.

      ‘Sir Thomas is returning,’ Randall announced, moving to examine a large landscape near the window, his back to her as Sir Thomas’s footsteps grew louder. He stood still except for his fingers. They toyed with the walking-stick handle, betraying a certain agitation, as if her words had struck a chord. Did he feel some guilt over what he’d done to Lord Westbrook? No, surely it was only the shock of being dressed down by a lady, something she was sure he rarely experienced.

      ‘Are you ready to continue?’ Sir Thomas asked, taking his place behind the easel.

      ‘Yes, please.’ Cecelia resumed her pose just as the curtain flew open and Madame de Badeau swept into the room.

      ‘You won’t believe what Lady Thornton just told me. Lord Falconbridge, you’ll think it sinfully good when you hear it.’

      ‘I’m sure, but for the moment, you’ll have to entertain Mrs Thompson with the story. I have business to attend to.’ He snapped his walking stick up under his arm and made for the door.

      ‘What a bore you are,’ Madame de Badeau chided, then turned to Cecelia. ‘My dear, wait until you hear what’s happened to Lord Byron.’

      * * *

      Randall barely heard two words of Madame de Badeau’s gossip as he stormed from the room, catching Cecelia’s reflection in the mirror near the door, disapproval hard in her eyes before she looked away.

      He passed through the dark shop and out into the sunlit street beyond, tapping his walking stick in time with his steps.

      He hadn’t expected to meet her in the studio today, especially not in a silky robe wrapped tight around her narrow waist, exposing the curve of her hips and breasts and making him forget all business with the painter. Once together, he hadn’t been able to resist tempting her with a few words, or trying to draw out the alluring woman who’d met his daring innuendoes at Lady Weatherly’s. Who knew his efforts would be rewarded with a reprimand?

      Randall sidestepped two men arguing on the pavement, a crate of foul-smelling vegetables smashed on the ground between them.

      Who was she to chastise him? What did she know of London habits? Nothing. She’d spent the past ten years among provincials, cavorting with heathens and who-knew-what society. Now she seemed to think it her duty to shame him the way his father used to.

      He slammed his walking stick against the ground, the vibration shooting up his arm.

      Why didn’t she stay in America?

      Instead she’d returned to London, dredging up old memories like some mudlark digging for scraps along the Thames, determined to berate him like some nursemaid. She was mistaken if she thought she could scold him with a look, or if her chiding words meant anything to him. He wasn’t about to change because of her or anyone else’s disapproval.

      He swatted a tomato with his walking stick, sending it rolling into the gutter, trying to ignore the other, more dangerous feeling dogging his anger. He’d caught it at the salon the other night and again today when he’d complimented her and for a brief moment she’d almost believed him. It was the faint echo of the affection they’d once enjoyed. Whatever she thought of his behaviour, somewhere deep beneath it, she felt the old connection, too.

      He turned a corner into a square of fine houses, trying to concentrate on the bright sun bouncing off the stone buildings and the steady clop of horses in the street, but his thoughts remained stubbornly fixed on Cecelia.

      His anger changed to interest as he walked, twirling his stick. He’d ached to trace the line of her shoulders with his fingers, push back the tumble of brown hair sweeping her neck and draw her red lips to his. Even angry she was beautiful and he wanted her, more than he’d ever wanted any woman before.

      His pace slowed and he trailed his walking stick along the wrought-iron fences surrounding the houses, the quick clicks echoing off the buildings.

      What weakness kept bringing him back to Cecelia? He’d enjoyed and left a number of women over the years without regret. Why couldn’t he forget her?

      Because at one time, he’d loved her.

      He stopped,