It’s Marriage Or Ruin. Liz Tyner
older woman patted her hand, spoke briefly to her companions and took Emilie’s arm as they strolled to the cooler air.
Emilie saw the darkest edge and aimed for it, leaving the strains of music behind.
‘If you’d stay with me for a moment longer…’ She kept Lady Elliot at her side. ‘I am feeling better, but…’
‘Dear…’ Lady Elliot patted Emilie’s glove ‘…do be careful of the drink. It doesn’t always improve a woman’s complexion. A little does add a rosy glow, but take a lot and the headache isn’t worth it. You’ll be ghastly the following day.’
‘Well,’ Emilie admitted, brushing away a wisp of hair that had loosened from her bun, ‘now and then, I do forget about my appearance.’
‘You must never do that.’ Lady Elliot sputtered. ‘A woman’s decorum and fashion should always be of utmost importance in her mind. My Cecilia Ann has been schooled in that. Proper manners and a good wardrobe can take a woman far.’
Emilie frowned. She wouldn’t make it far then.
They found a bench in the darkness. ‘It is a lovely evening,’ Lady Elliot said, ‘except for Mrs Hodges’s dress. The colours would favour Mr Hodges better.’
‘Um…’ Emilie said, imagining a painting of Mr Hodges. ‘It would not work with his complexion. He would fade away into nothing.’
They discussed the varieties of colour in the ballroom, then feminine laughter and one rich baritone interrupted their chat. The laughter and the baritone were obviously moving towards Emilie and Lady Elliot.
The woman beside Emilie stilled.
Lord Grayson and his dancing partner were nearly directly in front of them when the two standing saw the two sitting. Even the air stopped.
The young woman spoke, voice high. ‘Mother?’
Lady Elliot moved to her feet. She took her daughter’s arm. ‘You promised the next reel to Sir Calvin.’ She took her daughter’s arm. ‘Cecilia. Inside. Right now. Immediately. I cannot fathom how you got confused. That is inexcusable manners.’
Lady Elliot didn’t slow as she twirled her daughter around and moved towards the lighted house—forgetting all about Emilie.
Lord Grayson remained perfectly still for several moments before he moved. He rearranged the hem of his sleeve and his eyes fell over Emilie, making the air she swallowed fill her with a fresh warmth. ‘We meet again.’
‘You knew I was out here,’ she said.
‘Whether I did or not, it doesn’t matter.’
Even in the darkness, Emilie could imagine him plainly. Nature had sculpted a visage which could have inspired Michelangelo to do better work.
Her hand wanted to caress, to run over the planes of his cheek so she could experience him with the feeling of touch as well as sight.
Inwardly, she berated her traitorous thoughts. She pulled herself from the momentary stupor, blaming it on her fascination with form.
How unfair that someone such as Lord Grayson, a man who said he liked frivolities, would have such a pleasing appearance. Her mother had been so wrong about which of Avondale’s sons had been graced with handsomeness.
The humour on his lips faded. ‘Miss Catesby, you are an accident waiting to happen.’
She tossed the words out. ‘Accidents do happen and I am not the cause of any of them.’
‘You cause things to happen on purpose.’
‘Occasionally.’
He reached out, taking her hand, and she moved, letting him pull her to her feet.
‘When you are near, Miss Catesby, I suspect they happen more than usual.’ He touched her waist, gently connecting with her garment and pouring sensation into her.
‘I would not claim that.’ She forced her voice to be firm and tried to examine him closely in the darkness—an error. Something pushed her heartbeats faster.
‘We have seen each other before,’ he said. ‘Years ago.’
‘I don’t…’ She searched her memories. ‘Are you certain?’ she asked.
She heard the leaves whispering to each other as they rustled in the darkness.
He didn’t answer with his voice. But his expression told her. ‘I remembered where earlier. But it has been many years. I didn’t recognise you at first.’
Emilie paused.
‘I should go inside.’ The words didn’t sound like her own. ‘I wouldn’t want either of our reputations harmed.’
‘Miss Catesby.’ His free hand closed over her gloved fingers and before she knew what he intended, he lifted her fingertips as if to kiss them. The scent of his shaving soap teased her. She’d never come across a soap like that, but she wasn’t sure if it was the soap that made him smell so good, or if it was the man himself.
‘If my reputation were to be harmed, I would be pleased if you were the one to do it.’
She felt disappointment when he dropped her hand instead of kissing it.
He moved closer and she realised he still held her waist, rotating his fingertips against the covered corset which felt thicker than any mattress, yet the warmth of his hand penetrated the garment. His mouth moved closer to her own and he held her still, keeping her so steady she couldn’t have moved away. She presumed him about to kiss her, but instead, he spoke.
‘Miss Catesby. Stay away from my brother. He would ruin you.’
She touched the light wool of his waistcoat, letting her fingers flatten against him. Leaves rustled again as the wind touched them. The breeze strengthened, and the air tingled her cheeks. ‘I would say it’s not your concern.’
‘Miss Catesby. You’re an innocent.’ His fingers pressed into the fabric at her waist and he moved back a whisper.
She trailed her fingers up the waistcoat, touching the cravat, the edge of his jaw, the curve of his lips. She could have been touching a Michelangelo when she felt his face. This was something she’d never imagined before. Her heart pounded from the merest touch of his skin.
To feel a true masterpiece overwhelmed her. She dropped her hand and clenched it, keeping it at her side. She could hardly wait to capture in paint a masculine jawline. One with a hint of darkness in it. In shadows. Such a challenge. To put this image on canvas. A man in the shadows. Darkened features. She could never call it The Dark Angel. Her mother would destroy it. She would call it A Saint In Repose.
She could not calm her heartbeats, but inspiration came at the strangest moments, and one should relish them, hold them close, hug them to one’s heart.
But she could not touch him again. He was the forbidden fruit. The crevasse that could swallow the as-yet-unmade creations that were inside her and turn her into nothingness.
‘Art is my passion.’
His mouth parted. ‘You could have more than one passion, perhaps.’
‘I do. Oils, then watercolours.’
‘Oils?’ he spoke, moving so close, and somehow he’d turned the word into something else. Something intimate.
Her scrutiny never left him and her hand escaped again. She had to study him. She retraced his jawline. The linen cravat. The rougher wool. She stopped where she started, trapped in some trance that he had spun around her.
Her love of shape and form and inspiration travelled