Chapter 20 #3
Then she lifted her head, tears shining in her eyes. “It’s the most wonderful thing anyone has ever given me.”
The look on her face made his heart leap, an unfamiliar sensation. “You like it.”
“Oh, Ian, I love it! I hate those messy ink pots. This will be so useful.” Rubbing tears from her eyes with one hand, she carefully replaced the pen in its box with the other. “I’ll treasure it always.”
He cleared his throat, unused to such effusive thanks. “Here,” he said, thrusting the second gift at her again. “Open this.”
“You shouldn’t have bought so much. I feel awful that I have nothing for you.”
Yet she opened them all with enthusiasm.
The rest of his gifts were more typical—a lace fan, silk stockings, and a pair of exquisite ruby earrings he’d paid a king’s ransom for.
Although she exclaimed loudly over each one, when she was finished it was the pen she took out to examine.
As she stroked it, pleasure shining in her face, he thought of her hands on him that night.
My God, what he wouldn’t give to have them on him again.
Suddenly she glanced up at him, her pretty face brightening even further. “Wait!” Turning to James, she whispered instructions and he ran off.
“What are you up to now?” Ian asked, raising an eyebrow.
Her smile was secretive. “You’ll see.”
James returned moments later with a framed canvas. He handed it to his sister, who held it out to Ian. “This was Papa’s favorite painting,” she explained. “I couldn’t bear to sell it. But now that we’re married ... well, I see no reason you can’t enjoy it.”
He took the canvas from her and stared at it in surprise.
He could easily see why her reckless father had liked it.
It was a harem painting, probably meant for someone’s collection of erotic art, though not badly done.
A dusky-skinned sultan stood upon a dais with chest bared and arms crossed.
Below him a bevy of scantily clad young women posed in various positions about a pool painted in lush colors.
“You’re giving me an erotic painting?” he asked.
Her quick blush and furtive glance at James, who was listening avidly, told him she hadn’t thought of it like that. “It’s not ... Well, it is, but ... It’s by a Spaniard. That’s why I thought of you. Though the artist isn’t anyone of consequence.”
“No, he wouldn’t be.” He examined the painting more closely, unable to keep the smile off his face. Only Felicity could give her husband something so patently scandalous for a seemingly innocent reason.
“Papa bought it because he admired the colors and the lines,” she persisted.
“I’m sure he admired them a great deal.” He chuckled. “Especially the flesh colors and curving lines.”
“Ian!” she exclaimed with a worried glance at James, who’d lost interest in the conversation and now examined her new pen. “The sultan is also well-done, don’t you think?”
The sultan? He looked at the figure again. Then it dawned on him why she’d thought to give him the painting. The realization lightened his mood considerably. His eyes met hers over the top of the canvas. “Very well-done indeed.”
“You can tell the artist was a Spaniard,” she babbled on. “He made the sultan look Spanish. His features are Castillian, not Turkish.”
“Yes, Castillian.” He lowered his voice. “Like mine.”
Ducking her head, she swallowed, the nervous motion of her throat doing something wicked to his insides. “Anyway, I thought you might like it. And now I’d best go help Mrs. Box oversee the preparations for dinner. If you’d keep an eye on the boys for me—”
“Certainly.” She thought to run off after dropping this surprise in his lap, did she? “You and I can discuss the painting later.”
Her gaze shot to him. “What do you mean, ‘discuss it’?”
“I’m curious to know what attracts you to the painting.”
“Me? Nothing at all.” But her high color confirmed his suspicions, as did her mumbled, “I-I’d better go.”
He watched, trying not to laugh as she fled the parlor.
At last he’d figured out his strategy for winning her.
He hadn’t gained a bit of ground by advancing on her with all the subtlety of a battalion.
She wanted him as badly as he did her, but whenever he blustered at her and backed her against a wall, her pride rose against him.
No, he must use her own needs against her.
He must provoke her, tempt her. Her pleasure at his gifts, her shy offering of a most erotic painting, demonstrated that she felt enough ambivalence about him to be vulnerable to courtship.
Now that he thought of it, she’d succumbed to his seduction after his week of heightening her jealousy and his day of squiring her about town with her brothers.
So, although he was impatient to have her in his bed again he would progress slowly, woo her without any sign of overt advance until he had her on her knees begging him to take her.
He had a week alone with her. If by the end of that time he hadn’t brought her willingly to his bed, he was no kind of tactician at all.