Mercy halted by the brocade settee that was, like every other piece in the flat, covered in spatters of paint or flecks of dried clay. Her companion and closest friend, Abigail Clark, sat in pristine calm, knitting a woolen cap, the ever-present teacup by her side. “Like a deranged woman, I invited him here, Abby. Exposing myself when no one but Flory knows. And he and I keep each other’s secrets without fear.”
Abigail clicked her tongue against her teeth, a practice that meant advice was arriving in the form of a gentle rebuke. “Are you perturbed because he solved your little riddle or because it appears he’s set to ignore your invitation to find out the whys of the matter?”
Mercy flounced to the settee, a satin gown she’d normally never wear while working settling like mist around her. Usually she was as paint-spattered as her furniture, occasionally, scandalously, clothed in a pilfered pair of her brother’s trousers. She drew a fast catch of air that tasted of linseed oil and turpentine, a stinging reminder of her folly. “I don’t know why someone I haven’t seen in ages has the power to perplex me when no other person has, even the man I’m supposed to marry.” Sighing, she tipped her head to stare at a crack in the ceiling she should let the building’s owner know about. But then he’d see the condition of the place and be quite vexed.
“So, you’ve decided to accept Prickly Percival’s proposal when it arrives?” Abby asked, her knitting needles clicking. Her companion of seven years didn’t like her almost-intended any more than she liked steak and kidney pie.
“I have no choice,” Mercy whispered, a fact they both knew was true. Women in their world were presented with few options and less time.
And hers had run out.
“At least you have your life, a life,” Abby returned, “even if you’ve had to lie to get it.”
“Why did he keep the sketch all this time?” Her cheeks heated at the remembrance of his long, slim fingers delving into his pocket to retrieve it. He had the hands of a pianist. Or a sculptor. Her heart had dropped to her knees when she realized what he held. Then he’d spoken of her silly childhood endeavor giving him courage. She’d never thought to hear the like.
Abby’s needles ceased clicking. “That is a telling statement, I’m simply not sure what it tells. My experience with men isn’t sizable, as you know. Odd ducks, most of them. Or drunken ducks. Or deceitful ducks. There aren’t many swans.”
Mercy pried a tiny paintbrush used for detailing from behind the settee cushion and twirled it between her fingers. Damien’s expression when he’d shown her the sketch, the sheen of vulnerability in his eyes, had taken hold of her breath and snatched it right from her lungs. His gaze had been golden brown, like pine straw wrapped in sunlight, she’d love to tell that greedy Lady Baumbach.
And the scar on his upper lip was still there, a pale twist she’d wanted to trace with her finger. Or her tongue.
The urge, the dire need, to kiss him on Lord Dalton’s veranda had been so overwhelming that Mercy had made a goose of herself and invited him here.
To the one place she was allowed to be Mercy Ainsworth, artist.
His rejection not only stung, it ached.
She rarely welcomed anyone into her world.
The knock on the door sent the women occupying the compact space into startled motion.
“Oh, my,” Abby breathed, and for some strange reason, shoved her knitting beneath a pillow.
“He showed,” Mercy whispered and leaped to her feet. Her gown was wrinkled but not horribly dotted with paint. She’d bathed this morning and used her best lavender soap. Her hair… She patted the misshapen knot hanging low on her neck, sensing it wasn’t the best display for her most talked-about feature.
Men loved the audacious color, while women loathed it.
“This is who you are, my dear. Don’t forget the beauty of knowing this.”
Mercy glanced at her companion, fondness flooding her chest. Giving Abby’s hand a squeeze on the way across the room, she smoothed her bodice one last time, whispered this is who I am, and opened the door.
Damien was lounging in the weak shaft of light streaming in the casement above his head. He was clutching a pocket watch, a charming pleat marring the space between his brows. Per his standard style, he looked tidy, self-possessed, and vaguely restless. She didn’t miss the tap of his boot or the inky hair in disarray, as if he’d repeatedly tunneled his fingers through the overlong strands. When he looked up, her heart tumbled like a child careening down a polished banister. He wasn’t wearing his spectacles and his eyes were a deep hazel, a gilded green penetrated by flecks of gold. His lashes were long and dark, curling slightly at the edges.
No artist could witness such a sight and not long to capture it.
Oh, Lady B, if you only knew.
Damien gestured with the timepiece. “I’m late. I apologize, profusely. Knox took the barouche to visit the widow he’s wooing, leaving me with the phaeton. When he knows I hate riding in that death rig ever since Cort overturned it last year, racing down St James when I’d told him the roads were too slick for such nonsense. The shoulder dislocation still pains me when it rains. Then, a gust took hold of my hat somewhere on Cleveland Street and—”
“Please, don’t.” Seizing the opportunity, she grasped his forearm, and tugged him into the flat. The muscles beneath her hold were surprisingly firm, no need for his tailor to reinforce with padding. She released him slower than she should have, marveling at the spark of heat lighting the air around them. “I didn’t realize what time it was. Actually, I’d almost forgotten I asked you to come. I was carried away with my latest project.”
He halted in the doorway, his gaze narrowing, his scowl causing a shallow dimple at the corner of his mouth to ping to life. The scar above his lip twitched in impatience. “Truly?”
She giggled, the sound stunning her. She clapped her hand over her mouth too late to contain it. Lady Mercy Ainsworth did not giggle. “No, not truly. Of course, I remembered. I was teasing.”
Satisfied, he hummed modest acceptance, wrestled out of his overcoat, and hung it on the peg by the door. He was a fascinating study of sedate blacks, his cream cravat the only hint of color. He dressed to suit his razor-sharp mind, nothing trivial about either.
Abby had retired to the small chamber off the main room to give them privacy no unwed couple required. However, her companion had left tea and a plate of lemon scones as a token reminder of decorum. As Damien moved past, overriding the scent of citrus and turpentine, the dewy aroma of leather and man tickled her senses.
