One #2
No columnist had showed up, and since it was the middle of the week and it was near closing, the gallery was blessedly empty.
Due to her limited funds, she’d had to dismiss her assistant this morning, a choice that broke her heart.
And was now proving even more terrible as the opportunistic scoundrel closed in on her.
“In fact, it’s such a fine painting I had to hide it from view,” he continued, pressing a hip against the large desk as if leaning in to share a secret. “Lest anyone try to steal it from me.”
The famous painting was a forgery, the first and the last she’d ever wanted to create. Two years prior—and nearly eight years to the day after Camilla’s mother abandoned them—her father had abruptly taken ill with a mysterious affliction and could no longer work.
Camilla had emptied their coffers in a desperate attempt to save him, and she would do it again. She’d had several physicians visit their home, had even ventured into the forbidden dark market in search of a magical elixir, convinced his illness was not of this realm.
All attempts to battle Death had been in vain.
It had hurt terribly when her mother disappeared, one bright morning the spring before Camilla came of age, but her father’s death had truly broken her heart.
Pierre had been fearless, as an artist sharing every part of his soul with his audience, as a father raising Camilla on his favorite tales of magic and adventure, of dark realms far beyond Ironwood Kingdom’s shores. Camilla still worried she wasn’t living up to all he’d taught her.
After his death, she’d painted the forgery only to raise funds.
She’d hated being dishonest, had considered trying anything else, but both their town house and the gallery were set to be wrenched away by debt collectors, even after she’d pawned all her jewels, and the silver, and rented their country estate for barely enough coin to maintain the staff and groundskeeper’s salaries.
Camilla had had nothing left to sell. Save her art or her body.
Or the one thing she hadn’t the heart to pawn. And that sentimentality had come back to haunt her. In more ways than one.
Somehow, though not utterly surprisingly, Vexley had been both cunning and sober enough to spot a minute difference between the forgery and the real painting, and instead of being enraged that she’d attempted to cheat him, had immediately come up with a scheme to profit from her talent.
It wasn’t honest work he was requesting now.
Nor would he be paying for her services.
Camilla smothered the urge to knee him in the groin and plastered on another smile.
“A gentleman of your breeding is known to stick to his word, sir. We had a bargain and I’ve more than paid in full. Shall I fetch the memory stone?”
Vexley tossed his head back and laughed, the sound genuine yet somehow grating for that very reason. He found her amusing. Wonderful.
“My darling, what if I were to propose marriage? Would you be more inclined to please your husband then? Surely you’d wish to ensure that we had a comfortable life with a roof over our heads and fine foods in our bellies.”
Now it was Camilla’s turn to laugh. Marriage. To Vex the Hex. And with it a lifetime of servitude and forever being a cheat and liar. Along with the string of lovers he’d not be discreet about and the whole ton thinking she was a plumb fool.
He eyed her speculatively, brows raised, and she realized he hadn’t been jesting.
Camilla cleared her throat, searching for the most diplomatic response to soften the blow.
The privileged men in their world did not take well to their whims and fancies being denied, and while she might loathe him, she needed to remain in his good graces until he purged that damning memory and set her free.
“Unfortunately, I am not in the market for a husband, my lord. My gallery keeps me quite thoroughly busy and—”
“You’d continue with your gallery, my dear. With your talent and my connections, we could make more gold annually than the Crown.”
“We were almost discovered!” she hissed. “There will be no money if we’re hanged.”
“You worry too much.”
Vexley waved off that most important detail as if it were nothing at all.
“And there won’t be another scare like that.
I hadn’t heard that Harrington already possessed that piece.
It was easy enough to convince him that his original was the fraud and Walters’s was the original, wasn’t it?
He handed it over to me just as I said he would.
And anyway,” Vexley went on, “do you really believe anyone would question my wife? If they did, all we’d need to do is update your wardrobe with some low-cut gowns and they’d hardly care what you were saying or selling after that, my dear.
I assure you their attention would be thoroughly diverted.
Your bosom is quite impressive for someone of your stature.
We can certainly work with that, use it to our advantage. ”
“I—”
Camilla was at a loss. Vexley seemed entirely certain that she’d be pleased to have her mind ignored in favor of her body being ogled to further their scheme.
A scheme she wanted no part in.
If he pressed the issue of marriage, it could become a true problem.
In fact, since they were alone and he was encroaching on her personal space, they were teetering near scandal now.
Camilla wasn’t exactly middle-class, even if she operated a business.
Her father, eccentric though he might have been, had been high-born and titled.
She’d spent nearly all her inheritance trying to save him, so her earnings were critical for maintaining her home and staff.
Her father used to say how proud he was of taking care of generations of staff.
She did not want to let anyone else down by having to let them go.
All Vexley would need to do was come around to her side of the desk and give the impression that something untoward was happening; then if one columnist spied the action through the window and reported on it, Camilla’s life and all she’d worked hard to achieve would be in total ruin.
An icy finger of dread trailed down her spine.
The lord standing before her had no qualms about blackmail and might very well be desperate enough to trap her in marriage. Then she would be his pawn for the rest of her days.
Vexley suddenly reached for her bare hand and brushed a chaste kiss across her knuckles, his cool lips causing a slight shudder of revulsion that he mistook for pleasure. His pupils dilated, mouth quirking upward. He thought much too highly of his ability to seduce.
“I see you’re overcome by my charms. Let’s continue this discussion another time. I’m hosting a lavish dinner party in two nights to show off my most recently acquired treasure; expect an invitation shortly.”
Before she could find a reasonable excuse to decline, Vexley turned on his buffed heel and exited the gallery.
The bell tinkling overhead was the only indication he’d truly been there and it hadn’t been a wretched nightmare.
He wished to make her Lady Camilla Vexley. God save her.
She pushed that horror from her mind and glanced at the clock. Thankfully it was almost time for her weekly dinner with her best friend, Lady Katherine Edwards, and Camilla’s own beloved cat, Bunny, whom Katherine watched while Camilla worked at the gallery.
Kitty had been there during Camilla’s darkest hours, a guiding light and advocate for Camilla’s place in society who ensured that Camilla attended all the balls and social gatherings, regardless of her financial difficulties.
She not only acted as Camilla’s chaperone when necessary, she was the truest friend Camilla had ever known, and Camilla was grateful for her in many ways.
Without Kitty, Camilla wasn’t sure what would have become of her.
To pass the last half hour before closing, Camilla returned to her painting. Getting lost in creation was precisely what she needed to do to forget Vexley’s absurd proposal.
She’d been trying to paint a world she saw repeatedly in her dreams, one where winter reigned in all its stark, lethal beauty.
Camilla had just returned to her easel, plucked up her paintbrush, and sat when the bell over the door sounded again. This time she nearly snapped her brush in two.
How dare he come back and coerce her again.
She closed her eyes and prayed for some hidden well of strength to appear and save her from committing murder. At eight and twenty, she was far too young to be either locked in a cell or beheaded for strangling that scheming, arrogant rake right then and there.
“Apologies for any insult it causes,” she said without peering out from around her easel, “but I am not in the market for a husband, my lord. Please just go.”
A beat of silence passed. With any luck, Vexley would be insulted by the bite in her tone and would turn right back around and leave for some faraway city at the edge of the world.
“Well, that’s quite a relief, considering I’m in want of a painting, not a wife.”
The deep, rumbling voice had Camilla immediately standing up from her stool to see who it belonged to, her lips parting in surprise.
The man who stood just inside the doorway was most decidedly not Vexley.
For a moment, Camilla somehow lost the ability to speak as her attention roved over the dark stranger.
This man was tall, his hair black with the slightest hint of brown in the flickering candlelight, and while his frame was lean, she noticed the hardness of his body as he moved farther into the gallery, his clothes tailored to show off the definition.
Not moved but prowled .
Camilla innately sensed that she was in the presence of a jaguar—a sleek apex predator one couldn’t help but be fascinated by even as it drew close enough to bite.
His eyes, a unique, lovely shade of emerald, glittered as if he knew where her thoughts had traveled and he rather enjoyed the idea of sinking his teeth into her flesh.
Whether he would do so for pleasure or to cause a bit of pain, Camilla couldn’t immediately discern.
Though if the wicked gleam flaring to life was anything to go by, she’d choose the latter.
Which indicated he was quite dangerous, yet her heart wasn’t pounding from fear as he stalked closer, his gaze lazily taking her in as if he had every right to do so.
This man owned every inch of space around him, including her attention. Camilla found she couldn’t have looked away if she’d tried. Not that she was trying very hard.
He wasn’t simply handsome, he was striking, his face a study of fine contradictions that made her fingers twitch with the urge to paint the hard, chiseled angles of his face, the soft curves of his lips, and those jewel-toned eyes that stood out against his bronze skin, forever capturing that devilish glint on canvas.
His beauty was cold ruthlessness with a regal edge. A polished blade meant to be admired even as it cut you down. He’d make a fine portrait, one Camilla imagined would cause quite the stir among noblewomen.
Her cheeks pinked at what she’d said about marriage, and she hoped it was too dim in the room for him to notice.
A hint of mirth curled the edge of his sensual mouth, indicating that he had indeed picked up on her embarrassment.
If he was a gentleman, he’d let it pass without comment.
“You are Miss Camilla Elise Antonius, I presume.”
His knowing her middle name struck her as odd, but when he studied her appearance with quiet intensity once again, she could barely form a clear thought.
No one had ever looked at her with such singular focus before—like she was both the most glorious answer and an exceptionally troubling riddle tied into one.
“Correct, sir. How may I help you?” she asked, finally regaining her wits.
“I came to discuss details of a piece I’d like to commission,” he began, his voice like warmed honey melting over her, “but I’m intrigued by you now, Miss Antonius. Is that how you welcome all patrons or just the ones you find incredibly handsome?”
Only the ones I find insufferable, she thought crossly as the spell she’d initially felt broke.
Camilla bit her tongue to prevent herself from outwardly commenting on his arrogance.
She’d been wrong. He was no jaguar, he was a wolf.
Which meant he was just one more cocky aristocratic dog she’d need to rid herself of this evening.
“Are those the specifications?” she asked, nodding to a crisp piece of hunter-green parchment he held.
Her tone was as cool as the autumn air outside, but the gentleman didn’t seem at all put off. If anything, a flicker of intrigue ignited in those impenetrable, jewel-like eyes.
He silently held the parchment up for her, not moving from where he stood near her desk.
Camilla hesitated. He was making her come to him .
It was either a subtle show that he could be trusted, or a calculated move to exert his will upon her. Given the dangerous curve of his mouth and the cold calculation in his eyes, it had everything to do with power.
Here stood a man who wanted to be in control. Camilla considered kicking him out to put him in his place and his wolfish smile grew wider, his gaze quietly mocking.
“Unlike asking for your hand, you’ll find it’s a rather simple request.” His attention never wavered from hers. “Come. Look for yourself.”
Said the wolf pretending to be a sheep.
Camilla highly doubted that anything this man wanted would be simple but made her way to him nonetheless. The faster she knew what he desired, the faster she could send his dark, mysterious arse on its way and be rid of him—and his wicked grin—for good.