himself. If he couldn’t
orchestrate the necessary solitude so that he could begin to make the most of
the few short weeks left to them he thought he’d go mad.
Watching the play of emotions across her mobile features,
Rampton considered how unlike she was from the worldly women whose company he
usually sought. His brother, a short distance away, was mixing paints but he’d
already been coached on what signals indicated he must leave them to it –
and not return.
‘What an inspirational view,’ said the young woman,
impressing him by her artless tone as she went to the large windows. Ha! As if she didn’t know what game
they were playing. ‘I know your brother shall do a famous job in painting me.’
A stab of jealousy surprised Rampton. Wishing he were the
one wielding a paintbrush, he replied, ‘He’ll have me to answer to if he fails
to capture your perfection.’
Her shy laugh touched him, surprisingly, with something
beyond the baseness of his intentions. Impulsively he moved towards her,
hesitating at the last moment, for clearly she was not priming herself for
passion. Good God, he was on the verge of asking permission for a kiss! When
had he ever felt the need to ask permission? It was why he associated only with
married women. The rules were established. Each knew exactly where they stood
with one another. Conversation was sophisticated and entertaining and
expectations not unrealistic.
Mind you, there had been surprising exceptions, the most
recent being Catherine Barbery, whom he had always considered the most aloof
and detached of his paramours. She had exhibited an uncharacteristic show of
jealousy when he had – with great tact and predictability, he’d thought
at the time – severed their relationship the evening after he’d met Lady
Chesterfield.
He was ashamed to recall that her tears had elicited in him
a strong desire to put as much distance as possible between them.
The flicker of surprise in Lady Chesterfield’s clear blue
gaze as she realized what he was after, followed quickly by delight, nudged at
some unrealised tenderness within him. She was enchanting! A quixotic mixture
of intelligence, strength and disarming naivety. Standing before her in the
tower room he imagined himself the knight in shining armour who must once have
stood at these very windows, wielding bow and arrow to protect his fair lady.
Good God! When was the last time he had thought like that?
Had he ever? Certainly not in relation to the dozen or more beauties he’d taken
as his mistresses since he had graduated from the schoolroom. Rampton had not
ever considered himself ready to pledge himself to a single woman and what he
felt now was decidedly uncharacteristic.
‘I prefer what’s inside the tower room to the view outside,’
he said, savouring the clean, fresh scent of orange blossom water as he
enfolded her in his arms.
Her face tilted upwards. Gently he kissed the tip of her
nose, preparing to signal to his brother to leave them … before the sounds of
approaching girlish chatter made him freeze. Surely not?
Lady Chesterfield stepped back, her expression regretful as
she ran her hand across his cheek and he said, through gritted teeth, ‘Do not
tell me, madam, that you have come with an army of attendants.’
The door was thrown open before she could answer and there
was the admittedly beautiful but dangerously forward Miss Chesterfield, whose
intimate smile only served to highlight why he was so wary of designing
debutantes.
‘I’m told you can see the dome of St Paul’s. Ah, Lord
Rampton, Mr Felix…’ This was delivered in a breathy gasp as Felix stepped
forward while Rampton quickly dropped Lady Chesterfield’s hands and felt his
rising frustration assume monumental proportions.
‘Mr Felix, how clever you must be to paint my sister-in-law.
How many sittings do you think you’ll need?’
‘Three,’ said Felix at the same time as his brother
nominated ‘five’, adding with a
orchestrate the necessary solitude so that he could begin to make the most of
the few short weeks left to them he thought he’d go mad.
Watching the play of emotions across her mobile features,
Rampton considered how unlike she was from the worldly women whose company he
usually sought. His brother, a short distance away, was mixing paints but he’d
already been coached on what signals indicated he must leave them to it –
and not return.
‘What an inspirational view,’ said the young woman,
impressing him by her artless tone as she went to the large windows. Ha! As if she didn’t know what game
they were playing. ‘I know your brother shall do a famous job in painting me.’
A stab of jealousy surprised Rampton. Wishing he were the
one wielding a paintbrush, he replied, ‘He’ll have me to answer to if he fails
to capture your perfection.’
Her shy laugh touched him, surprisingly, with something
beyond the baseness of his intentions. Impulsively he moved towards her,
hesitating at the last moment, for clearly she was not priming herself for
passion. Good God, he was on the verge of asking permission for a kiss! When
had he ever felt the need to ask permission? It was why he associated only with
married women. The rules were established. Each knew exactly where they stood
with one another. Conversation was sophisticated and entertaining and
expectations not unrealistic.
Mind you, there had been surprising exceptions, the most
recent being Catherine Barbery, whom he had always considered the most aloof
and detached of his paramours. She had exhibited an uncharacteristic show of
jealousy when he had – with great tact and predictability, he’d thought
at the time – severed their relationship the evening after he’d met Lady
Chesterfield.
He was ashamed to recall that her tears had elicited in him
a strong desire to put as much distance as possible between them.
The flicker of surprise in Lady Chesterfield’s clear blue
gaze as she realized what he was after, followed quickly by delight, nudged at
some unrealised tenderness within him. She was enchanting! A quixotic mixture
of intelligence, strength and disarming naivety. Standing before her in the
tower room he imagined himself the knight in shining armour who must once have
stood at these very windows, wielding bow and arrow to protect his fair lady.
Good God! When was the last time he had thought like that?
Had he ever? Certainly not in relation to the dozen or more beauties he’d taken
as his mistresses since he had graduated from the schoolroom. Rampton had not
ever considered himself ready to pledge himself to a single woman and what he
felt now was decidedly uncharacteristic.
‘I prefer what’s inside the tower room to the view outside,’
he said, savouring the clean, fresh scent of orange blossom water as he
enfolded her in his arms.
Her face tilted upwards. Gently he kissed the tip of her
nose, preparing to signal to his brother to leave them … before the sounds of
approaching girlish chatter made him freeze. Surely not?
Lady Chesterfield stepped back, her expression regretful as
she ran her hand across his cheek and he said, through gritted teeth, ‘Do not
tell me, madam, that you have come with an army of attendants.’
The door was thrown open before she could answer and there
was the admittedly beautiful but dangerously forward Miss Chesterfield, whose
intimate smile only served to highlight why he was so wary of designing
debutantes.
‘I’m told you can see the dome of St Paul’s. Ah, Lord
Rampton, Mr Felix…’ This was delivered in a breathy gasp as Felix stepped
forward while Rampton quickly dropped Lady Chesterfield’s hands and felt his
rising frustration assume monumental proportions.
‘Mr Felix, how clever you must be to paint my sister-in-law.
How many sittings do you think you’ll need?’
‘Three,’ said Felix at the same time as his brother
nominated ‘five’, adding with a
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