The Painted Lady by Bárbara Metzger Page B

dear.”
    Which was, of course, what Miss Bannister heard when she checked on the noises in the hall. What she saw was worse. Catherine was in her filmy, low-cut dressing gown, only a shade less bare-chested than His Grace, who was licking his lips.
    Lilyanne gasped. It was better than fainting.
     

Chapter Eleven
     
    “This is not what it looks.”
    Lilyanne was not looking. How could she, with a half-naked man and a pink-negligee-clad woman practically embracing right in front of her? Not what it looks? Ha! What else could it be but an offer of marriage, and an acceptance, after the fact. The fact being that they were en dishabille, in the middle of the night, in Caswell’s room, in Lilyanne’s home. Decent, respectable people lived here, but these two had not even respected Lilyanne and her uncle enough to use the stables! Or they could not wait long enough.
    Of course it could not be a true marriage, since the lady was otherwise bespoken—and now Lilyanne understood why Lord Edgecombe spoke so poorly of Catherine. At least now Uncle Osgood would see that the debauched duke could not stay under their roof. What if Lisbet were home? What if one of the young maids had come upstairs with hot water? No gentle female should witness such wantonness. Lilyanne was more than sorry she had. She turned to leave.
    “Wait!” Kasey called, grabbing Miss Bannister’s hand to keep her from leaving. She stopped and faced him, but with all the loathing of someone who found herself holding a live jellyfish, the dangerous kind, with purple tendrils. He let go of her hand and drew his fingers through his hair. Zeus! Miss Bannister stood as rigid as a stone in front of him, pale in her white flannel, high-necked nightgown and robe, the long black braid that hung nearly to her waist the only contrast to her, except for those gray, gray eyes. Granite could not have been harder, or colder. If Miss Lilyanne Bannister were the marble goddess she appeared, thunderbolts would be flying next. Kasey was sunk.
    He did not want his hostess to think him a libertine.
    He did not want her to know about the paint set.
    He did not want to be cleaning chamberpots for the rest of the week.
    Kasey did the only thing possible. He reached into the paper sack and grabbed a paintbrush—no, he grabbed a tart, and stuffed half of it into Miss Bannister’s open, protesting mouth.
    “Lady Edgecombe was bringing me a treat from the village,” he said. “That is all, I swear.”
    Catherine was giggling, but she nodded.
    Lilyanne bit down, for that was all she could do with her mouth full of pastry. Flaky crust met her lips, sweet raspberry filling oozed onto her tongue. She chewed and swallowed, then took another bite. Why, this was the most delicious morsel she had tasted in years, since her parents’ deaths and the arrival of Uncle Osgood, in fact. She’d forgotten about sweets and sugary treats, licorice and peppermint drops, barely missing them at first, for all the rest she was mourning. Then she just became used to not having delicacies. But how could something so delectable be so bad for one’s mental equilibrium? How could enjoying one’s food be over-stimulating to the brain?
    As Lilyanne kept chewing, her eyes closed with pleasure, Catherine edged past her, out of the room. Kasey put his shirt on, although he did not button it. He rummaged in the sack. “Here, try this one.”
    In for a penny, in for a pound, Lilyanne decided, accepting a slice of shortbread. “Oh, my.” She licked crumbs off her lips, lest any escape. She decided right then to have a talk with Uncle in the morning. Why were they living like Puritans, fanatically abstaining from every worldly pleasure? Lilyanne was tired of it. She was the one who did all the work with the distressed young females who paid Sir Osgood’s exorbitant fees, after all, so it was about time her opinions counted. Past time. “I.... I think patients might get a feeling of well-being from such