Chapter 6

Easton wanted to shout victory. Even the smallest win was worth celebrating, and convincing Miss Carter to join him in a more intimate setting was certainly just that. He hoped that it meant she was starting to soften toward him, or at least beginning to trust him.

He was starting to wonder if he would ever learn anything about her, as his contacts had yet to uncover anything. But then, they had been wandering the streets of London. Who knew if that was where she actually spent much time?

They concentrated on their prospective designs in silence, and then Easton dared to ask the question foremost on his mind, "From whence do you hail, Miss Carter?"

She hesitated for a moment and then said, "Liverpool."

"Indeed? How ever did you learn about the Society?"

"From the paper," she said almost vaguely, as if it was an automated response that she had perfected.

"Hmm. The ladies of the Society must have spent a fortune to advertise that far north."

He watched her expression to see if there was any sort of change, but she remained completely composed. Impressive. "I had a friend in London who kept me apprised of things she thought I would like to know. Since I wanted to be an independent painter, she encouraged me to apply, so I did."

"How fortuitous," he noted. He thought she might have offered more into the progression of things, but she did not.

"Yes, it was."

"Did you grow up in Liverpool?"

"I did."

"How is it that you kept contact with someone in London? Surely it was difficult to maintain correspondence."

"Not at all. The mail coach made its way north every week. It was quite effortless to keep in contact." She paused and regarded him steadily. "Is there a reason for this sudden query into my past?"

Easton had the ability to lie smoothly as well because he had no doubt that Miss Carter was doing the same. "I told you about me. I assumed it was all right to do the same. Forgive me if I overstepped."

As suspected, some of her upset calmed. "I was in the wrong. I find it… difficult to speak about my life before Burnham-On-Sea. It wasn't entirely pleasant."

Something in the inflection in her voice told him that she was being honest. "I'm sorry to hear that. I certainly didn't want to engage in a topic that might cause you further injury." He gestured to the window and the rain that was still running down the pane in rivulets. "Shall we comment on the weather?"

She snorted, an unease clearing from her face. "How about we discuss something engaging? Perhaps tell me more about Ireland? I'm finding a bit of inspiration from your descriptions. I might decide to paint your homeland."

He put a hand over his chest in a dramatic fashion. "I would be honored. There is nothing quite so lovely as an Irish sunrise." His focus dared to linger on her face. "Unless you are standing along the horizon. I have no doubt the colors would turn your hair to fire." Her mouth opened slightly, and he realized that he'd spoken his innermost thoughts out loud. He quickly added, "I'm not sure where that came from, other than I was caught up in the moment."

His pulse sped up when, rather than appearing annoyed with him, she gave a light one-shoulder shrug. "It was very poetic, but I'm not sure I would qualify for such a compliment."

"What do you mean?" He blinked in disbelief. "Surely you don't believe that you aren't beautiful?"

She concentrated on her canvas, although he could see her lips tighten slightly. "I have never believed in vanity, so I'm sure I can't say one way or another."

* * *

Vanessa was generally uncomfortable if someone called her beautiful—or she assumed she would be if it had ever occurred. Frank had never bothered to compliment her in any way. She was bartered to her husband, not looked upon as a prize to be won, that he might cherish for the rest of his days. Vanessa had always found such romantic dribble just that. She had never cared for poetry because she had never had the chance to find the sentiments in it within any gentleman of her acquaintance. She didn't believe that someone could live a life of poetry; they were just words on a page without any sort of deeper meaning.

However, when Lord Fane spoke just now, she imagined that he actually meant what he said. She thrilled at the idea that he found her attractive at all when most of her life she had been sheltered and overlooked for the favor of brandy or other women.

Nevertheless, she couldn't read too much into what Lord Fane said. The ring beneath her bed was a stark reminder of why she must retain her distance and not allow anything more between her and the viscount except a brief acquaintance.

But that didn't mean she couldn't imagine what it might be like to be with someone who actually cherished her, someone who made love to her, rather than suffering the attention of a grunting man who made it seem as though she was a disappointment when the misery was over.

Her brush clattered to the floor, a stain of blue paint marking the wood.

"Oh, my goodness." She immediately fell to her hands and knees and started to clean up the mess she'd made. Her movements were almost desperate, recalling all the times Frank had thrown a vase, nearly cutting her with the shards that exploded near her head, or the one time she'd attempted to paint, and he'd upended her supplies in a fit of drunken rage.

Slowly, a hand moved into her line of view, a masculine hand that offered no ill intent but a gentle embrace that left her even more shaken.

With a sob, Vanessa fell back and looked at her hands, which were shaking. Tears were sliding down her cheeks when she hadn't known she was crying.

A finger touched beneath her chin and lifted her gaze to meet a pair of wonderful, amber eyes that were so different from the dark brown ones that always looked upon her with censure. "Let's get you some tea while I finish cleaning this up."

Vanessa wanted to brush him off, to tell him that she was fine, but she couldn't hide the fact she was clearly upset. "Thank you."

He walked over and rang the bellpull by the door. Clavely instantly appeared. "Please bring some tea and cakes. Miss Carter is in need of refreshment."

The butler didn't ask questions but left to do the viscount's bidding. Vanessa was grateful. She sat on the settee and removed a handkerchief from her reticule to dab at her eyes. She had never broken down like that in front of anyone, not even Frank. She couldn't imagine why she had become so overset now, where the emotion poured forth so freely.

She started when a warm cup of tea was placed in her hands. She hadn't realized the cart had arrived. "I wasn't sure if you liked cream or sugar."

Since he was being so kind, she didn't have the heart to tell him she preferred both. She held the cup up by the handle and took a sip. It was bitter without the adornments, but she swallowed and nodded. "It's lovely. Very restorative."

Lord Fane inclined his head and then offered her a small cake. She accepted it with gratitude, although she wasn't sure her stomach would be able to handle more than the tea. However, since he was going through all the trouble to soothe her, going so far as to serve her himself, she didn't want to be rude. She took a tentative nibble from the cake, and then another, until it was all gone. It ended up being quite delicious.

As she licked any lingering crumbs away, she said, "That was very good."

He gestured to the cart. "Have another, there are plenty."

He popped one into his mouth and the memory of the sugary sweetness on her tongue made her reach for a second one. When she had finished with it, she found that her earlier upset had nearly vanished.

"Better?" he asked.

"Very much." She finished the rest of her tea and set it aside. "I want to apologize. I don't usually allow my emotions to get the best of me. I can't fathom why I fell apart like that."

His eyes were steady on her. "I imagine it was the same reason I spoke out of turn. We have a certain effect on each other, something that lowers our inhibitions and allows us to act in a manner we normally wouldn't."

With his focus so intent on her, Vanessa found her pulse starting to accelerate. "You think that's the reason?"

"I do." He leaned forward slightly, and although he was sitting across from her, it was as if he was much too close. "I want you to know that I am normally not so forward, but from the instant I met you, I knew there was something between us, a certain… awareness if you will. Tell me I'm not alone in feeling this way."

Vanessa considered lying. It would be easier for him to believe that the attraction sizzling in the air was one-sided, but after his generosity, she couldn't find it within her to tell such an untruth. "You are not alone, but I must tell you that other than spending time together to paint, this acquaintance can go no further."

"Why?"

"I have my reasons." She held up a hand. "And please don't ask me to reveal them because I cannot. All I can say is that I have created a prison for myself from which I cannot escape. In truth, you would do well to forget I existed."

* * *

Easton had to resist the urge to snort. Forget she existed? He could no sooner act as though the sun, moon, and stars did not adorn the heavens. But neither would he force her to admit something she wasn't fully committed to sharing. He wanted her, not only as his muse, but to warm his bed at night. The image of her laid out on his coverlet had nearly driven him insane these past few nights. Now, more than ever, he was determined to find out what sort of sordid past she might be harboring, so that he might free her from those horrid confines and give her a chance to live the life she had always dreamed about.

"I will not pretend my feelings for you are empty, but neither will I pressure you to accept them. If all we ever share is a canvas, I will content myself with that."

"Will that be enough?"

"As much as I might regret it, it will have to be." He leaned forward and covered her hand with his. "You might want to believe I'm the enemy, but I am your friend. You have given me back my reason for living, by restoring my creativity. For that alone, you have my unending gratitude."

She relented with a smile. "I am glad I was able to help."

His lips twitched. "I suppose you still won't let me paint your portrait?"

"I'm afraid not," she returned. "But I do appreciate your determination." She slowly removed her hand from his and got to her feet. "It's time we got back to work. I have wasted enough of your time this afternoon."

He shook his head. "You've wasted nothing. Just having you near me is enough."

They said little to each other for the remainder of the time they were together. Extending her time for nearly three quarters of an hour longer than what she generally offered on the strand, she finally cleaned her brushes and leaned back in her chair with a sigh. "I daresay I feel so accomplished."

He glanced over at her and said, "Indeed. I feel very much the same. I am nearly halfway done."

Her eyes brightened. "Am I allowed to see the progress?"

"Only if I can see yours," he offered with a wink.

He was rewarded with a slight coloring of her cheeks. It wasn't so much an innocent reaction than just a charming one that came naturally to her. "I suppose I can do that." She turned her canvas toward him, and he saw a lovely, wooded forest with gray clouds on the horizon and rolling fields of green in the distance.

"Brilliant," he breathed, admiring her use of colors. "You used the gloomy day to invoke something enchanting and mysterious." He gave a rueful grin. "I'm not sure mine will hold up to the same standard." He turned his work toward her.

At first, she didn't move or breathe. Her attention was riveted on the canvas. "That is… remarkable." Her gaze flashed to his. "How can you say you need help when you are so much more accomplished than I will ever hope to be?"

He couldn't let that stand. "I don't want to hear you doubt your talent again. You are accomplished and possess a keen eye that most artists, myself included, would love to obtain."

She put her hands up. "I regret saying anything. I surrender."

Easton instantly stilled. He would love to hear those words in the bedchamber, but since she had made it clear where she stood in that regard, he forced his attention back where it belonged and away from dangerous territory.

"It looks like it's stopped raining," she noted. "I think I will walk back to the Society. It always helps to clear my head."

"Are you sure?"

"I am."

Easton wanted to insist on seeing her home, but it wasn't that far down the strand and he didn't want to make a nuisance of himself. He reluctantly agreed, but he did walk her to the front door.

She paused, as if she was reluctant to part ways as well. Dare he hope that might be true. "Hopefully the weather will cooperate enough for us to return to the strand tomorrow."

"I will pray fervently it is so because you wish it."

Her lips twitched, and then she walked out the door. Clavely shut it behind her, and Lord Fane already mourned her loss. He returned to the parlor, and it was as if some of the light had dissipated already.

He walked over to the window, thinking he might catch a glimpse of her before the bend in the road cut her off from him.

He searched the expanse for her, but instead of Miss Carter, he saw something more disturbing. The mysterious figure that he'd glimpsed from afar the day before had reappeared. This time, there was no doubt that he was following the lady. But for what reason?

Panic shooting through his chest, Easton ran to the door and rushed down the steps, eager to get to Miss Carter before she was intercepted.

* * *

She should have remained at home. Vanessa knew it had been a mistake to spend any more time than necessary in the viscount's presence, but she was finding him too utterly charming to resist. From his alluring glances and bold statements that tempted her to forget her past, she yearned to tumble into his arms and forge a new path of sensual delights. She had no doubt he would be a considerate lover, and the urge to lose herself in his embrace was becoming more difficult to ignore.

Glancing out toward the beach, she noticed that now that the rain had concluded, people were starting to make their way back onto the sand. She imagined a life that was so carefree and empty of inhibitions. She wanted to be someone who didn't have to hold herself back, who was eager to experience everything that life had to offer, but fear was a powerful deterrent. One false move and she could end up back in Nottingham. This time, she might not survive Frank's special brand of retribution.

She shuddered, and just as she was about to discount the visitors to the beach, she noted a commonly dressed gentleman standing alone. He wore a hat pulled down low to conceal most of his face, but although she couldn't see him clearly, there was a menacing air to him.

Her lungs froze, each labored breath that escaped her body tingled with warning. Although he didn't pursue her, the fact that he appeared to be watching her was threat enough.

She turned her attention back in front of her and quickened her pace, hoping to make it to the Society before she was caught out in the open, vulnerable and alone.

When a hand touched her arm, Vanessa's first thought was to scream. But when she spun around to confront the intruder, relief flooded her when she saw Lord Fane. "I didn't mean to scare you. I merely decided to join you."

He glanced back over his shoulder, and she wondered if he had noticed the stranger as well. "That would be most welcome, my lord," she breathed.

As they continued walking at an even pace, she dared to whisper, "Did you see that man?"

"Yes." She noticed him ground his jaw together, as if he were hiding something.

She could feel the blood recede from her face. "What aren't you telling me?"

He appeared to be waging a losing battle with himself. Finally, he shoved a hand through his hair and said, "I saw him before. Yesterday on the strand, in the midst of the crowd."

"And you didn't think to tell me?" she demanded.

"I thought it was a coincidence. Until today."

Vanessa's stomach rolled. The delicious cakes she'd consumed earlier were now beginning to revolt. "I'm going to be sick."

Without asking, he gently led her to an alleyway. They made it in time for her to drop her things and then empty the contents of her stomach onto the damp ground. A few dry heaves followed, but she was able to recover herself enough to lean back against the side of the building. She had never felt more defeated.

"What sort of trouble are you in, Vanessa?"

By the use of her given name, she supposed he felt he had the right to use it after her latest upset. It was starting to become a sour habit around him.

She shook her head. "I can't say. It would be a mistake."

"The only mistake is not telling me what you're running from. I have contacts who aren't just in Ireland, powerful men who owe me a few favors. Whatever it is, I can help you, but not if you don't trust me enough to confide in me."

She shook her head again. "I can't. Please don't ask it of me again."

Vanessa shoved him out of her way, grabbed her supplies, and then rushed past him. He called her name, but she continued running until she'd reached the safety of the Society.