London's Most Elusive Earl Read online

“Fear?” Conrad shook his head, a bemused expression on his face.

  “Fear of missing the moment, the pinnacle subject of gossip which will last at least a day or two,” Louisa continued.

  “Until something or someone else provides the latest on-dit,” Beatrice agreed.

  Lindsey watched as their little group advanced closer to the masterpiece poised for display. The Notley sisters pursued a lively interchange and Conrad enjoyed their attention. Lindsey adjusted his gait until he fell in behind Lady Nicholson.

  A gong sounded and a hush fell over the crowd. Behind him, several people rushed to find the ideal vantage point and the swell in the narrow gallery became a nuisance. He stepped forward to distance himself at the same time an unexpected jostle occurred at his back. His sleeve inadvertently rubbed against Lady Nicholson’s bare arm and his entire body tensed. She immediately glanced over her shoulder, meeting his eyes with an unreadable emotion. He forced a smile, and after a beat she offered a hesitant grin in return.

  “Pardon me, my lady.” He leaned in to offer the words near her ear. Orchids. It was definitely orchids. Her hair was drawn away from her face, fastened at the back in an elaborate display of braids and ringlets, and while he thought the light fragrance of her perfume the only temptation to his black soul, he realized he’d enjoy nothing more than fanning his fingers through the silky lengths of her hair as the pins fell helplessly to the floor. He’d list kisses across her delicate jaw and nibble a path down the slope of her neck until her pulse quickened against his mouth in sensual invitation.

  The lethal combination of lust and possibility shot fire through his blood as his mind painted the image. Meanwhile, an unnamed emotion rivaled his desire with equaled strength. He wanted her kiss, a taste of her sweet mouth and beyond, to explore every inch of creamy smooth skin covered by finely spun silk. He’d devour her to her delight, a wicked lick at the back of her knees, a teasing bite to her instep, until he feasted on each and every sensitive curve and silky crease—

  “It’s too crowded in here.” She flitted her eyes to his and then away. “I anticipated my father’s company for the unveiling but hardly think he’ll be able to locate me in this crush.”

  Her words were a much-needed bucket of cold water, and Lindsey drew a long breath to regain clarity. A head taller than those around him, he surveyed the crowd, though he had no idea for whom he searched. When he returned his attention to Caroline, he found she watched him too.

  * * * *

  Caroline stared at the Earl of Lindsey, her body and mind calibrated to his nearness. He somehow made her aware of her own femininity, that she was all woman and he, pure masculinity. It was the strangest reaction.

  When he’d accidently brushed against her arm, a prickle of anticipation coursed through her, and she couldn’t imagine why she’d respond in such an absurd manner. She’d watched his jaw tense before he smiled. He wasn’t unaffected either, the same as she’d noticed during their dance. And when Lord Conrad had approached and initiated conversation, the earl had withdrawn until he’d measured his stride to keep pace with hers, despite she’d intentionally slowed.

  Could he wish to know her better, or did she simply present him a convenient alternative to escape the frivolous banter of her cousins? Caroline couldn’t know.

  She forced her eyes to the platform where the Duke of Warren addressed the crowd. She barely heard His Grace’s words, the distance and distraction of Lindsey beside her too powerful to allow for comprehension. It was as if every cell of her being was in tune to him, their existence aligned though not a word was spoken between them.

  She attempted a step to the left for no other reason than to achieve distance and dispel the unnerving tension, but the crowd was having nothing of it, and she found herself forced to the right without warning or provocation.

  Lindsey caught her bare arm with his gloved hand as she leaned precariously, quick to adjust her footing. His hold didn’t linger though his forefinger trailed along her skin in a touch that had nothing to do with keeping her upright. Her skin shimmered with a rush of heat beginning at her breastbone and spreading beneath her corset in a sheen of perspiration. She’d barely managed to reposition herself when his voice was at her ear.

  “Accept my apologies again, my lady.” His heated breath stoked an unruly fire alive in her veins. “The crowd is eager and impatient. Are you all right?”

  “Yes.” Her answer was nothing more than a breathy whisper. “Whatever lies beneath that cloth better be worth the inconvenience of these conditions.” The humor of her reply caused her to bite her lower lip. The cloth of the warrior sculpture? Lindsey’s elegant dress gloves? Or the drape which hid the painting on the easel?

  Her attempt at indignation likely failed. When he’d leaned down to speak, his straight nose and strong chin created a handsome profile beside her. She noticed the dark shadow of tomorrow’s whiskers along his jaw and detected the masculine scent of his shaving soap, something spicy with a hint of cloves. Utterly male. She stole another subtle sniff. How incredibly proper and yet recklessly tempting, to be so close to this powerful gentleman and at the same time amidst the entire ton with nothing to hide.

  “The evening has already proven its worth to me.”

  He straightened before she could respond.

  “Caroline, come to the front so you’ll have a better view.” Beatrice turned halfway and with a wave of her hand coaxed Caroline forward.

  “I’m fine. It’s too tight to move.” She returned her cousin’s gesture in reverse, as if to dismiss her of responsibility.

  “When His Grace has completed his announcement, would you gift me with a waltz, Lady Nicholson?” Lindsey murmured for her ears only.

  Wasn’t that a dangerous question? She hadn’t yet recovered from their first dance, the memory hypnotic enough to keep her dizzy. Her cousins had warned that further association with the Earl of Lindsey would deter potential suitors and discourage other, more modest gentlemen. The wisest answer was to decline. She could easily report that her card was already filled.

  “I would enjoy that, my lord.” She didn’t look at him fully, afraid of what she would read in his expression or, worse, reveal in her own.

  Further discussion was obliterated as the Duke of Warren’s voice boomed above the crowd. Warren stood before the easel, the corner of the cloth clenched in hand. Caroline had missed most of what was spoken earlier, though she knew His Grace intended to show a newly acquired collectible purchased during a recent trip to Italy. She caught the end of his sentence as it trailed out over the assembled guests.

  “…and so, it is my honor to share with you a work of distinguished historic acclaim and a masterpiece for its workmanship and irreplaceable value.”

  A hush fell over the crowd, so awestruck and eager, and Caroline could hear the smooth slide of the satin drape as it revealed the gilded frame for all to see.

  “I give you the Nona.”

  A swift gasp of appreciation passed with lightning finesse through the crowd in sharp contrast to the black curse that sliced the air beside her. She raised her eyes to Lindsey, his expression thunderous and eyes narrowed in anger.

  At that same moment, her father succeeded in his effort to find her, pushing through the crush at her back and gently touching her arm to draw her attention. In the span of a smile and nod, she lost sight of the Earl of Lindsey. One moment he stood at her side, until she’d glanced away to acknowledge her father, and then he’d disappeared. How the man managed to part the crowd mystified her, though the scowl she’d witnessed might have warned those who crossed his path to move quickly. His presence intimidated.

  Her father pulled her attention from the crowd. “Would you like to admire the painting at a closer advantage?”

  “Yes, although I suppose we’ll have to wait our turn. It appears everyone is a sudden admirer of Italian culture this evening. You respe
ct the arts in earnest, Father.”

  “I’m hardly the most discerning in the crowd, and as you know my interest lies more in studying the workmanship than the actual piece as an investment or adornment.”

  “The fine paintings you’ve collected are outstanding examples,” she replied as they maneuvered a step closer to the platform, though her mind remained on the Earl of Lindsey’s unexpected reaction.

  “Someday, when you’ve married and have established your own home, perhaps you’ll add a few of my collection to your walls.” He chuckled at her side. “A selfish fatherly wish, I suppose.”

  “I would enjoy that very much.”

  Throughout their discussion, they’d managed to gain ground and now stood before the platform. The Nona was a simplistic painting in many ways, displaying a single partially nude form of a woman in a garden, but to a collector the piece was invaluable. Whether one admired the layering of color and texture or appreciated the symbolism of the composition, like her father, she understood the painting’s appeal.

  If her tutor of Italian history was worth his reputation and her memory served correctly, the painting was one of a collection depicting the three personifications of destiny. In Roman history, the Nona was the goddess who spun the thread of humanity from her spindle, and therefore represented fertility and continued life.

  She assumed the Duke of Warren desired the painting for its prestige and monetary worth, as would any nobleman with interest in cultural arts. She flicked her eyes around the room again, but Lindsey was nowhere to be seen.

  In consolation, she watched her father’s intense study of the painting. He likely noted the masterful brushstrokes and texture, but for her the picture struck a chord of vulnerability. She longed to carry a child and have a family one day. A sharp pang of sadness abbreviated the thought. The future was uncertain, or at least some aspects were, and she’d rather not fall into melancholy here, where she couldn’t find a moment’s reprieve from the jovial celebration. Perhaps she’d sneak away to the lady’s retiring room and reorder her unruly emotions.

  “Uncle, we are here to collect you.” Beatrice, followed by Dinah, joined them before the platform. Louisa was not at their side. “Aunt Julie would like to move into the dining room and has sent us to find you.”

  “All this commotion over such a little painting.” Dinah donned a sassy smirk.

  “It’s quite valuable.” Lord Derby straightened and began to lead the ladies from the gallery. “Especially if a collector is fortunate enough to have purchased the other two pieces.”

  “I’d much rather spend my time dancing,” Beatrice added. “Besides, we have plans of our own, don’t we, Caroline?”

  They hurried along the hall and returned to the ballroom. Her father quickly crossed to escort her mother into dinner, the first course ready to be served. Caroline lingered with her two cousins and watched the guests who danced across the floor in the first of the last two waltzes of the evening.

  Caroline considered her next course of action. No matter she told herself to forget about the Earl of Lindsey’s request for a dance; his sudden disappearance in the gallery was curious and almost guaranteed he had no intention of claiming her before the final arrangement was played. And yet, some reckless part of her heart wished he would materialize beside her as he’d managed the other evening and clasp her glove in his to escort her to the marble tiles.

  Such fanciful romantic tendencies were unlike her sensible nature, and without a way to explain them she blinked the ideas away in hope it would ward off disappointment.

  * * * *

  Lindsey watched the Duke of Warren where he stood beside the refreshment table in conversation with another guest. Upon Lindsey’s approach, the young lord noted his expression and made a hasty retreat. Warren turned and the two began speaking, a formal greeting unnecessary.

  “Still driving people off with no more than a glare?”

  “At times the skill proves convenient,” Lindsey answered.

  “For a man reputed to charm every female with nothing more than a turn of the lips, I’m not surprised the opposite holds true.” Warren indicated a passing tray of brandy and Lindsey nabbed a glass.

  “The unveiling made for quite a show. You kept every guest breathless. Well done, Your Grace.”

  Warren chuckled softly, though he knew exactly what he’d achieved. “It’s a valuable acquisition.”

  “An admirable one too.” Lindsey needed to proceed with care. The last thing he wished to incite was competition. Besides, the irking debate of whether Lord Jenkin’s painting was authentic or indeed the Duke of Warren possessed the true work of art needed to be handled gingerly. The artist was deceased. It would take a proper inspection to determine which painting was genuine, and that presented a difficult task. Neither he nor the Duke of Warren would accept the reality of being duped with any welcome. Yet they both couldn’t come out on the right side of things, especially when the painting rightfully belonged to his father.

  “You must have a reliable source to unearth a painting thought lost to history for too many years to count,” he prodded, his eyes matched to Warren’s to detect how the words would be received. A weighty pause ensued.

  “If you’re after an investment, you won’t find me of any help.” Again His Grace chuckled. “I’ll not reveal my business associate and have you purchase all the best pieces before I consider them.”

  “A shrewd approach.” Lindsey beat back his impatient temper.

  “I believe it so.”

  “With your permission, I’d like to examine the Nona privately.” He took a chance on the duke’s hospitality, though no one could suspect Lindsey’s true motives.

  “Feel free to inspect it at your leisure. I’ve had the painting placed in my study.” Warren angled his head toward a pair of mahogany doors at the back of the room. “Why not take advantage of the dinner hour? The last waltz is at its end and I’m needed in the dining room. Proceed out the doors and down the hall on the left.”

  Warren didn’t say more and left before Lindsey could thank him. He coasted his eyes across the ballroom, settling on the few couples who lingered even though the gong chimed to call guests into the meal.

  He regretted not claiming the last dance from Lady Nicholson, but in this he couldn’t be deterred. Was the Nona he possessed a counterfeit? Could Lord Jenkin have been fooled into purchasing a fraud? And what was the likelihood that after so many years of disappearance, two versions of a missing painting would surface within days of each other?

  He shook his head to clear it. Damn his father and the games he’d intertwined with the future solvency of the earldom. While Lindsey had sufficient savings, there was no getting away from the truth. He’d had two solicitors examine the financial stability of his father’s claims and found himself trapped, his father’s proposition a sinking reality.

  Still, the second condition of the will’s terms, that he beget an heir as quickly as possible, was so preposterous Lindsey wondered why he made any effort to fulfill the first half.

  At least one thing proved true. He needed another brandy. Mayhap two.

  Chapter Seven

  This wasn’t becoming a habit. At least that’s what Caroline told herself as she stole inside the Duke of Warren’s private study. When had she become such a delicate flower? She wasn’t, nor would she pretend to be. The only child of practical parents, she’d been raised an intelligent equal, who received tutoring and education befitting any woman her age. But while her cousins had come to maturity amid the capricious social arena, Caroline had traveled, learned to appreciate the world through the arts, and relied on her own intuition for guidance more often than not.

  So then why now did she find a need to pull inward and away? She refused to believe her unhealthy interest in the Earl of Lindsey could be the cause. She didn’t know the man and shouldn’t have a desire to do so.
An unfulfilled dance request was nothing to incite a forlorn reaction. It seemed too often she reminded herself of that fact.

  Closing her eyes in another long blink, she rebelled against her true fears, that she’d never find who she needed, a husband who would accept and love her unconditionally. Her cousins had no idea of the bleak sadness that dwelled deep in her soul. She suspected she couldn’t even voice the words. The gentlemen she met, any candidate for future husband, would wish for a family, and Caroline knew her greatest doubt existed in that her body would not cooperate.

  Moving farther into the well-lit study, she remembered the shocking scene played out by Lindsey earlier in the week. The earl was an unrepentant scoundrel. No doubt his kisses melted a woman’s bones. Could she truly blame the lady for her avaricious begging? Caroline had spent the last two evenings torn between wondering what it would be like to be adored so intimately and admonishing herself for entertaining the question.

  She forced a laugh to relieve a beat of nervous tension and the sound echoed in the empty room. Why were her emotions so scattered?

  Across the carpet, the easel that held the coveted painting was left obscured beneath a large drape, as if the Duke of Warren wanted it kept hidden. Perhaps in wait of his private appreciation after all guests had departed. Caroline moved in front of it and drew the cloth to the side before she leaned close to examine the woman in detail. The figure was mostly nude, her skin done in a rosy hue, her face colored with what could only be industrious joy as she extended her arm and unraveled the thread of life from her distaff and spindle. Caroline knew the myth associated with the subject. This piece depicted the first stage in the three incarnations of destiny. It showed the giver of life symbolized by the thread at the start of the spindle. She recalled, in the myth, the second goddess cut the length of string to measure someone’s life, and the third, sadly, represented death.

  How ironic to find herself here before a painting epitomizing everything she might never have, a child, family, and fulfilling future. Panic and an irrational sense of loss rose up inside her, bitter and sharp, but she hammered it down and away.