Chapter Nineteen
Knocking woke Lucas from a deep sleep, and he sputtered awake uncertain of where he was and how he had got there.
‘Damnation,’ he grumbled, pulling a piece of parchment from his cheek that had somehow stuck there. He was in his studio, lying on the floor. Paint covered his hands, and brushes lay scattered on the table just beyond his reach. When his blurry gaze focused on the canvas on its stand, he sighed.
My God, it was beautiful. Almost as beautiful as she was.
Miss Granger, Ophelia, stared back at him exactly as he remembered her from last night at Vauxhall Gardens. She had been a vision in her lavender gown with the stars and lanterns glowing above her. He groaned as the memory of the kiss they’d shared made his skin tingle.
‘My lord?’ Yates inquired, having opened the door and now standing over Lucas. His jowls hung down and from this angle Lucas suddenly realised he resembled a hound.
Perhaps a bloodhound. Their similarities were boundless. He smirked to himself.
‘My lord?’ he repeated.
‘Yes, Yates,’ Lucas answered with a frown as his man blocked his sight of the painting.
‘It is noon. You have a guest. Shall I send them away?’
‘Noon?’ Lucas sputtered, sitting up. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes. So is the sun.’ He pointed to the windows behind him that Lucas had partially shuttered at some point as he’d painted into the early hours of the morning.
Lucas rolled his eyes at Yates’s quip. The man was insufferable sometimes, but Lucas wouldn’t know what to do without him. They had weathered countless storms together.
He had in many ways been the father Lucas had never had. The one he wished he’d had.
‘Who is this guest?’ He sat up slowly, releasing the thoughts about his late father as he let out an obscenely large yawn.
‘Miss Granger. She stated it was on the calendar of events for you to be meeting today.’
Lucas stilled. While his body sang at the idea of seeing Ophelia again, dread also crept in. How would their conversation go today after last night? There was only one way to know. He cursed as he accepted Yates’s offered hand.
Sleeping on the hardwood floor had not been a wise decision for a man with war injuries. Everything ached.
Yates looked at the portrait and back at Lucas. ‘How was your evening with Miss Grey?’ he asked. While his voice remained even and neutral, the challenge was definitely there. Lucas decided to ignore it.
‘It was lovely. She is a fine candidate for a wife, and I enjoyed my time with her.’
While his answer was less than enthusiastic, it was the best he could muster so soon after waking with his mind still full of Ophelia.
‘Glad to hear it. Shall I cover this new endeavor? So, it dries properly, of course,’ he asked, pointing to the portrait.
‘No, no. I can manage,’ Lucas hurried out. He wasn’t ready to hide Ophelia away from his sight just yet. ‘Tell her I shall be down within the half hour. Offer her refreshments while she waits.’
‘Yes, my lord,’ Yates replied, and left Lucas alone in his studio once more.
As soon as the door closed, Lucas cursed again, setting his hands to his waist. What was he going to do now?
He stared at the painting. He and Ophelia had crossed a line, but he found he wanted to cross it again and again and push it even further, if he were truly honest with himself.
But he also knew he might be alone in his attraction to her, despite her unease at being with him in the carriage last night.
It could have been merely embarrassment and not attraction on her part.
He frowned. But he would never know if he didn’t ask her.
And he’d hidden himself away long enough.
Do not be afraid to live.
Diana’s words echoed in his ears.
He carefully placed a cloth over the painting that still needed some final touches, and left the room, eager to begin his ablutions and change before he greeted his guest. He also needed to figure out whether Ophelia might care for him without asking her outright, after he’d scoured all the blasted paint off his hands, of course.
Ophelia sat in Lord Worthing’s parlour, nibbling on the edge of a biscuit she couldn’t even taste.
It had taken her half of the morning and a bit of pin money to bribe Trudy to pretend to chaperone her to Barnett House, but as soon as she mentioned she would pay for her friend’s entry into the new exhibit at the British Museum and attend it with her for the entire day before they left London in the New Year, Trudy had come around.
She was now sitting in the carriage outside, with the promise that Ophelia would not be longer than an hour.
So now Ophelia sat alone, awaiting her fate.
She couldn’t bear the idea of losing Lord Worthing’s business or discussing what she had done with him last night, but there was simply no way to move forward without talking about it. And so, she would.
Lord Worthing appeared at the door of the parlour within the half hour Yates had promised, and the sight of him in his finely tailored dark breeches and jacket, crisp shirt and waistcoat, with a neatly tied cravat, made Ophelia’s throat dry.
She stood to greet him. Her body reacted without her approval, rising to full attention at the sight of him.
She almost felt her business crumbling in time with the pulse of her body’s attraction to him.
Drat. She was in horrible trouble.
‘My apologies,’ he began as he walked in and closed the door.
‘After last night’s festivities, I retired late and just woke to begin my day.
’ His gaze scanned the room and then pierced through Ophelia, and she felt as if she was back there, next to the canal, kissing him all over again, except she wasn’t. She was standing in his parlour.
Alone.
She cleared her throat and responded. ‘My apologies for waking you and for arriving alone. Trudy is waiting in the carriage. I am unchaperoned. I just wished to…’
What did she wish to do? Why had she visited today? Her mind fell into blankness.
In short, seeing Lucas was turning her into an idiot again. She had to get this over with and clear the air as quickly as possible.
‘I wished…’ she stammered, ‘to follow up with you about yesterday’s visit to the Gardens and of course to talk about the week’s upcoming calendar of events.’
Oh, God. He was approaching. Her body was clenching in nervous energy and pooling with heat all at once.
Lord Worthing’s gaze threatened to swallow her whole. He never blinked as he neared, but held her gaze as if she were his very air. The way he looked at her as if he could and would devour her if she allowed him to.
And she wanted to allow him to, which made her a horrible matchmaker.
Did it not?
He stopped achingly close to her and his familiar scent of leather and musk enveloped her.
Gah. She clenched her fists by her sides.
This was the kind of fierce attraction the matron at the orphanage had warned them all about when they came of age. The attraction that muddied logic and reason…and speech, evidently. She thought she might melt into the floor with how weak her knees felt, and he wasn’t even touching her.
Yet.
But she wished he would.
Which made her a horrible, horrible matchmaker indeed.
‘Sounds wonderful,’ he said, his voice low and rich and dark.
‘I would enjoy recapping yesterday’s events with you,’ he added.
He stepped even closer, reached out and took hold of one of her hands, loosening the tight fist she had made before threading his fingers through her own.
She gasped at the rush of heat and the intimacy she felt from his simple action.
‘The Gardens were exquisite,’ he said as he rubbed his thumb in slow, aching circles on the inside of her palm. The rough texture of the pad against her smooth skin made her breath hitch and then a soft moan escaped her lips.
She couldn’t say anything else as the rhythmic movement mesmerised her.
‘I quite enjoyed myself. Did you?’ he asked, his warm breath feathering against her temple.
There it was. A challenge. She looked into his hazel eyes, which were dark and hooded with want. His gaze dropped to her mouth and stayed there. Her lips parted as if on their own, without her permission. He leaned in and her heart thundered in her chest. What was she doing?
‘What happened last night can never happen again, my lord,’ Ophelia rushed out, forcing herself to take a step back.
If she kissed him again, she would be lost beyond all reason and unable to return to anything close to a working relationship.
Then, her business would be in shambles.
He had made it clear he would not love and could not love her, regardless of their kiss, and that was what she required most in a marriage.
‘It was a mistake I am overwhelmingly embarrassed by, and I cannot begin to overstate my apology for what happened. I am more committed than ever to find your match of convenience as you requested, my lord. I hope you know that.’
He dropped her hand, and she shivered, her breath erratic, her chest heaving as if she had been running and just made a narrow escape, which she had.
One more kiss and all would be lost.
Would it not?
While Ophelia felt better having cast out her apology and intentions in moving forward to support his match, some dread lingered in her gut, knowing she was also denying her feelings for him.
But she couldn’t be his matchmaker and build a business by kissing her client.
They had no future together, so why be anything other than clear and direct?