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It was no surprise she sensed there was something. It was a profound relief she had guessed wrong. Let her think it was lust that made him keep his distance. Let her think anything, so long as she never learned the truth.
He tugged his hand. She let him go. He strode to the dartboard, started to tear out the darts, tried to get his body back under control.
“When did it start, Leo? How long since you first wanted me?”
“Approximately ten years, I’d say.”
He was losing control, now he had freed the jealousy and desire to rampage through him. He needed to deal with this desire. Take control of it. Master it before it mastered him.
Suddenly, the solution appeared in his mind, all at once, the steps as clear as the outline of an embroidery design before the first silken stitch is sewn.
Only one course of action would end his entanglement with Juno. Only one course would put an end to this desire, once and for all.
First, though, he must solve her problem with the drawings. Their previous attempts at planning were a distraction. They did not need to smuggle Juno into Lord Renshaw’s house. They needed only to smuggle the painting out.
And Leo knew exactly how it could be done. He would have to pay a price for it, but no cost would be too high.
“Stay there,” he said.
She immediately began to speak, but he was already spinning away. The wind itself blew through his limbs as he raced out of the study and out the front door, tore through the garden in the middle of the square, and hammered on the door of Lord Renshaw’s house. When a flustered footman answered, Leo demanded to see Thomas Macey at once.
“You want my help with your father?” Leo said when Macey appeared, still gulping down a mouthful of cake. “You want my protection?”
“Yes, Your Grace. Please. I—”
“In exchange, you will do something for me. You will ask no questions and never breathe a word of it to a soul.”
“Of course, sir. Anything.”
Macey listened to Leo’s curt instructions with growing confusion.
“But why do you want me to bring you that painting?”
“That sounds like a question, Macey. Is that a question?”
“No, sir. But how will I—”
“Is that—”
“A question. Sorry.”
“Prove your ingenuity. Be useful, for once.”
Without waiting for confirmation, Leo charged back to his house, the breeze ruffling his hatless hair. In the study, Juno peppered the air with questions. He ignored them, instead rummaging through drawers until he found an empty leather portfolio, tooled with vines and bunches of grapes. He shoved it at her with a curt, “Your drawings are coming. Use this. Stay here. Don’t move,” then slammed out of the study to pace on the front steps.
An age later, Macey and a footman crossed the garden toward him, carrying between them an open wooden crate, a tablecloth covering its contents from prying eyes.
There followed some juggling of bodies and rooms, to ensure Macey never saw Juno: the painting placed in the front room, the visitors herded off to the drawing room, Juno enclosed with the painting. Once she had retrieved her drawings, he reversed the dance: ushered Juno out, ushered Macey in, put the painting back in its crate, and put Macey and the footman back on the street.
He found the study empty: Juno had wandered off. The leather portfolio beckoned him from a side table, pregnant with her secret sketches.
How tempting it was. He traced the portfolio’s vines, poked its plump bulge. She would never know if he took a peek. Just a little peek. She was usually so candid: What secrets could she hold so close?
No. Prying into another’s private papers simply was not done.
He huffed out air and abandoned the temptations of the folio for the much greater temptation of her.
CHAPTER16
