Page 30 of Wicked By Design

Hawkney glanced at Marcus and shrugged. “I don’t think so. She’s rather a self-possessed young woman, from what I’ve seen of her. Rather unconventional.”

Marcus’ lip curled. “Oh, God, Hawk. I’ve changed my mind. You never said—”

“Don’t be ridiculous. We’re almost there. What did you expect an artist to be like, anyway?” Hawkney demanded impatiently.

“Very well, but if she spouts poetry or talks about spiritualism, I’m leaving.”

“Fair,” Hawkney agreed.

Finally, the house came into sight. A tall, narrow villa perched on the hillside and secluded amongst mature trees, it was blessed with stunning views out across the sea. Though modest compared to the great houses of the district, it was elegant and possessed an undeniable charm. Roses and vines clambered up its pale honey-coloured façade, the edges of which had been softened by age and exposure to the harsh coastal winds. The steep slate roof and twin chimneys gave it an air of solidity, however, as if it remained certain of its place and knew no storm could dislodge it.

“Charming,” Marcus observed.

Hawkney nodded and dismounted, leading his horse around the back of the house. Though there were stables, they were obviously unused, so Hawkney drew water from the well and filled the trough for their mounts before they made their way to the front door.

The knock echoed, and Marcus sent him a hopeful glance. “Perhaps there’s nobody—”

His words were cut off as the door opened and a woman appeared.

Hawkney took off his hat and smiled. Miss Eustacia Foxworthy was a stunning woman with startling blue eyes, a wide, mobile mouth, and a lush figure. She also possessed an extraordinary amount of curling mahogany hair, which was currently rioting, barely tamed around her head. Wearing a deep green silk morning gown, trimmed with black lace that highlighted every lavish curve, she presented a startling picture. Hawkney slanted a look at his companion to see Marcus wearing a barely concealed expression of shock.

Well, he had warned the fellow she was a tad unconventional.

Miss Foxworthy looked from Hawkney to his companion and back again.

“Are you planning to burn me at the stake?” she asked conversationally.

Hawkney, never normally at a loss, still took a moment to catch on. He laughed. “I beg your pardon. No, I apologise if we present a rather sombre picture. It is not precisely a social call, but there will be no burning, I assure you. It is more serendipity, in fact, for my friend here, Lieutenant Colonel Hamilton, has been asked to have his portrait painted by the Duke of Wellington. Miss Halfpenny told me about the wonderful portrait you have produced of her… and so, here we are.”

Miss Foxworthy folded her arms, looking increasingly doubtful. “The Duke of Wellington?”

Marcus, who had been ominously silent until now, chose this moment to wake up. “Yes, you may have heard of him. Fellow with a big nose and a big hat.”

Hawkney would have sent his friend one of his most withering stares, only Marcus was not looking in his direction and, as it happened, Miss Foxworthy did a fine line in withering stares herself.

“You don’t say,” she replied, green eyes flashing.

Hawkney cleared his throat, seeing his chance to view the portrait slipping through his fingers. “Yes. It’s for a series of portraits entitled Heroes of Waterloo.”

He could feel Marcus’ irritation bubble up around him, but he kept his attention on Miss Foxworthy, whose expression had softened a degree.

“I see,” she said. “Well, surely Thomas Lawrence or Raeburn—”

“Marcus does not wish for a society portrait painter.”

“I have a tongue,” Marcus muttered, scowling at him.

“Yes, but so far you’ve only stuck it out,” Hawkney replied, sotto voce.

Marcus snorted but apparently conceded the point.

“You want something different?” Miss Foxworthy guessed, addressing the question to Marcus.

He met her eyes and Hawkney sensed his discomfort, the temptation to give a cutting reply battling the desire to tell her what he needed. There was a tense silence.

“I’m not a bloody hero. I’m just a soldier who did his duty. I don’t want some rose-tinted version of me,” he said gruffly.

“Just as well. I don’t do rose-tinted,” Miss Foxworthy replied, swinging the door open. “You’d better come in.”