Well, perchance that was because Rothwell epitomised six foot of fine-looking, dominant male, and although she concurred with the scandal sheets that he could be brusque, his quick words and stirred eyes could never be considered dispassionate.
All Evelyn could do was brazen it out, and so she twisted her head.
Then wished she had not.
Their cheeks grazed. He stood improperly near. So improperly near she could count his eyelashes and even they were tipped in gold. A scent of clove assailed her senses, warmed by a man’s skin – rich and exotic.
Oh, mercy, she was in so much trouble.
She swallowed. “I do not lie.”
Much.
“I hope not, Mrs Swift,” he drawled, heated air wafting her cheek. “For lies are caught quicker than a lame dog, and to deceive in this instance would incur punishment such as you have never imagined. Honesty…” He paused and touched a lone finger to a curl. “…is precious to me.”
Gulping, Evelyn wondered if a tactical retreat might be in order, to disappear and never return. But equally a little voice piped up that her choice had been made, that at least he no longer wore an expression of blandness, for his eyes had fixated on her lips with a predatory gleam, awaiting her next words.
This exchange had roused him. And of course, she herself could not deny a certain anticipation.
“She wears a crimson dress with a thin black ribbon about her neck.”
His gaze sharpened. “Anyone could know that from the first painting.”
“How? ’Twas never exhibited. Rejected before the first catalogue had been sold.”
“But as you say, your husband… What was his name? Ah, yes…Reuben. Reuben must have seen it, described it. What do you require, I wonder? A deposit to guarantee me first refusal? And then you vanish into the night. I think not.”
Evelyn herself could think of only two things to say. “It’s daytime.” But more to the point… “And do you not wish to know the colour of her eyes?”
The evening-blue of the duke’s own fell to midnight, white teeth bared to a snarl, and she near shrieked in fright as hands grasped her shoulders and spun her to face away. His fingers singed, breath whispering at her nape.
“Perhaps what I have is enough.”
Evelyn gasped.
So long had it been since she’d viewed this young girl, and memories both pleasant and sorrowful beset her: she’d hated that dress but wanted to please Father; her mother’s upset at the subject matter; the anomalous pose; the dark-brown hair which didn’t belong; the scar on her shoulder from falling from an apple tree; the exquisiteness of the execution… Bold brushstrokes, vivid colour and the lifelike rendering of silk.
“It’s beautiful,” she declared softly.
His clasp loosened; his fire remained. “Now tell me you have its twin.”
No hesitation gripped her. “I have its twin.” Because she did – painted from Father’s detailed sketch and with his legacy guiding her, solely the face amended. And now the die was cast, she’d also come up with a plan…
Drawing away, she spun to confront him. “I will host a showing, Your Grace, where you can view this work in person. Expect my card within the next few days.” Which should allow the supposed quick-drying umber of the signature to…dry, and to hustle up a few more connoisseurs in competition – less astute ones that Flora knew.
“If this is a trap…”
“Bring a retinue of footmen, if it pleases you.”
“Many things please me, Mrs Swift.” Evelyn bit her lip. “But if you are lying to me…”
She disliked unfinished threats – they lingered and taunted when it could be nothing worse than cold cabbage for supper.
“I can promise you that Sir Henry Pearce spent many hours withThe Fall of Innocence Unveiled.”
“Then you will please me greatly, Mrs Swift.”
Unsure if that was a question or statement of intent, she lowered her lashes. Either took her breath away.
