Nothing But Deception. Allegra Gray
has left my stomach unsettled. I think I shall go inside and have a lie-down while the two of you explore. Bea is familiar with the grounds, and you may, of course, wander freely.”
“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,