скачать книгу бесплатно
“I shall have to give it some thought,” Lord Mulholland said, and Clara could hear the laughter in his voice.
A man of his wealth could have any painter from the Royal Academy. He would never want to sit for Aunt Aurora, so why did he have to lead her on? Did he enjoy making sport of others or placing them in embarrassing positions? Probably. It would be in keeping with what she had heard of him from some of her aunt’s friends: that Paris Mulholland’s sole goal in life was to enjoy himself.
If he did decide to have Aunt Aurora paint his portrait—and Clara had to admit that they needed the money—and if he did come to her aunt’s lodgings to sit, she would ensure that she was out of the house. Or perhaps, finances notwithstanding, it would be better to discourage any talk of a portrait entirely. Although Clara loved her aunt dearly, there was no escaping the fact that every portrait her aunt painted bore a marked resemblance to the Duke of Wellington. She could almost hear the cutting criticism Lord Mulholland would make of the picture, and the way he would regale his equally ne’er-do-well friends with tales of her relatives’ eccentricities.
“A fine fellow! ” Uncle Byron whispered in her ear as they followed him into the well-appointed house.
Clara didn’t answer. Instead, she concentrated on the large, ornately decorated foyer, which was nearly the size of their entire flat. The floor was Italian marble, and the wallpaper was of intricate design, obviously costly. “So noble, so charming,” Uncle Byron continued. “Worthy of his name, wouldn’t you say? I can believe a man like that could seduce the most beautiful woman in the world.”
“And I can believe he wouldn’t care that such a selfish act would start a war,” Clara said, reminding her uncle that the name Paris was not one a man should be particularly proud of.
Lord Mulholland, having handed his flamboyant cape and hat to a footman, suddenly whirled around to face her. There was a smile on his good-looking face but also something that looked suspiciously like criticism in his brilliantly blue eyes. “I believe I mentioned that I am not named for the man who seduced Helen of Troy. My mother, in a flight of fancy, named me for the City of Light, where I was apparently conceived.
“Now, if you will all excuse me, I see an old friend inside,” he concluded coldly. He made a slight, polite bow before striding away.
Clara flushed again, and told herself she had been a fool to speak her thoughts out loud. She had been rude, too. Of all people, she should know how it felt to be judged by a name or an occupation.
“We must speak later, my lord, about the portrait!” Aunt Aurora called after him, waving gaily. “My dear, just think!” she exclaimed rapturously, clasping her plump hands together and ignoring the footman who waited to take their wraps. “Lord Paris Mulholland! If he agrees to sit for me, I shall be quite famous!”
Clara kept quiet, but she would rather walk barefoot to Dover in the middle of winter than have a man like Paris Mulholland in the studio.
She told herself that her reservations had absolutely nothing to do with his provocative manner and handsome face, or that the evening dress of pristine white shirt, white cravat and black tails seemed to have been designed with him specifically in mind. After all, her guardians’ bohemian friends had been trying to seduce her for years, with no success. She could fend off Lord Mulholland, too.
Even if he was the most tempting man she had ever met.
Chapter Two
“Don’t you agree, Mulholland?” Lord Pimblett demanded, smacking his palm on the marble mantle of the drawing room, which was decorated with all the embellishments currently in vogue. “Give ’em a bit, and they only want more! Workhouses and the Poor Law Amendment Act are the best things that ever happened to this country, sir!”
Paris was quite sure Lord Pimblett was adding, “You young muttonhead!” in his mind, even though the man clearly cherished hopes of having his eldest daughter wed to the Mulholland name and fortune, if not the physical embodiment of those things. He was also very well aware that he had an audience of young female admirers gathered about him like so many colorful butterflies, so he waved his wineglass in a shallow salute.
“I myself have never lived in one of their hovels,” he replied to the indignant nobleman, whose face flushed with irritation, “worn filthy, flea-infested clothing or eaten one of their pitiful meals. Since I do not possess the imagination of your lordship, so necessary to pass judgment when one lacks experience, I must bow to your superior knowledge of the lives of the lower classes.”
Lord Pimblett’s face turned scarlet, which made an interesting contrast with his white muttonchop whiskers. Paris knew he had made his point and gone quite far enough in exposing the shortcomings of his host’s opinion. Therefore, he smiled graciously and took a sip of his wine.
“Fancy you in rags!” one of the ever-present young women said with a shocked gasp and a giggle.
“None of you would ever look at me again,” Paris said sorrowfully and waited for the young women to protest. As they immediately did.
It amused him to watch their reactions—one of the few things in London that did amuse him anymore. Some bored young men turned to drink, or gambling or more sordid vices when life palled; Paris Mulholland amused himself by playing the charming wastrel, with the additional benefit of being the center of attention for such delightful bevies of carefully bred young ladies.
Not that he had any desire to seduce even one of the eager women, although it pleased his vanity to make them swarm around him. They were too innocent and unworldly, most of them, and despite his name and not completely unearned reputation, he would not take advantage of their naiveté. Trying to maintain their adulation simply made the interminable Season pass.
He turned away to hide his satisfied smile, and encountered the watchful eyes of the young woman he had met outside, the artist’s niece, Clara. She sat in the farthest corner of a window seat, nearly hidden behind a large potted fern, as if she were afraid to be seen.
She looked like a nun in a cloister, and a strict one at that, with her dark brown hair pulled back plainly in a hard little knot of a bun, her dark brows slightly too thick to be conventionally pretty, and her full lips pressed together repressively. She wore an abominable gray dress with an absurdly high neckline and tight sleeves. A hair shirt would be more comfortable than that garment, he thought, which did nothing to flatter its wearer. Perhaps she enjoyed the mortification of the flesh.
As he caught her eye, her mouth frowned as grimly as the sternest of nannies catching a young charge in some mischief, and in her eyes was contempt rather than admiration.
So he winked at her.
She didn’t do anything. Didn’t blush, didn’t glare, didn’t smile, didn’t frown. She simply looked at him as if...as if he weren’t there.
Paris Mulholland was not used to being ignored, and he found it an intensely unpleasant experience.
Telling himself one young woman’s lack of response was unimportant, he looked away and saw Lady Pimblett slowly advancing toward him, nodding graciously at the assembly. Her presence, along with the nearly overpowering scent of perfume that pervaded the air around her, reminded him of his bet. He didn’t need Boffington’s money, of course; he simply found betting on such things harmless sport.
And if certain young females thought him nothing but a complete waste of breath and life, he didn’t care.
“I was reading a book by that chap Dickens,” he drawled, bestowing a warm smile on his hostess. “Oliver Twist. He’s rather too good at describing things we shouldn’t have to think about, wouldn’t you agree, my lady? Poorhouses and starving children and thieves. And that part about beating a young woman to death....”
“Oh, my,” her ladyship murmured.
Paris then had the immense satisfaction of seeing Lady Pimblett sink onto a sofa and fan herself violently. Four times in less than two hours! Too easy, really, indeed!
“That Dickens fellow should be horsewhipped!” Lord Pimblett blustered. “Stirring up all kinds of trouble. Thinks we should all give up our money to buy mansions and sweet cakes for the poor, I suppose! Stupid fool!”
“He’s a wonderful chap to have at parties,” Paris remarked, recalling well the only time he had met the writer, whose works he had never actually read. Dickens enjoyed the theater, and had been almost a whole play in himself as he acted out parts of Oliver Twist. It was a never-to-be-forgotten experience.
“If I ever meet him, I’ll...I’ll...He’ll be sorry!” Lord Pimblett continued. “The poor are lazy, sir, lazy, and if they won’t work, they should starve!”
Paris’s fingers tightened around the delicate crystal glass that cost more than many a man earned in a year. He never ceased to be amazed at the way the men of his class were all too quick to ascribe certain characteristics to the lower classes when he could think of several of them who would starve to death if they didn’t have family fortunes to sustain them.
Lady Pimblett recovered sufficiently to rise slightly, her action causing him to note yet again the opulent ostentation of the woman’s garments, as well as the fraudulent air of weak ill health that she enjoyed to the utmost.
One more swoon and he would win his bet. Telling himself not to fret about any disapproval a gray-gowned young lady might express, he quite remorselessly applied himself to the task.
“But the bodies, my lord,” he said plaintively. “What would we do with the piles of bodies that would be left in the street? The stench—”
He won his bet, and in the process it looked as if he had succeeded in causing Lady Pimblett to truly faint. His audience of young ladies emitted politely shocked squeals of alarm, and their fans moved rapidly.
His glance was drawn once more to the window seat, now empty. Just as well. The gray nun would only be looking daggers at him anyway.
“Don’t just stand there!” Lord Pimblett rumbled to nobody in particular. “Water!”
Paris obliged by yanking some huge and exceedingly ugly chrysanthemums out of a vase standing on a spindly-legged table, dipping his fingers in the water, and sprinkling his hostess’s face.
Lady Pimblett came to with startling abruptness as her cheeks changed color before their very eyes, going from a fashionable paleness to a far more healthy rose. The young ladies, whose mothers would never permit any application of cosmetics and acquainted that practice with the oldest profession, drew back in stunned horror as Lady Pimblett swiftly covered her face with her lace fan.
Lord Pimblett was staring as hard as any of them, and it occurred to Paris that perhaps he had never seen his wife without certain cosmetic additions. Poor man—and poor, deluded Lady Pimblett, for her natural color was far more pleasing to Paris’s eye than the white of her powder.
Then, out of the corner of his eye, Paris saw a beautiful and haughty young woman at the far end of the room, wearing a very expensive, fashionable, low-cut gown of pink silk that exposed her considerable personal charms. Lady Helena Pimblett, the woman he was supposed to marry—or so Helena firmly believed, although he himself had said nothing about such a thing—hurried toward him, a questioning look on her fair and arrogant face.
A precipitous flight was clearly called for. Paris muttered another apology and strode toward the door.
As he passed by a gaggle of different young women, each one perfumed and overdressed in the latest fashions, which meant that they resembled nothing so much as large bells, he smiled and nodded and wondered what the severe Miss Wells would make of the way they eyed him. Each one, he knew, was sizing him up as marriage material; each one would probably take him, if he offered.
Not Miss Wells, he ventured, recalling her indifferent expression.
He kept walking, since it would be a little time yet before Jones returned with his carriage. People were everywhere, it seemed, and the air was warm and stuffy. He spied the entrance to the library, and decided to see if that dark, mahogany-paneled room was any emptier. He opened the door, then paused.
A man was sitting on the floor, surrounded by a pile of books, mumbling. Paris recognized Byron Wells by his unusually long, white hair. A scholar, probably—something guaranteed to make Paris flee his presence. The young man slipped out again unnoticed.
He was about to continue on his way when he saw the edge of a now-familiar gray gown just inside the door of the music room and heard the artistic Mrs. Wells, her voice enthusiastically issuing forth from inside.
“I quite dote on flowers,” Aurora Wells said. “They make such pretty still lifes, don’t you think?”
Hester Pimblett, Helena’s younger sister, moved into view. Unlike her elder sister, Hester dressed in a simple manner. Her ball gown was made of blue velvet, which looked well with her brown hair and managed to bring out the blue in her large eyes. For embellishment, she wore only a simple pearl necklace and white elbow-length gloves. She would no doubt find the stern Miss Wells something of a kindred spirit, at least as far as simplicity of clothing went. Nevertheless, compared to Clara Wells, Hester — indeed, all the young ladies of Paris’s acquaintance—seemed distinctly lacking in some vital energy.
The prospect of seeing the rather straitlaced middle Pimblett sister, who was a sweet young woman with about as much personality as a bowl of porridge, encounter any kind of artist would be entertaining, and even more so if the artist were the vivacious Mrs. Wells. There was also the added inducement of watching Clara Wells when she was with other women to make Paris choose to linger.
Not that he cared if she was dour only when he was nearby, indicating a disapproval of him personally. She was nobody, and so it was completely irrelevant what she thought of him.
However, Paris also realized that Hester would become as silent as a stone if she knew he was listening, so he hid in an alcove behind a large Oriental vase on an ornate wooden stand.
“People are so much more interesting than a bowl of fruit!” Mrs. Wells continued. “And the fresh fruit attracts flies, especially in the summer months! I assure you, I thought I would go mad the last time I did such a painting. I much prefer portraits. So much more scope for expression!”
“Do you have models?” he heard Hester ask timidly.
“Of course I do,” Mrs. Wells replied. “Painting the human figure is not easy.”
Paris shifted behind the vase, wanting to catch a glimpse of Clara Wells’ face for no reason he wished to acknowledge. He was rewarded for his efforts by encountering a type of expression that he had never seen before, but had often felt upon his own visage when his mother had been in one of her gayer moods: a sort of patient forbearance, embarrassment and defiance all rolled into one. His mother, much as he had loved her, had frequently scandalized a dinner party with her comments.
“What of the classical scenes you do, such as your lovely fan,” Hester asked, “when your subjects are...that is, when they aren’t... ?”
“When they’re nude?” Mrs. Wells demanded.
Paris had to shove his hand in his mouth to avoid laughing out loud at poor Hester’s blushing yet avidly curious face—and he thought Clara Wells not incapable of plotting a murder, judging by the look in her eyes as she regarded her aunt and crossed her slender arms.
Hester nodded once and looked around guiltily, causing Paris to move as far back into the alcove as possible. He had no idea that Hester would ever express curiosity on such a subject.
“Nudes are all very well, but I can so rarely find a decent body.”
“Aunt Aurora!” Miss Wells admonished helplessly.
Paris’s heart went out to the blushing, appalled Miss Wells. He well remembered how easily upset a young person could be by a parent’s behavior.
“It’s all right,” Hester said in her warm, friendly way. “I asked her about it. And I appreciate her honesty. It’s quite refreshing.”
Clara Wells relaxed visibly, and smiled.
She really wasn’t homely, with her frank hazel eyes, pointed elfin chin, perfect complexion and widow’s peak. Indeed, she seemed quite a different person altogether when she smiled, and one he would like to know better.
“What would you consider a decent body?” Hester asked, a studious expression on her face.
Mrs. Wells played with her absurdly delightful turban, which had slipped slightly askew. “Michelangelo’s David, for one. And I daresay that under Lord Mulholland’s clothing there’s a body worth painting.”
“Or else he has a magician for a tailor,” Clara Wells said. The expression in her hazel eyes could only be called devilish.
Paris was not exceptionally vain; however, he did not appreciate hearing that anyone would think he had need of special tailoring to render his form attractive.
“Oh, that’s all natural,” Hester said, laughing softly.
“Really?” Mrs. Wells demanded. “How do you know?”
Paris waited for her answer with acute curiosity.
“My sister Helena told me.”
It took a great deal of self-control for Paris to remain where he was instead of demanding to know what the devil Helena knew about it. But Hester would never answer such a query if he were to ask it bluntly.
Fortunately, Hester saw the almost equally curious expression on Clara Wells’ face. “She saw him without his shirt one day when she was walking past his bedroom,” Hester explained.
Gad! Paris thought angrily. He would keep his door bolted from now on, especially given that the Pimbletts were due to visit his country home when the Season ended.
“Well, then, I must do a portrait of him,” Mrs. Wells replied decisively. “I shall have to improve upon the acquaintance first, of course, and show him samples of my work. If only the Season were not nearly over! I shall have to wait until it resumes, I suppose.”
“Yes,” Hester agreed. “He is leaving soon for his house in the country.” She gave Mrs. Wells a smile. “My family is to visit him there later.” She flushed a bright red. “I don’t know how I shall ever look him in the face now!”
Mrs. Wells laughed genially and winked. “The man is so perfectly charming, I’m sure you’ll find a way.”
“Oh, no! Not at all! I have no interest in him that way,” Hester protested sincerely, blushing again. “My sister...” Her words trailed off, but there could be no mistaking the significance of her look.
Paris frowned. He had never given Helena much encouragement; she had never needed any. And he had supposed that if he had to marry, he could do worse. Helena was a beautiful and wealthy young woman from a fine, old family. She was also spoiled, vain and had a voice that could grate like a squeaking wheel, but he had thought he would have to make some compromises when he eventually married. Nevertheless, he did not enjoy having this match presented as a fait accompli, not even by the harmless Hester.
“I envy you your invitation, Lady Hester,” Mrs. Wells said with a sigh. “Being poor and struggling artists,” she continued, not without a certain obvious pride in the virtuosity of her sacrifice, “we must remain in the dirt and congestion of the city.”
When Paris heard that, he knew there was only one thing to do, and he did it.
Chapter Three
With the suddenness of an apparition, Lord Paris Mulholland appeared in the music room, a wry grin on his handsome face.
Startled and embarrassed, Clara unfortunately said the first thing that entered her head. “What are you doing here?”
Hester Pimblett gasped and Aunt Aurora gaped. Rightly so, Clara thought helplessly as the full realization of the rudeness of her demand came to her. She flushed hotly, thinking of all the times she had secretly condemned her aunt for doing the same thing.
But where had he come from? How much had he heard? She surveyed the room, desperately seeking some avenue of escape. There wasn’t any, for his muscular body blocked the door.
“The general answer is fulfilling a social obligation,” his lordship replied as if there were nothing untoward in her unorthodox greeting. His lack of affronted shock did not assuage Clara’s embarrassment, and she wished she had stayed in the drawing room. Being bored was infinitely better than her current state of flustered feelings.
“As for my presence here,” he went on smoothly with a graceful wave of his aristocratic hand, “I am merely being decorative.”
Coming from any other handsome man, such words might have been taken as outrageous vanity; in his case, there was enough evidence of self-mockery in his tone and his blue eyes to lead her to believe he was trying to be amusing.
Clara told herself that she didn’t find his efforts charming, or his way of playing the droll comedian humorous. He was an intelligent man and, judging by his conversation in the drawing room with the pompous and ignorant Lord Pimblett, one with at least a particle of social conscience. Why did he hide those qualities? Or was it simply that it was so much easier to play the lighthearted gadabout?
Why should she care?
