Chapter 2

CHAPTER 2

A melia couldn’t have said how long she had stood in the middle of the study, staring at the portrait.

Paintings had spoken to her in the past, sure. But never quite so literally.

She had just opened her mouth, finally ready to formulate a response to Miss Isolde, when the door swung open behind her, interrupting the conversation, as it was.

She stood still, shocked for a second time that evening, at the man standing at the entrance.

This was the Earl of Blackwood.

She would know him anywhere – even if he hadn’t been entering his study.

Was she going to face repercussions for entering his private sanctum?

He shocked her – again – when he spoke, approaching her with slow, measured footsteps.

“You have happened upon one of the more… intriguing pieces in our collection,” he said as though he had been expecting her here. “It has a certain allure, does it not?”

Did he know that the painting had called her to it? Amelia finally recovered herself, forcing a smile in response, reminding herself that she needed this man – his money.

And that she shouldn’t be as drawn to him as she had been to the painting.

“Indeed, it does. The brushwork is exquisite.”

He nodded slowly, and Amelia sensed that she was being measured. Tested.

“What else do you see?” he asked, his voice low, velvety, as though he wished to lull her into sleep.

“Besides its condition?” she asked, raising a brow, and he nodded. Sensing what he wanted from her, she told the truth.

“It’s holding secrets,” she said, meeting his gaze brazenly. “The woman is tortured, and her emotion has extended to the rest of the painting. The brushwork's realism has captured her so that viewers feel her emotion in their very souls. Elements in the painting tell a story. The locket she wears is exquisite and holds meaning to her. The setting is where her heartbreak occurred. The objects on the table beside her are her personal effects, each of which signifies importance in her life.”

She sensed rather than heard or saw the sharp intake of his breath, but he only nodded.

“You are perceptive,” he noted. “And passionate about your work.”

“You know who I am?” she asked.

“I invited you here,” he said, leaning one hip against his desk. “You are Amelia Lennox, one of the few women who anyone of means will hire.”

“You are too kind, my lord,” she said, tilting her head to the side as she studied him the same way she did a piece of captivating artwork.

Long locks of dark hair extended over his forehead, covering a scar that cut through his eyebrow. His nose slightly bent more than would make him classically handsome, and he had a small dent in the chin amid a strong jawline.

Beyond the obvious, however, mystery was lurking in his gaze, more to him than he likely allowed others to see.

“Tell me, why have you invited me here?” she asked, not wanting to waste any more time.

He chuckled. “You are not at all like the young ladies I am used to.”

“I would be highly suspicious if you said I was.”

“Allow me to introduce myself. I am the Earl of Blackwood.”

“I know. And you already know my name, so let us dispense with the pleasantries, shall we?”

“Very well,” he said, amusement dancing across his face. “I invited you – as well as other artists of your ilk – to tonight’s exhibition because I am interested in having this very painting restored.”

“You could have hired one of us without all of the theatrics,” she said, sensing more at play.

He fixed his dark stare upon her. “I had a dual purpose.”

She wasn’t going to get any more out of him.

“It needs much work,” she said, turning to study it again, shaking off the shivers that touched her spine, unsure if they were caused by the painting or the man. “It has not been well cared for.”

“It didn’t deserve to be,” he muttered.

“You did not care for Isolde?” she asked, arching a brow, surprised when he looked at her so sharply that the intensity of his gaze seemed to burn right through her.

“How do you know that name?” he demanded.

“I couldn’t say,” she said truthfully, for he would never believe her if she admitted it. “I just do.”

His gaze turned dark and stormy as he fixed his eyes on the painting behind her, almost as if he were admonishing the subject.

Perhaps he would have believed her after all, but she was not about to admit to her lie now. Once one started down a path, it was best not to retrace any steps, she had learned from experience.

“Have you seen my work?” she asked, attempting to change the subject before he continued on the matter.

“I have,” he said. “My man-of-business provided me samples from those he considered the best in London.”

“How flattering,” she said. “Are you looking for a complete restoration?”

“I am.”

“Do you have a timeline in mind?”

“A few months would be ideal,” he said.

“I could start in a week,” she said, before realizing she likely seemed far too eager. “You are fortunate for I have a rare break in commissions.”

“I do not believe I have yet offered the job,” he said, arching an eyebrow, the slight scar that ran through it becoming more prominent when he did.

She shrugged. “I am the best. You should secure me quickly.”

“There is a stipulation,” he said. “The work will be done at Blackwood Manor.”

Another surprise. For a woman who was very rarely surprised. “Outside of London? You do not trust me with the painting, then.”

“That is part of it,” he admitted. “I have other reasons for not wanting the painting outside of my possession. Reasons I am not inclined to share. This is the first time it has left Blackwood Manor since its creation.”

“I see,” she murmured, already running the numbers in her head. She loved Soho, but she had no ties to her current residence. Not only could she likely make a generous amount from what would be a straightforward and yet intriguing job, but she wouldn’t have to pay for accommodations for a few months, at least. Longer, if she could stretch it out. And an earl could make for a good future client. “That could be arranged.”

“Very good. My man-of-business will be in touch.” He held out his elbow toward her. “Shall we return to the party? I will show you around the rest of my gallery if you’re interested.”

“I would be very interested.” She couldn’t wait for Charlie to see her up close with the earl, imagining his expression when he realized she had captured the commission they had all desperately longed for.

She smiled up at the earl as she slipped her arm through his, the bare skin of her wrist brushing against his hand as she did.

Causing an eruption.

Her smile fell, her entire body going slack as power gushed from where they touched, racing through her and filling her from head to toe until she thought she might explode from the vibrations.

The last thing she saw were his eyes, staring at her with equal shock and confusion.

Then everything went black.

Now you’ve done it.

“Shut up!” Max yelled at the voices inside his head, voices that were going to drive him mad if he wasn’t already there. He ignored them as he lifted the woman in his arms, carrying her over to the desk. Holding her steady with his hip, he cleared the surface with one swoop of his arm and then placed her on top of it .

This was why people had furniture.

Isolde’s eyes were judging him as he shook Miss Lennox by her shoulders gently yet firmly, willing her awake.

Even while, inside, he was shaking as much as she had been.

His body was more alive than ever before, tingling as the earth beneath him threatened to swallow him whole, the tips of his fingers burning.

Who the hell was this woman?

None of the research he had been provided suggested that she was anything more than an artist, and yet – and yet.

There is one way to wake a woman.

He ignored the voice that had taken up residence in his head months ago as he felt for her pulse, relieved when he found it beating strongly beneath his fingers.

Thank goodness.

That wouldn’t have been easy to explain – not that the only reason he wanted her alive was so that he wouldn’t be accused of murder.

He needed her to restore the painting.

And she is more alluring than any woman you’ve ever met.

True. He could admit that. Not that he would ever act upon such an inkling.

Touch her.

He frowned at the painting. The last thing he needed was Isolde’s interference.

You have no better ideas.

This voice was the usual one, the man who had pushed his way into his thoughts, following him around, giving him no reprieve no matter where he was.

“Very well,” he muttered, giving in and reaching out, cupping Miss Lennox’s face in his hands, trying to ignore how the soft creaminess of her skin was begging for more than just his fingers upon it. His lips would do nicely.

He pushed away the thought as he leaned in and cupped her face, prepared this time for the jolt that ran through him.

Water. He needed water. He looked around the room for a cup of it, but there was none to be found – even his costly glass of wine had fallen to the floor when he had cleared the desk to lay her upon it, and he stocked no sideboard here.

When he turned his attention back to the prostrate woman, however, he was astonished to find that tears were leaking out of her eyes as though he had summoned them himself. He brushed them over her face, hoping that, in some way, they would revive her.

When his thumbs stroked her lips she gasped and jolted upward so quickly that he had to snap his head back to prevent the two of them from smashing their noses against one another.

“Who are you?” she demanded instantly, her eyes narrowing, and he gritted his teeth to prevent himself from snapping back to her demand.

“I am the Earl of Blackwood, as you well know,” he said, his voice clipped. “And I would watch my tone if I were you.”

Her brows rose and she opened her mouth as though to retort, but she finally caught herself, looking around them before back at him.

She closed her mouth and pushed him away as she scooted toward the end of the table, ignoring the hand of assistance he offered.

“What did you do to me?” she asked now, to which he snorted, no longer quite so concerned about her. She hadn’t stricken him as a woman who would have fainted upon the touch of an earl, but then, one could never know another’s true intentions for certain.

“Besides grace you with my presence?” he asked, giving her the cause to snort this time.

“Sure. We shall go with that.”

“Absolutely nothing,” he said. “I offered you my arm and you were overcome.”

“I was—” her mouth snapped shut again, although her eyes told another story, storms brewing within them. “Very well. I am going to return to the party.”

“I will accompany you.”

“No,” she said firmly. “I believe I will go alone.”

She strode to the door, about to open it when he called out, “Miss Lennox?”

“Yes?” she said without turning around.

“Would you still like that commission?”

“I would,” she said with one quick look behind her, meeting his eyes before her gaze continued on to the painting. “ She can’t hurt me.”

As she shut the door behind her, Max shook his head.

If only she knew how wrong she was.

He could have sworn that Isolde was laughing in agreement.