“And this…” She clutched the pad close to her chest. “I’m keeping this.”
That he couldn’t allow. He reached for the pad, and his hand landed on her forearm, jolting him more. He peeled back her sleeve and saw the dagger, its grip cheap and worn in a tattered sheath.
In the quiet, the only noise was her shallow quick breathing and the pounding of his heart.
Shame washed through him. Damn Shaldon. Damn the villain he was pursuing for Shaldon, Gregory Carvelle. Damn Bonaparte and the Georges and all the others who drove the world into madness. He should not be here, in this house, with the girl he’d shamefully lusted after, the girl he’d frightened so much she’d come to him armed.
Her tension flooded into him. He held on to her for long moments until he could finally speak calmly.
“I won’t hurt you, Lady Perpetua, but this is wild country and it’s good that you’re armed. I have a better blade in my trunk. I’ll dig it out and give it to you tomorrow. Did you bring pistols also?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know how to use them? No, wait, of course you do. Just please don’t use them on me. I won’t hurt you. I’m here with your father’s permission, doing some sketching and painting.” He dropped her arm and took a step back. “When you need a footman or groom, I can fill that role. Otherwise, I’ll stay out of your way.”
She brushed past him, leaving her scent, a floral mixed with a fear that shamed him. When the door clicked shut, he gripped the glass, tossed back the liquor, and stalked the few feet to the easel, throwing back the drape of the canvas.
Upon his arrival, he’d started the painting in a frenzy of work. It was incomplete, yet no one could mistake the model. She stood tall and defiant, her hair cascading over strong shoulders and delicate breasts, her nude body draped with the sheerest of veils.
This would have frightened her more. The shape of her breasts and her hips, he’d imagined, watching her move through the crowd at her brother’s ball, watching her dance. Women’s dresses now were not as blissfully revealing as they’d been a decade ago, but he’d seen enough women to guess at her nude shape.
He should destroy this. On the other hand, if she saw it, if he could cajole her past her fear…
Posing for an artist unleashed some women’s inhibitions. But he wouldn’t use Perry that way.
A movement outside caught his eye. He extinguished the lamp and stood to the side of the window, straining to see. A shadow moved through the fog below.
A figure steered his horse silently, slowly, stealthily up the drive. Any clomps of the horse were swallowed by the relentless beating of the surf on the rocks below.
Fox pulled on his coats, sheathed his knife, and quickly loaded a pistol, his thoughts going to Perry. In all good conscience, he had to convince the girl to leave. She couldn’t stay here.
