‘Then maybe you should fill your home with Impressionist paintings. They’re so colourful and full of joyful life. Your children would never be scared of them.’
A blush tinged her cheeks and she hoped he was not thinking that she harboured any ambitions of them actually marrying and having children. They’d had a lovely day together, but that did not change a thing about their situation. And she would do well to remember that.
Jacob opened the carriage door and helped Miss Whitmore and her lady’s maid up the steps then took his seat on the bench across from them. He was in a strangely subdued mood, which was not entirely unpleasant. The gallery had been a revelation, and he could not get that image of the Madonna and Child out of his mind. It captured the essence of maternal love. The soft, gentle expression on the mother’s face, the baby’s complete trust had stirred up something he found impossible to explain.
It could not be a personal recollection. He hardly remembered his own mother and, from all that he had heard, she had not been blessed with maternal instincts.
Jacob could not recall another time in his life when he had spent the best part of a day in quiet contemplation. Quiet and contemplation had little place in a life that involved almost non-stop parties. But he had actually enjoyed himself, and was pleased he’d experienced this rare sense of stillness with Miss Whitmore, particularly as she was so well-informed and had such a passion for art. Not to mention that she was rather delightful company.
He smiled to himself as the carriage wove its way through the busy London streets. Perhaps he was in danger of becoming genuinely respectable, not just acting in that manner. If this continued, by the end of this engagement he might have joined the Temperance movement, sworn off women entirely and become a regular attendee at Sunday church services.
He stifled a laugh. No, not even Miss Whitmore’s influence was that powerful.
‘What’s so amusing?’ she asked.
‘Oh, nothing. I was just thinking what a surprise today has been and how much I’m looking forward to seeing more art galleries.’ It was the truth, just not entirely the truth.
‘Yes, I enjoyed myself as well. Thank you for today,’ she said and beamed a full, glorious smile at him. He’d seen her smile before, hadn’t he?—but not like this. How she looked now was worthy of being captured by a talented artist. While her frown seemed designed to keep everyone at a distance, she now radiated a warmth that made her invitingly approachable.
She definitely should smile like that more often. With her hazel eyes sparkling and her cheekbones flushed a sultry shade of rose she was transformed. Why had he not noticed before what a rather enticing young woman she was? Probably because she’d previously gone out of her way to disguise how tempting she could be, with a cool demeanour and a disapproving glare.
If she’d looked at more men the way she was looking at him now, she most definitely would never have made it to the wallflower’s corner and many other men would have seen just how desirable and alluring she was.
He looked out of the window. Apparently, the threat of genuine respectability was still a long way away.
He might have acted like a proper gentleman while in the gallery, but there was nothing gentlemanly about the way he was now thinking of Miss Whitmore. A gentleman would never wonder what those lovely red lips felt like, tasted like. A gentleman would not imagine releasing the clips holding her chestnut hair in place and watching it tumble around her shoulders—shoulders that were preferably naked. And a gentleman most certainly would never, ever contemplate what it would be like to bed Miss Whitmore.
One visit to an art gallery had certainly not changed him from the reprobate he’d always been. If anything, it had stirred up trouble and caused him to forget that Miss Whitmore was most definitely out of bounds. It mattered not how attractive her smile might be nor how tempting her lips. She was a debutante. She was untouchable. He swallowed a groan. And he must spend a year in her company, resisting temptation, acting the paragon of virtue he had never been.
It was that glorious, unfettered smile that had done it. It had brought out his baser nature, which was always just below the surface. Should he ask her to refrain from smiling and return to scowling at him, as he no doubt deserved? Perhaps the problem was that after today’s outing she was starting to think he reallywasa respectable man, one deserving of that enchanting smile. He had to make her see that she was wrong.
The man she had just seen, the man she had bestowed that smile upon, was not the man he truly was. Under normal circumstances he did not frequent art galleries. That was not the real Jacob Ashford. He was still the man whose antics regularly made it into the tabloid newspapers. He was a man she thoroughly despised. If he was to survive this courtship, he had to remind her of that.
‘Perhaps tomorrow we could visit some of the private galleries and see those Impressionist paintings I was talking about,’ she continued, excitement in her voice.
He looked over at her. Those large hazel eyes still shone, those ruby-red lips were still curved, her cheeks still bore an alluring flush. In those few seconds in which he had looked away she appeared to have grown even more striking, more enticing.
What on earth was wrong with him? He was not, and never would be, attracted to Miss Whitmore. That was why he’d proposed to her. Their mutual dislike made her perfect. They could maintain this deception without having to deal with the complication of desire creeping in where it was not wanted.
Why did she suddenly have to start radiating passion and warmth? It was all because of those damn paintings. And now she wanted to expose him to art yet again. It was time to nip this in the bud before she tested his self-control beyond its limits.
‘Yes, we should do that. But perhaps tonight you’d like to accompany me to the theatre.’
She frowned slightly as she considered his suggestion and the tension in his body uncoiled.
That would do the trick. In such an environment she would see the real Jacob Ashford. The man who spent his time carousing with actresses. The man who, as she’d pointed out, was part of the Prince of Wales’ fast set. The man who did nothing quiet nor contemplative but instead was noisy and louche and not worthy of her smiles.
‘The theatre?’ she said, her brows knitting together. ‘Well, yes, I suppose.’
That was better. As long as she did not smile at him or look at him with anything bordering on approval, he would be safe. It would be even better if she went back to berating him with her sharp tongue and making it clear she saw him as beneath contempt. Hopefully, after a visit to one of his usual haunts, her disdain for him would return and all would be put to rights.
‘Which theatre do you have in mind?’ she asked.
Well, it wouldn’t be anything morally uplifting, that was certain. A visit to the music hall, perhaps. No, that would be taking things a bit far and might fall into the area of behaviour her father deemed worthy of causing his ruination.
‘Perhaps we should take in a comedy. Something light-hearted.’
‘Oh, yes, that would be pleasant,’ she said, and that infuriatingly captivating smile reappeared.
