Casper ought to request Copperhouse escort both that uncouth maid and her unsettling mistress from his abode this instant.
But…
An aspect about her stilled his tongue.
Mayhap ’twas the art connoisseur within him, for hair the colour of a Titian Madonna framed a face created for portraiture, full of defiant character and impudent sauce as she returned his fierce stare, lips twitching.
Scarce dusky freckles dotted skin that only a redhead wore – translucent porcelain, but a few shadows marred her eyes, speaking of some hardship.
Certain men were drawn to delicate angels and winsome fair nymphs but as in art, Casper had forever been enchanted by rich colour, bold curves and feminine ripeness.
She traced the moulded edge of his desk, green eyes flicking up, lighter than her dress, which he noted had also been patched at shoulder and hem, and not that he kept abreast of current female fashions but this mode also appeared…outmoded.
A jaunty hat nestled upon her curls and one long flaming ringlet trailed her throat to rest upon an impressive bosom. Lustrous fire on green velvet. A perfect palette, and he wondered if she were an artist’s model. It would account for the mended material she wore, as they frequently leg-shackled themselves to some equally starving artist.
And then of course she had a backside to rival that of the Venus hanging at Rokeby Park, a painting of some five hundred pounds.
But why had she not sat? He’d be damned if he’d repeat himself. Persons should obey a duke’s first word.
She picked up the miniature of his mother, a woman he’d seen less of than the cook, but which he kept for the artistry. Yet even his brother knew not to touch items on his desk.
A duke’s desk was sacrosanct, separating worlds, the richness of its ebonised flame mahogany imbuing awe and deference.
“An Engleheart, if I’m not mistaken,” she commented, plonking it back down as though to an ale counter.
“Correct.”
And what the devil was the etiquette if a lady refused to sit?
Should he stand again? After all, a nobleman could murder his own servants and remain untouched by the law but sit whilst a lady remained standing and he’d be carted away to the Tower. But if he now stood, he’d look ridiculous – like an automaton. No, he’d remain seated and embellish his haughty reputation.
“I know my art, Your Grace.” Mossy eyes coyly glanced up as she now proceeded toleanagainst his desk. An absolute outrage but he refused to acknowledge it. “And,” she continued, sliding her hand along the leather inlay, an act that made him feel quite peculiar, “I have a painting which I believe you…desire.” She licked rosy lips but he ignored the gesture and briefly sifted his memory for any outstanding art, but currently that which he didn’t own, he did not…desire.
“I must correct you, Mrs Swift. For I have all I need.”
“Is that so? I hear you purchased a Sir Henry Pearce work last year.” She batted those red-tipped lashes. “And paid quite a sum of ginge– price for it.”
Casper’s eyes slid to the left, to the painting which had been hidden behind the door before Copperhouse had narrowed it to ajar. Mrs Swift’s knowledge could hardly be refuted as he had indeed paid the previous owner approaching one hundred pounds. He refocused and noticed her gazing at his cravat and the diamond that resided therein.
What emotion shone in those eyes? Greed? Probably so. “I pay what they are worth, Mrs Swift.”
The green of irritation now shone forth, and she folded her arms, lips thinning to a single brushstroke; shame, he’d been appreciating their lushness.
“Sir Henry Pearce himself received a mere twelve pounds for that painting.”
Ah. So, she had known the artist.
Mrs Swift was clearly not of the upper classes despite her faultless Ton elocution – not arduous to mimic –– as her clothes were too worn, manner too bold and her maid too insolent. Had she been a model? A mistress? Or both. She appeared too young but artists were randy buggers.
“He did not approach me with it.” Casper wished otherwise, but he’d not been a renowned patron in those days. The thought of collecting art had merely been a pleasant notion as he’d struggled to replenish the Rothwell coffers emptied during his father’s ruinous reign as duke.
She swayed improperly close and the scent of soap wafted. Not rose or lavender or one of the more nonsensical aromas which pervaded the ballrooms lately. Just soap. Clean and for some reason quite arousing.
With a dismissive tut, Mrs Swift shifted to tilt her head in profile and an impression of knowing overcame him, a sensation that frustrated. So as she stared boldly once more, Casper studied her features.
No, he’d never encountered those cat’s eyes or thin cheeks previously, but…
“Am I acquainted with your husband, Mrs Swift?”
