CHAPTER 5

THE MARQUESS WENT TO hang his coat on a peg by the opposite wall, giving Thalia the perfect opportunity to feast her eyes on the magnificence of his broad back. Emphasized by the cut of his waistcoat, it was a perfect inverted triangle, tapering from wide shoulders to slim waist and well formed...buttocks. Her face flamed, and she snapped her eyes up. Just in time to avoid getting caught ogling him.

The glint of humor in his silver eyes told her he had an inkling of the effect he had on her. Of course he did. A man like him must be used to provoking such reactions in the female population. Hers would be quite obvious, given away by her blasted blushes.

He was a lot more difficult to read as he unbuttoned the cuffs of his shirt and folded back his sleeves, uncovering muscled forearms dusted with golden hair. But when he sat down to mold the clay over the weird wiry structure he called ‘armature', she really had trouble tearing her eyes from his hands.

Who knew hands could be so...erotic? But the way his skilled fingers molded, shaped, squeezed and caressed the clay made Thalia's mouth go dry, and another very private place go wet. His hands were big, like the rest of him, tanned, callused, powerful. But there was an innate elegance in their bone structure, the long fingers, the precise way in which they moved over the clay, creating a dip here, smoothing down over there.

The slide of his hands mesmerized her. What would it feel like to have those hands running over her naked body? Caressing her flesh with the same tenderness and skill he was bestowing on an inert piece of clay? A shiver ran through her.

"Are you cold, Lady Renier?" His deep voice, modulated in elegant accents, and undercut by the barest hint of a growl, poured fuel on the inappropriate conflagration of desire burning inside her.

"No, of course not." She had to clear her throat. "Your coach is very comfortable, my lord."

Just at that moment, a servant entered with a tray featuring a tea service for one. Seeing that the marquess's art and supplies occupied the table between them, he deposited the tray on top of the cabinet and opened a similar table beside her seat, then placed the tea tray on it.

"Would you like anything, my lord?" the servant asked.

"A whisky, please."

The servant poured a glass, placed it on a corner of the marquess's working table, then slipped out as silently as he had entered.

The marquess sampled his whisky, and Thalia hid her face behind her teacup to avoid staring at the column of his neck, the way it moved as he swallowed the fiery liquid. She took a bracing sip from her tea. It was excellent. The marquess surrounded himself with the finest things in life.

"So, tell me, Lady Renier, you mentioned you were a widow?"

"I am, my lord."

"What a pity that such a vibrant lady should be widowed so young."

"I'm not so young," she protested. "Nor am I vibrant."

He cut a quick look at her before shifting his focus once more towards the clay.

"And who was your husband?"

"Sir Phillip Renier."

"A knight?"

"A baronet."

"Doesn't seem like a very advantageous marriage for an earl's daughter. Was it a love match, then?"

Was he mocking her? She had been a wallflower during her two failed seasons. The chances of her securing a more advantageous marriage, let alone a love match, were few to none.

"My marriage suited me."

He raised one eyebrow at her odd phrasing, but thankfully refrained from continuing that line of conversation. How rude. Would he like it if she started probing into his past and his wife? Then a chill slithered down her spine as she remembered the circumstances of his wife's death and the rumors about his involvement.

"How long ago were you widowed?" He continued the interrogation.

"Two years, my lord."

He grunted, looking pained. "All that ‘my-lording' me is getting tiresome. Call me Liam."

"I could not possibly use your given name, Lord Ashford."

"Why not? What's the use of a name if people may not use it? What is your given name?"

Was he always this direct and blunt? What about talking about the weather, the tea, the continent? Anything but intrusive questions about her.

"It's Thalia, my lord."

His attention snapped to her at that, and his eyes seemed to sparkle with wonder. A slow smile stretched his lips and transformed his austere face to breathtakingly handsome.

"Like the muse. What an appropriate name! I shall call you Thalia from now on."

She stared. As much dazzled by his smile as humiliated by his mockery.

"There's no need to mock me, my lord."

His smile disappeared at once. Replaced by a puzzled frown. "I wasn't mocking you. I truly think your name suits you. With your permission, I would like to use it. And it would honor me if you use mine."

He seemed so sincere. His eyes, earnest and direct, softened her resistance. A thought floated unbidden to the forefront of Thalia's mind: Now here was a man worth losing one's virtue to. Ridiculous, of course. Not because it wasn't true, but because someone like him would never be interested in a woman like her. But his flattery felt...nice. Like melted butter on a warm scone.

"I don't know if I can use your name," she confessed. It seemed wildly intimate.

"Sure you can."

"It's inappropriate."

"There's no one here to hear or judge. Practice saying it. Liam."

"Liam," she repeated obediently, her voice a little breathless from the mad race her heart had engaged in. But it appeared to please him. His attention fixated on her mouth, his eyes darkening.

"I like the way you say my name, Thalia." His tongue seemed to caress the syllables of her name.

"I haven't given you leave to use my name," she protested, but she couldn't prevent the smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. Did he think his name sounded good when she said it? Well, her name in his rich baritone was seduction incarnate.

"No? Hmm, I'll just have to work harder on gaining your trust." With a smile, he turned his attention again to his sculpture, his fingers sliding with almost indecent sensuality through the pliant clay.

She cleared her throat. "Why would you want to? I thought your only purpose was to extricate your brother from my sister's clutches and then wash your hands of my family."

"I thought you wanted the same."

"I do. But what leads you to believe that my sister is not a suitable bride for your brother? For your information, she is a young lady of excellent character and impeccable breeding."

"So is my brother," he replied smoothly.

"Your brother is a rake."

He tsked. "Don't be so judgmental, Thalia. My brother is an unattached young man. It's expected that he would...entertain himself. But he has never compromised an innocent."

"Until my sister."

"Is your sister innocent?"

Oh, that galled. Especially coming from him. How dare he impugn her sister's honor! Her mouth fired before her brain could weigh the consequences.

"Are you, Lord Ashford?"

She immediately regretted her words. His face shuttered, extinguishing the friendly banter and sense of camaraderie between them.

"I am sorry. I shouldn't have said that," she stammered.

His hands paused in its caressing of the clay. "It's quite all right. At least you asked, instead of condemning without question."

"Still. It was unforgivably rude of me."

He took a sip of his whisky, studying her. "Do you wish to know the answer?"

She very much did, but the intensity of his gaze disconcerted her. "If you want to tell me."

His smile was cryptical. "Weirdly enough, I do want to tell you." He wiped his hands on a rag, grabbed his glass of whisky, and reclined back in his chair. Crossing one long leg over the other, his ankle resting on the opposite knee. "Are you sure you are ready to hear the sordid story, Lady Thalia?"

She gulped. As much for his words, as for his casual display of comfortable masculinity. Ready or not, she found herself riveted. Never had she been so interested in something as she was in the tale of the Murderous Marquess.