Nothing But Deception Read online

  “Oh, no, E.,” Bea exclaimed, rushing to take her friend’s hand. “I’ll come with you.”

  “Don’t be a goose,” Lady Bainbridge chided. “We came all this way so you and Monsieur Durand could begin work. Why, ’twould be a crime to let the opportunity go to waste. Montgrave’s staff is more than adequate to see to my needs.”

  Guilt twinged him. The carriage ride hadn’t seemed taxing, but perhaps the lady was of delicate constitution. “I am terribly sorry to hear you are ailing. Are you certain we cannot be of assistance?”

  “Quite certain. I’ll be fine with a short rest, and then if the two of you are still in sight, I promise to join you. In the meantime, do not hesitate to ask the staff for anything.” With an apologetic smile, she departed for the house, leaving him with the adorably flustered subject of his interest.

  Philippe kept his expression neutral, hiding his amusement. He was no doctor, but Elizabeth Bainbridge appeared in fine color, and the spring in her step betrayed her claim of an unsettled stomach.

  Damned if the duchess hadn’t connived a way to leave him alone with the lovely Lady Pullington.

  He’d have to thank her later.

  Chapter 5

  Well. So much for relying on one’s friends. Bea watched as Elizabeth beat a hasty retreat. She had the sneaking suspicion that, though her friend had been queasy of late, that was not her only motive in seeking refuge in the house.

  “Shall we, my lady?”

  Bea whipped around. Monsieur Durand stood before her, offering his free arm, a gleam in his eye. The sun reflected on the deep gold of his hair, his chiseled profile.

  Heavens. He was just as enigmatic as she’d remembered from the salon.

  She threw one last glance toward the house. Propriety dictated she bring a companion, a maid at the very least. After all, that was why Elizabeth had accompanied them in the first place.

  But Bea’s status as a widow, and frustration with a lifetime of bowing to propriety, gave her the impetus to do whatever she damn well pleased.

  Even if they were seen, Bea knew the duke employed only servants capable of great discretion. She swallowed, summoning her courage. Never let it be said insecurity had gotten the best of her.

  Bea gave him a brilliant smile and tucked her hand in the crook of his arm.

  He flashed a matching smile, and they struck off across the grounds.

  “Do you need no other equipment?” Bea asked, eyeing his satchel.

  “Not today. I have my sketchbook. I usually do a few, ah, preliminary sketches, to get an idea of angles and such, before working on canvas.”

  “Oh.”

  “And then there is the matter of choosing the best light. A challenge of painting outdoors, for the light changes throughout the day.”

  “Oh.” She would win no awards for witty conversation this day. Come now, Bea, she chided herself. Oh? Surely you can come up with something more scintillating than a one-word reply.

  She tilted back her head to look up at him. “Would it be easier if we used an indoor setting?” she asked.

  He met her eye. “Easier, yes. But less worthy.”

  Again, she had no response to that—except for the giddy rush of warmth at his assessment of her worthiness. Apparently, “dazzling conversationalist” was not among the criteria he used to judge. Thank goodness.

  She turned her gaze forward, lest she trip, and they walked in silence for a while.

  “I make you nervous.”

  Bea let out a breathless laugh at the blunt observation. “Yes.”

  “Porquoi?”

  “Why?” she echoed. She swallowed, trying to pull her thoughts to the question at hand—and away from the long, lean-muscled artist beside her.

  “You need not fear me.” He slowed their pace enough to look her in the eye again. “It is an intimate thing, painting another person—at least it is if you hope to capture their true spirit. And I do hope to do so. You captivate me. But I would never attempt to harm you, to do anything you did not desire.”

  “Oh. Thank you for that.”

  His promise should have been reassuring. But Bea’s fear lay not in what she did not desire, but in what she might very well desire. Her awareness had tripled at his open acknowledgement that they were embarking on an intimate venture. The world around them fell away, seeming immaterial to Bea, compared to the intense presence of the man beside her. She unconsciously gripped his arm more tightly.

  Bea studied her footsteps as they continued toward the wood. Well she knew what Philippe meant—at least when it came to art. Writing a poem was, for her, a deeply intimate process—but a solitary one. Painting would be the same, she suspected, and when the subject was another person…Bea was suddenly, irrationally jealous of the other women Philippe Durand had painted.

  Their wide, sun-dappled path led into the wood. The faint call of wilderness lured her feet along, as though in a few mere steps she could leave civilization behind. Though spring had fully reached the cultivated, open grounds of the estate, it came slower to the shaded depths of the woods.

  Philippe released her arm gently. “Go on ahead, wander at will.”

  She nodded and moved off self-consciously as the artist fell back. She’d been in these woods before while visiting Elizabeth, but it had been winter then, and they had not wandered far. The trees were different now, the barest tips of green brightening the dreariness of winter. A week or two more, and the buds would be bursting with the new life of spring.

  And with that thought, Bea knew exactly where her feet had subconsciously been leading her.

  “Up ahead,” she called, excitement filling her. Would he see it as she did? In winter, the little garden had been desolate, a place of forgotten dreams. But in spring?

  She hurried along the path. Had it been this far?

  Finally the trail opened into a small clearing, the site of a long-abandoned rose garden. Ivy and bramble competed with thorny branches, snaking over a chipped basin and curling around the feet of a small bench.

  She stopped at the edge of the clearing. Philippe stopped just behind her, close enough that she could feel the heat of him. The air was still, the silence broken only by the occasional twitter of a bird or rustle of a squirrel.

  Her heart beat faster. There was possibility here. She’d felt it before…the promise of poetry. Or, perhaps, art.

  Softly, she quoted:

  I heard a thousand blended notes,

  While in a grove I sate reclined,

  In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts

  Bring sad thoughts to the mind.

  She paused, and the air around them held silent once more, save for the soft drip of water somewhere in the forest.

  The French artist’s expression was thoughtful. “I confess great ignorance of the English poets,” he said, “but…Wordsworth?”

  “Yes.” She smiled, pleased—though somehow not surprised—that he’d recognized the piece.

  “It is an appropriate sentiment.” He smiled at her, then nudged her shoulder, indicating the garden. “I need to see you in it.”

  She nodded, self-conscious again. She stepped into the little clearing, ran her hand along the top of the bench, letting the mood of her surroundings seep into her, until she’d all but forgotten the enigmatic man observing her at the garden’s edge. She picked her way across stones and ivy, careful not to disturb anything, until she reached the reflecting basin, now empty.

  A broken robin’s egg rested in the center. She touched it tentatively, then looked up, searching for the nest from which it must have fallen.

  “Stop.”

  She froze, face lifted, breath held.

  “Oui.”

  He moved to her, angling his head, pausing, considering. He gently repositioned her right hand on the stone basin. “Just so,” he murmured.

  Her body quivered at his touch, though she did her best to hide it. The tingling rush that always filled her at the beginning of a new poem was present no
w. The suspicion that he felt it too was confirmation of his earlier declaration—the process of painting someone, though they’d hardly begun, was an intimate one.

  He stepped back, circled her slowly. “All right, relax a moment while I fetch my sketchbook.” He went to rummage through the satchel.

  Bea slowly released her breath.

  “You like this, then?” She gestured toward a wrought-iron arch, overgrown with the woody vines of roses gone wild.

  “Very much. In a week, perhaps two, it will be perfect. A bit more hint at life, but not yet full bloom. We will have to hurry, if I am to have the canvas readied by then.”

  He fished out the sketchbook, a tin of charcoals, and settled himself against the trunk of a tree, taking in the abandoned garden. “Now, chérie, if you would resume the pose you held a moment ago…” He selected a thin charcoal stick and propped the sketchpad against his knee. His deft hands went to work, quick short strokes on the paper as Bea did her best to recreate the pose he liked.

  She stood until her arms and neck ached, shifting only when Monsieur Durand would lift his head and gesture to her, indicating a minor adjustment to the pose. He spoke little, his entire concentration on the connection between her and the images he was creating on paper. His absorption in his work was a relief, for it spared her the necessity of inventing carefree banter when all she could think of was him.

  Finally, his charcoal stilled and his intense focus on her mellowed as he gestured toward the garden as a whole. “Whose was it?”

  “I know not,” Bea answered, sagging in relief as she allowed her arms to drop. Elizabeth hadn’t known either, when they’d first discovered the place. “A past duchess, perhaps. It has been some time since it was tended.”

  “Ah, the misty veils that shroud the past. A forgotten place, though not a lonely one. It is perfect.” He smiled, stood and stretched, then came to stand by her side. “I was not mistaken. You, Lady Pullington, are most definitely the muse I have been seeking.”

  “Beatrice,” she whispered. It seemed absurd that the man attempting, as he’d said, to capture her true spirit on canvas should use her formal title. But her request was improper. She was a lady, he an artist. Use of her title was an acknowledgement of that gap.

  He knew it, too—she saw the serious consideration in his eyes. “Beatrice,” he repeated slowly.

  He stood close. Too close. Close enough for her to know the woodsy scent of his soap mingled perfectly with their surroundings.

  “What am I doing here?” she whispered.

  He tilted his head and the corner of his mouth lifted in a half smile. “Call it…un coup de coeur.”

  A spontaneous attraction. She could hardly deny that.

  His eyes went dark, but she couldn’t drag her gaze away from that fathomless blue.

  This was more than she had bargained for. Flirtation, yes, and the flattery of being the subject of his beautiful artwork. But never…this. This intense need to have him know her, care for her.

  He was an artist, a Frenchman, and a known seducer of women. Hardly a man to whom she could trust her heart.

  This was desire, this was passion—nothing else. But, oh, Lord, she’d never felt the sort of heady rush she did when he looked at her like that, and her heart argued to be given its chance.

  He leaned in.

  There was no stopping this. She would rather die than pull away now.

  His lips grazed her temple, a light touch. Warm. He drew back just long enough to meet her gaze.

  He would see her acceptance, her pleading, the same way he always saw through her, to the core of what she felt. Bea knew it and looked him in the eye anyway.

  Never breaking her gaze, he set the sketchbook and charcoal tin on the edge of the basin. The tin slipped and clattered to the bottom, ignored by both.

  He captured her face with strong hands, barely a moment before his mouth fused to hers. Slanting, again and again. This was no light caress. Her lips parted under the pressure, and he drove inside, gripping her tight with hands that sought to possess, rather than pose her.

  Bea was drowning. Her hands slid to the wall of his chest, stroking, seeking. Waves of sensation crashed over her as his tongue plundered her mouth, exploring, then thrusting, mating with hers.

  He drew her closer yet, his hand at the small of her back, until their hips met, her thigh nestled between his legs. His lips moved to her neck, and her head tipped back at this new pleasure.

  His tongue traced the line of her throat, down to her collarbone. Her back arched, her body wantonly seeking more. The movement brought her in direct contact with his arousal.

  Bea pulled back sharply. Dear God, what was she doing?

  Philippe dropped his hands, his breathing labored.

  “Did you lure me into the woods to paint me or to seduce me?” The question slipped out before Bea could consider the wisdom of asking it.

  Philippe frowned, the intimacy of the moment shattered. “You English are so…orderly. No mixing of business with pleasure. Why is this so? The French do not see it thus—though, whatever you may have heard, I do not make a habit of seducing my subjects.”

  She waited.

  He sighed. “I intend to paint you. And I made a promise not to do anything you did not desire. Je suis désolé. I apologize. I shall not kiss you again—unless you wish me to do so.”

  “It was my fault as well,” Bea acknowledged softly. “But it would be better if it does not happen again.”

  “Better?” Philippe echoed with a rough laugh. “An odd choice of word. Safer. More proper, perhaps. But I would not say it will be better.”

  Once more, Bea could think of no appropriate rejoinder.

  He chuckled, but the sound held a note of regret. “No matter. I believe I’ve enough sketches for this day. Let us go. With luck, Lady Bainbridge will be recovered enough for the return journey.”

  He did not offer his arm as he had before, so Bea trudged silently behind him as they retraced the path through the woods. Never in her life, and especially never in her brief marriage, had she felt that desperate leap of desire she’d experienced at the touch of Jean Philippe Durand.

  From the moment she’d agreed to this outing, she’d sensed it would be dangerous. Now she knew why.

  Philippe arrived late to the Wilbournes’ on Wednesday night. The trip to Montgrave had yielded an ideal setting for his next work, but had also consumed the full afternoon and evening. The estate might be close to London by the ton’s standards for country homes, but it would not lend itself to daily trips back and forth.

  Had the rose garden been any less perfect, he’d have been tempted to find something closer. But it was perfect—Bea and he had both felt it. Philippe had felt a great deal more, too, during the outing, but it was too soon to speculate about the implications of that.

  The Wilbournes, Philippe was learning, thrived in the role of host and hostess. Tonight they’d planned a card party. Fortunately, such events never really got started until late in the evening, making his tardiness excusable.

  The added benefit, Philippe reflected as he strode up the steps to their home after a quick stop at the hotel for fresh attire, was that since he played abominably, missing a few rounds would do him no harm.

  He greeted his hosts and those few faces he recalled from other events, then stood back, keenly aware he was out of place in this crowd. He was not English, nor titled, nor even a skilled player. He possessed the temperament to make himself at home in nearly any situation, but the session with Beatrice at the abandoned rose garden had left him unsettled.

  Then again, he wasn’t at home anywhere these days. His mother’s revelation had robbed him of the identity he’d grown up with. Until he met with Lord Owen—a task he’d delayed due to his sudden obsession with a certain Englishwoman—he would have no answers.

  His inquiries had yielded an address in Kent. If he could tear himself away from Beatrice, he could make the trip this weekend. Two days—three at t
he most. After all, it wasn’t as though he’d be an invited guest.

  A man at Lord Wilbourne’s card table stood and excused himself, prompting Lord Wilbourne to beckon toward Philippe. “Monsieur, won’t you join us? We’ve need of a fourth. The game is whist.”

  “I am afraid any partner of mine would be terribly disappointed,” Philippe answered.

  “Very well then, gents,” Lord Wilbourne addressed the others at the table, “what say you we switch to Five-Card Loo?”

  The men nodded, and Wilbourne beckoned once more to Philippe.

  He’d run out of excuses. One could hardly accept an invitation to a card party and then expect not to play. He took a seat. A footman set a fresh wineglass by his side, peering at him with interest.

  Curious. Servants were generally trained never to display facial expressions.

  Lord Wilbourne dealt, introducing the two other participants as Lords Garrett and Stockton.

  A tinkle of laughter sounded from across the room, where a table of women bent their heads together, clearly engaged in gossipy intrigue. Lord Garrett glanced their way. “Normally we’d balance the tables a bit better,” he told Philippe, “but the opportunity to challenge Stockton and Wilbourne here was too great to pass up.”

  Philippe saw no ring on Garrett’s hand and guessed him a bachelor—though he could think of no good reason an unmarried man would choose a table of men over the prettily-attired group across the room.

  But the reason became clear as the men picked up their cards, placed their first bets, and began playing in earnest.

  Merde. How had he landed at the table containing three of the most skilled—and, it seemed, wealthy—gamblers in London? It would take all his concentration to keep from losing his shirt. Unfortunately, Lord Wilbourne seemed inclined toward desultory conversation while staking what, to Philippe at least, were staggering sums.

  “I hope you don’t mind me saying that, although you are known to be one for effect, you truly outdid yourself at the salon,” Lord Wilbourne told him. “Why, it has been the talk of London ever since. My wife couldn’t be any more pleased.”