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“If you remember correctly, we don’t exactly like each other.”
“I suppose you are right. However, we have been perfectly civil the past few minutes,” she retorted.
“Yes,” he said with a quick smile. “We have been civil all of fifteen minutes. I could be polite even to my fath—my worst enemy for a quarter of an hour. There is also the fact that your sister and my brother would prefer to keep us apart.”
“True, but that is only due to your reputation with women.”
“Precisely why you should not sketch me.”
“I do believe I could capture your true essence.”
He shook his head. “My essence doesn’t need capturing, angel.”
“What else are we to do for the next few days?” She had no idea why this felt so important to her. “Have you have had your portrait done?”
“No, nor do I intend to as there is no need for any permanent record of me. I should leave now.” He slowly rose and looked down at her.
“Why would you think no one would want to know about you after you are gone?” she asked softly. “Your grandchildren and their children might wish to learn your history.”
“Since I doubt that I shall marry and have children, it is of no consequence.” He turned to walk away.
“Do you think they are finished quarreling yet?”
He looked back at her and chuckled. “Louisa and Harry?”
Emma nodded.
“If I had to wager, they are well on their way to giving us another niece or nephew.”
She scowled at him. “Don’t be vulgar.”
“I thought you wanted to be vulgar.”
“What would give you such an idea?”
Something in his features changed. The easy laugh and smile were gone, replaced by a stare unlike any he’d given he before, hot, and wholly wicked. Emma shivered with unease and something more she didn’t want to think of at this moment. Perhaps she shouldn’t draw him, at least not with him in the room.
He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small reticule, which he dropped in her hand. He turned back to her and then squatted down near her ear and whispered, “If I ever do kiss you, you won’t be drunk or dressed like a boy. And you will remember every moment of it.”
She could only stare as he strolled away from her. Her heart pounded as if she’d run up a flight of stairs. Why would he have reacted so strangely to her comment about being vulgar? It was if he’d remembered something she should have recalled. The carriage ride from Hell? Had she said something then? The fact that she still couldn’t recollect everything that happened that night bothered her terribly. She must never drink so much again.
After the door to the conservatory closed behind him, she remembered the bag in her hand. She opened it to find thirty-two sovereigns. Once she returned to town, she would hire an art teacher and learn to paint in oils.
Chapter 9
Emma retired to her room soon after her encounter with Mr. Kingsley in the conservatory. She wanted to sketch his face while it was still fresh in her mind. He was a most unique subject. His face square...her pencil grazed over the paper, soft near his hairline and thicker across the line of his strong jaw. As she outlined his nose, she smiled. There was a slight angle to it as if someone had broken it at some point. She doubted he would admit it was slightly askew.
She took her time with his eyes. While she would never be able to capture their essence without paint, she drew the large almond shape and then stopped. How would she ever be able to depict the hardness of them when he stared at her. Or the way they crinkled when he laughed at George. It was an impossible task. One she wasn’t sure she could manage.
Never one to give up, she soldiered on. She flicked her pencil against the paper to create the slash of black eyebrows and sooty lashes. Her smile faded as the image of him came to life. Somehow, she had caught the intensity of his stare.
Her pencil hovered about the paper in uncertainty as she thought about his lips. There was something about his mouth. His lips had a sensual quality that made her hands tremble. While his lips were slightly fuller, they managed to look perfect for his face. No, she thought as her pencil moved across the paper, his mouth would look awkward and out of balance, if any smaller.
She wished she could sketch him smiling. The few times she’d seen him grin, it was a wondrous sight. Long dimples creased his cheeks, and his even white teeth gleamed. But it was his unsmiling stare with which she was most familiar.
For a man of his ilk, she was surprised that there were no scars on his face.
A scratch at the door startled her. “Yes?”
