Regency Surrender: Passion And Rebellion. Louise Allen

my thumbs.’

      * * *

      Since Sophie had been so determined to go and look at the animals, Fenella had put up very little resistance to her scheme. And not two hours after they’d departed for the Jardin des Plantes, where the menagerie was to be found, she was walking through the maze of statues on the ground floor, then mounting the stairs which led to the gallery where she’d agreed to meet Nathan.

      She gripped her parasol tightly. There were so many other people here, studying the paintings. How was she going to find Nathan amongst them all? And did she really want to? What was she going to say to him?

      She hadn’t thought this through. Her pulse jumping to her throat, she turned blindly toward the nearest painting, which happened to be Titian’s San Pietro Martire.

      ‘He looks as though he’s taken great pride in the kill, I always think,’ said Harcourt, who’d somehow found her in the crowd and managed to approach her without her noticing.

      She didn’t turn round. She didn’t think she could look him in the face without blushing. She’d spent far too many hours, since she’d last seen him, reliving the sensations he’d aroused by kissing her. And then, because he’d made it plain he wanted so much more than kissing, imagining what the rest of it might be like as well. It had left her heated, shaky sometimes, and at other times with a delightful sense in all her limbs as though she was floating a few inches above the muddy streets of Paris, in a kind of hazy-pink romantic cloud.

      Which was ridiculous. There was nothing the least bit romantic about what he wanted from her.

      Nevertheless, she couldn’t help feeling...feminine—that was the only way to describe it—in a way she hadn’t since she’d been a hopeful débutante, dreaming of veils and orange blossom.

      She was feeling decidedly feminine now, at the rush of his breath against her cheek when he’d leaned close to murmur into her ear. He was standing so close that she could feel the heat of his body along her back and smell the aroma of smoke emanating from his clothing, as though he’d recently been standing near a bonfire.

      In an attempt to shake off the spell, she resorted to a challenge.

      ‘Is that any way to greet me?’

      ‘No, I suppose not. It’s just that you seemed to be studying it so intently. And as I’ve already told you, I spend a lot of time here, admiring the works of true masters. I cannot help but admire beauty when I see it. Which is why I am drawn to you, every time I see you about the city with your companions, in spite of knowing better.’ Just as she was drawn to him, too, in spite of knowing better.

      ‘Perhaps I should not have come...’

      Only, he’d reached another Amy, one she tried the hardest not to let anyone see. The Amy who’d lain in bed, night after lonely night, wishing someone, anyone, would come and put their arms round her and tell her she wasn’t a disappointment. Not to them.

      That Amy couldn’t resist getting as close to Nathan as she could. To feel the warmth of his body all along her back. The whisper of his breath on the nape of her neck as he murmured into her ear, ‘I am glad you did.’

      They stood quite still for a few moments, pretending to gaze at the painting, whilst really enjoying the feeling of being so close. At least, that was what she was doing. And if he wasn’t, then surely he would move away, instead of standing there, breathing in such a way that her insides were turning liquid with longing?

      ‘You...you spend a lot of time here, you said.’

      ‘I am an artist,’ he said abruptly. Was he annoyed she’d deliberately broken the sensual mood that had been shimmering between them? ‘Of course I want to study the works of the greats, and see how they managed to produce works like this, when all I...’ He paused. ‘I have little talent, not compared with men like these. It can be frustrating.’

      ‘Then why continue?’

      ‘Because being an artist is not something you choose. It is something you are. I cannot simply admire a view without wondering how I could capture something of its grandeur on canvas. Any more than I can look at an interesting face and not itch to sketch it. And as for your hair...’

      ‘My hair?’ At that she did turn her head to look up at him over her shoulder. He was staring at the few curls that inevitably escaped her bonnet with a kind of fascination.

      ‘I have never seen another woman, anywhere, with hair quite the same shade. It defies analysis. Fielding always used to say it was just brunette,’ he scoffed. ‘He never glimpsed the rich ruby lights that shone from its depths when you passed under a branch of candles...’

      When she gasped, he looked straight into her eyes. They were standing so close that it felt as though they were breathing the same air. He would only have to bend his head, just a fraction, and they would be kissing.

      As though the same thought had just occurred to him, his gaze dropped to her lips. For a heartbeat or two they just stood there, looking at each other’s mouths and breathing. Heavily.

      ‘If you are really too afraid to risk losing the protection of that Frenchman,’ he said harshly, ‘then do you think he might give me permission to paint you? Just head and shoulders. I can’t sleep for thinking about your hair. And if I could get you up to my studio, then perhaps—’

      ‘Monsieur Le Brun is not my protector,’ she said, cutting him off. He might say he only wanted to paint her, but she knew what he really wanted was so much more than that.

      And she wanted it too.

      Great heavens, she wanted it too. It was wrong. Perhaps even wicked. But it was far too late in her life to dream of romance and wedding bells. And here stood a man who was burning with desire for her. Genuine desire. It must be, for he had no idea how wealthy she was. He even thought she might be in the keeping of some other man. But it hadn’t stopped him...lusting after her. To some women it might not seem like very much, but whatever it was that flared between them was real.

      ‘If you want to paint my portrait, you have only to ask me.’

      Harcourt’s eyes blazed with an intensity that made her heart skip a beat.

      ‘You will have to come to my studio,’ he said.

      ‘Yes, of course.’

      ‘You know where it is?’

      ‘Yes.’ She flushed. Since the day he’d scribbled the address on the back of that sketch, she’d found out exactly where he lived, by pretending an interest in the layout of the streets through which they walked or drove. She’d even managed to drive past the hôtel where he had his lodgings and tried to guess behind which of the many windows his rooms lay.

      ‘Can you come alone?’

      Her heart thudded against her chest. She knew it. He wasn’t asking her if he could paint her portrait at all, but whether she was willing to become his lover. A thrill of wicked excitement shot through her. Could she really do it? Take a lover?

      It would mean an end to any hope of securing the trade agreements she’d ostensibly come to Paris for, if anyone found out.

      And as for Fenella—she would be scandalised.

      ‘You will have to paint my portrait, if I do,’ she said. So long as he produced some kind of painting by the time they returned to England, she might be able to convince Fenella that nothing untoward had gone on.

      And she wanted him so much. Not in the same way she’d wanted him as a girl. It hadn’t been marriage she’d been dreaming of as she lay in her lonely, empty bed.

      ‘I could come alone...’

      He gripped her hand, though they were in full view of dozens of other tourists and might easily be noticed.

      Yet she made no attempt to withdraw her hand, for she was held by the gleam of satisfaction that shone from his eyes.

      ‘Tonight?’