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Ashford's breath expelled in a rush. "Yes. We do."
"How much time?"
A conflicting pause. "Several weeks."
"And during those weeks, are we permitted to find time to be alone together?" Her smile was tentative, half-teasing and half-sober. "Or will that disrupt our discerning and our sorting?"
"What do you think?" Ashford's voice was husky. He tugged Noelle into his arms, buried his lips in hers for a long, heated kiss. "Given the fact that I can't keep my hands off you, tell me, tempête, do you think I'll make time for moments such as these?"
"M-m-m, yes." Noelle sighed, satisfaction rippling through her as she got the answer she sought. "Now that I consider it, I think I'm going to enjoy this search for enlightenment."
"Are you?" His lips curved as they continued to circle hers.
"Definitely." She slid her arms up his coat, around his neck—and frowned as the sound of her father's oncoming footsteps intruded on the intimacy of the moment.
Before Noelle could even think to react, Ashford had released her, steadying her on the settee and moving away until he'd established a healthy distance between them.
"Pen a note to Sardo," he said conversationally, as if they'd been chatting the entire time. "Just leave a few days between your first and second sessions, so I can visit Mannering and get back in time to oversee your second sitting."
"All right." As usual, it took Noelle an extra moment to compose herself. And, as usual, she marveled at Ashford's ability to switch gears with lightning speed. "Do you think André will agree to come right away?" she tried, regaining her bearings and smoothing her hair into place even as the sitting-room door opened.
"Without a doubt," her father replied sharply.
Noelle winced, turning to face him, preparing herself for a stern lecture.
To her surprise, he wasn't even looking their way but was scowling at a sheet of paper in his hands.
"Papa? What is it?"
"A note from Sardo. Obviously, he's even more eager to begin these sessions than you are. He's respectfully requesting my permission to visit Farrington Manor and commence the painting of your portrait."
"When?" Ashford demanded.
Eric glanced up, his gaze rife with paternal worry. "Today."
"Really." Anticipation emanated from Ashford's powerful frame, his expression as avid as Eric's was nervous. "Baricci must be getting anxious. Good. Let's give him something to be anxious about."
* * *
Chapter 10
« ^ »
"Noelle. Thank you for making time for me." André—all magnetism and charm—strolled into the sitting room and kissed her hand; a kiss that lingered an instant or two longer than was proper. "As I explained to your father, I spent the morning sketching Lulworth Cove—which is breathtaking even during the winter months. Afterwards, I stopped at a small tavern in Poole f
or a cup of tea. That's when it occurred to me how close to Farrington Manor I was. I know I was supposed to await your summons, but I couldn't return to London without making an attempt to see you—not when I was within miles of your home. I hope you don't mind."
"Of course not," Noelle assured him. "Actually I was planning to send you a note this very day. I'm as eager as you to begin the painting of my portrait."
"Now that, I doubt." André stepped back, clutching both her hands in his, his deep-set eyes assessing her with ardent approval. "You're even more beautiful than I remembered. I've envisioned capturing you on canvas since the instant we met—and now that you've returned from that party you insisted on attending, I can hardly wait to get started."
"Wonderful." Noelle appraised André's melting good looks with a far more discerning eye than she had the first time he'd been here. Back then, she'd assumed he was blissfully ignorant of Baricci's ulterior motive, that his assignment was simply to accept the commission and paint her portrait. But now, considering the possibility that André might not be an unknowing pawn but an envoy sent to extract information from her … well, that prospect succeeded in reducing his overt sensuality to dust.
His dress was informal, she noted: dark trousers and an open shirt with rolled-up sleeves; clearly the attire of an artist. He was casual and loose of limb—although, beneath his disarming veneer, she sensed a fine tension that hadn't been there before.
This game of cat and mouse was going to be most enjoyable, Noelle concluded silently. Even better than a rousing game of piquet.
And just as easily won.
