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She’d been caught. Why did she have to always go trampling around the world like a brown sprite and not thinking before she acted?
“You ought to keep that door closed,” she said defiantly, in place of an apology. Dear God, what was wrong with her?
“It’s my art’s fault that you are climbing my furniture, princess?” There was still a hint of humor in the woman’s voice. And did she just call herprincess?Please let this be the precursor to a torrid fantasy,Manuela silently begged from her perch.
“Do you need a hand to come down?” It was more of an order than a question. But if she thought that would embarrass Manuela she was in for an unpleasant surprise.
“If you’re worried about the furnishings, I made sure I took off my slippers, and my feet are very clean.”
“You mean the feet that are currently on my Nero Portoro marble.”
Goodness, that voice made coils of heat burn inside her. “If you don’t want people climbing on your furniture, you should cover up that fresco—” It occurred to her that going on the offensive with exactly the kind of woman she was hoping to meet was not the wisest of choices, but Manuela had never been too wise. She leaned forward to offer a flirtatious apology but slipped on the sleek top of the sideboard instead. She promptly plummeted to the ground like the hopeless muppet she was, only to be caught by the most striking creature she’d ever seen.
“Oof,” the Valkyrie groaned as she took the impact of Manuela’s body crashing down on her. “You do make your presence known, princess,” her savior whispered as she held her.
“I—” Manuela’s words failed her, bewitched by those lavender feline eyes.
“Angels falling from the sky—the French have truly outdone themselves.” For once, Manuela had no pithy comment our saucy remark to volley in return. This woman was as breathtaking as the art on her walls. Her strong embrace the most comforting thing Manuela had felt in much too long. Those arms, as slender as they were, could’ve been made from steel.
“Where did you come from, angel?”
“From the stairs,” Manuela responded numbly, much too stunned by the vision in front of her to come up with an intelligent response. The woman was older—not that one could tell from her face, but because there were a few streaks of gray at her temples. The rest of her hair, which was pulled back in an elaborate crown of braids, was very black. Her remarkable eyes were swirls of gray and lavender, like cloudy amethyst. The color was so unusual it made Manuela wish for her watercolors.
“Did anyone tell you what happens on the second floor?” the goddess asked, still not letting go of Manuela. This was a blessing and a curse, because while she was absorbing every detail of that exquisite countenance, it was getting harder to refrain from doing something that would likely get her in more trouble than she already was.
Her skin tone was bronzed, which was an interesting juxtaposition to her refined English accent. And her face was not what one would call conventionally beautiful, but she exuded a certain kind of captivating arrogance. She was very serious, even though her eyes seemed to sparkle with humor. Her brows were thick and very long, giving her a forbidding air. The bridge of her nose was wide, as was her mouth. But while her lips were lush and full, her chin was small, delicate. It was a face full of contrasts and angles, and Manuela really should begin responding to her questions.
“I’m sorry,” she apologized, and then instantly put her foot in her mouth, again. “Your face is distracting me.” That lavish mouth tipped up, and something whooshed in Manuela’s belly.
“Maybe you do know what happens up here.” Her eyes twinkled with mischief.
“I know what happens,” Manuela managed to say, her voice shaky. Why was she being so timid? She was here to meet women like this, beguiling and wicked. “You have excellent taste in art.” Art? Was she truly talking about art? Despite her faux pas, when Manuela looked at the beauty, she was happy to find a hint of appreciation in her expression.
“Hm.” The sound she made was of curiosity...which had to be a positive sign? Manuela’s body certainly thought so, or at least she hoped that was the reason for the ball of fire spreading to her limbs. “So your interest in my fresco was not distaste, then.”
“Distaste?” Manuela exclaimed, affronted as she pulled away from the embrace and immediately regretted it. “Absolutely not. It’s glorious.” She rubbed her hands over her arms which felt too bare now that they were no longer in contact with those strong hands.
“Glorious enough to make you discard your shoes to explore.” She was being teased, she knew that, and her behavior had been quite gauche.
“My apologies for climbing on your furniture,” she conceded, and a thick, black eyebrow rose suspiciously at her apology. Manuela considered her overture accepted, and after a sufficiently aggrieved pause, she continued. “I only wanted to look at it more closely. I tend to forget the rules of propriety when I happen upon an exciting piece of art.”
In order to cement her contriteness, Manuela swept her glance downward and noticed that her companion was wearing trousers. But these were not ill-fitting men’s trousers or the split skirts Aurora used. They had clearly been made just for her. The fabric looked like silk, and it was a very dark green. The fitted jacket, vest and tie were of precisely the same color. The only contrast was found in her crisp dark gray shirt. The effect, combined with the cut of the suit, accentuated her height instead of attempting to conceal it. This woman truly was every one of Manuela’s fantasies come to life.
“You find art with women making love intriguing, then.” That raspy, alluring voice was like a siren song to Manuela. There was heat in those lavender eyes, and Manuela ached to be scorched.
Be bold, Leona, she told herself, smiling at the nickname she and her friends had given themselves in finishing school. “It’s intriguing, but I thinkarousingis a better word.”
She was well-rewarded for her boldness, and in the next instant was back in those strong arms. Manuela was curvier than this sinewy, slender woman, but she’d never felt as cradled, as protected as she was in that moment.
“We are kindred spirits, then.” Once again Manuela found herself tongue-tied, utterly dumbstruck by this Amazon. “Are you an artist?” Her eyes were focused on Manu’s ungloved fingers which were perennially smudged with paint or charcoal. She’d been fiddling with a drawing on the carriage ride over, and it seemed she had not properly wiped off the evidence.
“I didn’t get it on anything, I promise.” This was a lie, of course. She was always leaving traces of her curiosity over things, but the woman seemed to find this amusing.
“Tell me what you find beautiful about it.”
Manuela squirmed, eyes trained on the slippers and stockings on the floor. This shyness was irritating. She was never like this. She strove to always be the boldest person in a room. But she was usually in rooms where people were shocked easily. There was no precedent for this place or this woman.
“Shouldn’t I put my shoes on?”
