Chapter 4 #2
Her fascination was laid out in bold strokes her art instructor had stated were too extreme a representation for a female.
There weren’t many sketches of Viscount Remington yet, but the number was increasing.
Rose Hill had proven to be inspirational, creatively.
She could only thank the gods she’d not included anything risqué.
Those were stuffed in the bottom of her portmanteau—derived from imagination only.
Although the trip up the staircase that first night, following along and watching his taut bottom flex had helped.
“You’re quite gifted.” He closed the portfolio and presented it to her with a sheepish, slated twist of his lips. He had a scar bleeding into the top one that she longed to press her tongue to. An image she’d never in her life envisioned.
Recognizing her absurd cravings, she grabbed her artwork and brought them back to her chest like a shield. “It’s nothing. A hobby.”
“It’s attraction, Miss Shaw. We all feel it from time to time. Some more than others. It’s rarely convenient. Although I’ve never seen it displayed in such an authoritative manner. Not personally. Tons of it on exhibit in museums, of course.”
“I wanted to sketch you. That’s all it was. All it is . It’s what artists do .”
Remington grinned, the bounder. Spreading his fingers wide across the floor for balance, he leaned in like a feral cat.
Damn and blast , she wanted his hands on her.
“If this an extreme case of infatuation, I find myself unduly flattered. Hell’s teeth, you set up a novel deception simply to capture my face in charcoal.
I believe this is the most any woman has ever done to establish contact with me.
One not looking to be a viscountess, that is.
There was a determined chit that shall go unnamed who climbed a tree to get into my bedchamber last year.
That was noteworthy. I found I couldn’t turn her away after such tremendous effort, in case you’re wondering. ”
Franny rose to her feet with a growl, jealousy and embarrassment eating a hole in her belly.
“It’s art . I don’t want any part of your blasted title!
I truly don’t want any part of anyone’s title.
Those are my father’s dreams. I may have to fulfill them due to my own transgressions, which aren’t a topic for discussion, but that’s not your concern. ”
“Ah, yes, your young baron. Can I say, I’m more than happy to examine this dilemma of yours.
” He made a lazy X over his heart with his crossed fingers.
“Our discussion will stay in my sparse parlor-cum-workshop, between friends. Or between governess and employer. We’re still playing those roles, correct? ”
“ What dilemma?”
He was smirking, though he covered his mouth to hide it.
She preferred this, even if it vexed her, to his anger.
“Lust, sweetheart. Yours for me. Americans seem less concerned about hiding what they feel, which is unusual for an Englishman. We’re not the most expressive of souls.
And when we are, usually it’s the man who has to break the proverbial ice.
” He flicked his hand between them, signaling there was an us . “This is bloody refreshing.”
She spun on her heel, returning to his wall of sketches. “You’re laughing at me, like the rest. The ton thinks I’m foolish and inappropriate. Vulgar. Why should you be any different? When it was my father who dragged me to this godforsaken country. My art is all that is mine alone.”
She felt him move behind her, invading her space but without touching her.
His brandy-laced breath slipped past her annoyance, melting her already fragile resistance.
“I need you. Through Christmastide. Katherine likes you, and she was happy today. I saw it.” His husky plea streaked in her ear, warming something inside her that had been cold for months.
For years. Forever. “I’m not making fun of you.
That isn’t what this is. I’m an outsider in society myself.
I always have been. Even if society doesn’t realize it.
They don’t know the man, just the blessed title. ”
Franny lifted her hand to trace the imprecise marks of his drawing. Her fingers shook, and she pressed her knuckles to the wall to quell the reaction.
He reached to steady her, his arm aligning itself alongside hers as if he was showing her how to discharge a rifle.
“It’s a writing table.” Taking her hand, he drew her fingertip along the parts as he rattled them off, his voice oozing the same liquid charisma she bet he used when he charmed someone out of their gown.
“This is the pen tray. The leather skiver, twin tooled in gold. A brass keyhole lining to the frieze. Tapper legs, capped and footed with gilt capitols and mounts. It will be the most gorgeous piece in England when I’m done.
I’ll have one in Carlton House, you watch.
Prinny, or the King now, I suppose I should say, will beg for it.
The one love of my life, this work. Like your art, I understand. I do .”
“I can do better representations for you,” she murmured, struggling to lead him off course.
He was half-foxed, and she was smitten. She knew enough from her past mistake to realize this was a lethal combination.
Yet, she let herself stand there, mere inches separating their bodies, awareness as thick as London’s fog encasing them in sensual heat. “I could try. ”
Remington straightened, his hand falling from hers as he stepped back. “They’re my designs, each and every one. But my drawings aren’t good. It’s a problem. Nevertheless, when I’ve tried to describe what I want to an illustrator, it’s been off. I can’t find anyone who can capture my vision.”
The challenge was there, the need to solve it undefined and reckless.
To please him in this way. “What do I get in return if I do this for you? If I’m able to capture your vision on paper?
” She turned to find his intent gaze focused on her, unwavering.
Absurdly, she loved that he was intelligent and uncompromising.
“Consider it repayment for misleading you, even if my intentions were genuine.”
“There must be a trade.” He tapped his chin in thought. “How about this? I’ll sit for your sketches.”
Her hand clenched around her portfolio. She struggled for a clever response when she wasn’t a clever woman. Her witty retorts always arrived an hour too late.
His lips tilted, a small dent that could possibly be called a dimple pinging his cheek.
That lank of hair jutting out, calling her hand to smooth it.
“Can I ask about clothing, as much of the portraits I’ve seen feature men who are…
how shall I delicately say this? Unclothed.
I feel I should call you Franny if you’re set to see me in the buff. ”
Her cheeks burned while lascivious images assaulted her mind. “Your normal attire”—she flicked her hand toward him, brow to toe—“will be adequate.” Although she longed to know. If she asked him to disrobe, would he do it? “But you can call me Franny. I don’t mind.”
“Then you may call me Chance.” He shrugged, humming beneath his breath.
“I had a high fever as a babe, for days, but I survived. My mother felt it was a remarkable piece of luck as she’d lost a child to something similar.
She called me her lucky chance. But she died before I truly got to know her.
” He frowned when he finished the explanation, as if he’d not considered what he was disclosing. Or to whom.
Hoping to break the intimate moment, Franny carefully removed one of his drawings from the wall. “Can I take this? I’d like to create a more detailed illustration. Anything is better than a blank page, as they say.”
Remington stepped in, his gaze searching.
First the sketch in her hand, then a lingering assessment starting at the hem of her sleeping gown and concluding just past her chest. After a charged moment where it seemed he was deciding what to do, he reached to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear.
He dawdled, caressing her cheek. His blue eyes were shot through with flecks of gold, she noted at this distance, truly dazzling in the candlelight.
His jaw muscle flexed as his lips pressed tight, his own ideas running loose.
Kiss me , she thought wildly.
With a muted sigh, he shook himself free, his gaze dropping to his drawing.
“Add a finial here,” he tapped the parchment.
“And here. The legs need to be more elegant. More in line with the design of the desktop. Not too delicate. See what you can come up with. As you said, it’s easier to edit than create. ”
Then he crossed to the door, and she had the feeling she was chasing a fox from his lair.
He paused in the threshold, candlelight shining in his eyes.
“Thank you for agreeing to this, for any reason you agreed. I want Katherine to be happy, and somehow, I’m going to find a way to make sure that happens. ”
Then he was gone.
And all she could think was, I want him back .
He’d almost kissed her.
In fact, Chance had wanted many things in that moment.
It stunned him to realize who his phony governess was. Francine Shaw. Heiress to a mad American fortune. One of the so-called title-chasers flooding the city. Now that it had been pointed out to him, he recalled reading about her in the Gazette’s gossip column.
Nothing the author had stated matched the woman, however.
She was an intriguing mix of daring and naivete. Embarrassment and hunger crossing her face in swift intervals. Her expression begging him to kiss her. The look of unconcealed longing sending an aroused rush through him.
What would it be like to seduce someone who wanted you but didn’t want to want you ?
Chance knew what a melting glance meant.
The skip in breathing, a fierce pulse tapping at the base of a woman’s neck.
Francine Shaw was lovely in an understated, absolutely compelling manner.
Gorgeous eyes near the color of the calla lilies that bloomed outside his Mayfair bedchamber in spring.
A mix of hazel and gold. Too, her bloody hair was indescribable.
What he would pay to see that glory spread across his sheets.
And her body. A goddess in conspicuously unattractive clothing. He’d about choked when she strolled into the library, every curve she possessed on display in that hideous dressing gown.
Incredibly, Chance questioned if he ought to use his title as a bargaining chip. Because his intriguing governess was far too interesting a package for that fop Hillsdale.
After all, she’d done the near impossible.
She’d ignited his senses for the first time in ages .
Maybe it was the scent of lilacs and a hint of lemon that drifted like snowflakes around her.
Or her accent, flat as the moors, but charming in its unfussiness.
He’d pay a thousand pounds to hear her whisper in his ear as she came around him.
Thinking this at an inopportune time, he’d been forced to stalk from the room like a man possessed before she noticed his cock threatening to bust his bone buttons.
How had he missed her at the Earl of Devlin’s musicale?
Odd, as he’d never been attracted to an American before.
It was too bad really. Timing and circumstance not meeting in the middle.
Her needing a title and him needing blunt to keep the viscountcy afloat.
But he’d promised himself he’d never marry without love after growing up in a home without it.
Head and heart needed to be in alignment for him to promise his future to anyone.
The lonely little boy he’d been demanded it.
Sighing, he gazed across the lawn from his perch on the veranda wall, his breath fogging the air, his fingers frozen from the chill.
The rain had stopped a half hour ago, leaving a damp, leaden mist to color the world a snowy white.
He was coming to quite appreciate Derbyshire.
For all the reasons his father had hated it.
It was remote. Untamed. The air crisp and clean.
The land stretching to the horizon calling to him in a possessive, elemental way.
His land. Custody he’d never felt about anything outside his furniture.
He’d told Francine Shaw about his nickname. He’d talked about his mother, the only person who had shown him love that he could recall.
Something he never, ever did.
The story of his family wasn’t an uplifting tale, and he rarely found the need to share it.
Her serene presence, the mix of goodness and heat shimmering in her eyes, unlocked something in him. And the other…
Her illustrations had aroused him more than he’d thought a mere sketch could.
Sent a ragged claw of need straight through him.
They’d been drawings in various phases of completion.
Mostly of his face. His hands. He lifted one and stared at it, spread his fingers, wondering what she saw that he didn’t.
The man in those sketches had a regal, confident bearing—when Chance was uncertain.
About life and his place in it. His ruse was nearly as great as hers.
He played the charming viscount while struggling to locate the person beneath.
A burden deposited on his shoulders at the ripe age of nineteen.
When he’d had another passion altogether.
He worried over his relief when he’d realized Francine Shaw hadn’t played him for a fool.
She had her own troubles. Transgressions, she’d called them.
Who knew what bit of mischief had had her running to England.
Anyway, what did he care if his temporary governess was after his title?
Like a thousand and one inane chits before her.
But he did care.
He blew a frosty breath into the sky, wishing for another glass of brandy.
This realization was disconcerting indeed.