An Artful Seduction Read online

  “Those are on loan to the British Museum. I don’t believe in keeping artwork hidden in a private collection. It’s the duty of anyone blessed to own such work to share it with the public.”

  She stared at him in astonishment. “Not everyone would agree with you, my lord. Many of Father’s clients never loaned their priceless artwork. They hoarded it, obviously believing it existed for their sole viewing pleasure.”

  A wry grimace thinned his lips. “I’m not surprised. Jonathan Miller’s clientele were not the most moral.”

  She stiffened slightly, unsure whether he was passing judgment upon her, but the hardness and dislike that usually turned his eyes to glacial ice whenever he spoke of her father was absent in his gaze.

  “Tell me, Eliza, what do you believe?” he asked.

  She hesitated for a heartbeat, then sighed. “Masterpieces should be shared with the world.”

  He smiled in approval. “Good. Then as a lover of art, please tell me which ones I should loan next?”

  “You’re asking me?”

  “Yes.”

  Again she was surprised by his willingness to seek her opinion. She turned back to the paintings, gazing at them in wonder. Which ones to choose? Each was breathtaking in its own way.

  “These,” she said, indicating two watercolors by Paul Sandby, a founding member of the Royal Academy.

  “Excellent choices. Anything else?”

  Walking slowly, she studied each piece and halted by an engraving. “This one,” she said, pointing to Icarus by the Dutch artist Hendrick Goltzius.

  “It’s from Goltzius’s 1588 series, The Four Disgracers, and the only engraving in my collection. Why do you like it?” he asked.

  She sighed with pleasure. “His talent with the burin is magnificent. His repeated patterns of swirling lines…his ability to reflect light and shadow on Icarus’s rippling muscles and convey the fear on his face as he falls to his death is remarkable.”

  “Fascinating.” She jumped at the sound of Grayson’s voice close behind her and whirled to find him studying her.

  “I felt the same way when I first saw the engraving, and I knew I had to possess it, no matter the cost.”

  She was reminded of the first time he’d spoken similar words to her when he sat beside her at the Tutton auction. But this time, she was strangely flattered by his interest. A tingling began in the pit of her stomach.

  His gaze traveled over her face and searched her eyes. Keenly aware of his scrutiny, she felt exposed, emotionally naked in a way that alternately thrilled and frightened her.

  “You lied to me,” he said softly.

  “Excuse me?”

  “You lied about the Jan Wildens painting.”

  A prickle of unease ran along her spine. “Whatever do you—”

  “You are not the forger of the painting.”

  Her heart thumped madly, and fear knotted inside her. “Of course I am.”

  “No. You are not an artist. Amelia is responsible.”

  “That’s ridiculous!”

  “Oh, I realize you have a love for art, but your father’s talent did not fall to you.”

  Denial was her only option. “You’re wrong,” she said, shaking her head.

  “No more deception.” His voice, though soft, carried a silken thread of warning.

  The tension between them increased frighteningly. For breathless seconds he held her panicked gaze. There was no lying to him, no escaping it. Impossible as it was, he knew.

  “Please…please keep Amelia out of this,” she pleaded.

  He grasped her arms and the shock of his touch ran through her body. “I’m not interested in turning Amelia in to the authorities.”

  “Then what? What do you want?”

  “This.” He jerked her into his arms and his mouth swooped down to capture hers.

  Unlike the first time, his lips were hard, demanding. He grasped her firmly about the waist, walked forward until she found herself pressed against the wall between two priceless paintings. He tilted his head, slanted his mouth more fully across hers and ravaged her senses.

  She was trapped, her hands crushed against his hard chest. Gasping, her lips parted beneath his onslaught. He took the advantage, his tongue sweeping inside her mouth.

  She tried to resist, but the combustible spark between them flared to life and stole her will. The wanton in her responded, to his scent, to his heat…to him. Her tongue grazed his and then sucked him into her mouth. He groaned and somehow her hands were free and grasping his shoulders and then tangling in his hair.

  She loved the feel and texture of the dark locks and her nails raked his scalp. He kissed her, long and deep, causing desire to course hotly through her veins. His hand caressed her waist, then moved slowly up her side to cup the fullness of her breast. His thumb grazed her nipple through the worn material of her gown. She gasped as exquisite pleasure radiated from her breast and liquid heat pooled low between her legs, making her long for more…so much more.

  Sensing her need, he deepened his kiss, his hands explored the soft lines of her back and hips, then lowered to grasp her buttocks and press her tightly against him until the hard, throbbing part of him thrust against her belly. Shocked, she gathered every last bit of her resistance and yanked viciously on his hair.

  He grunted and lifted his head to look in her eyes. “Hellcat! I want the truth. Who are you, Eliza Somerton?”

  For a heart-stopping moment, she feared he could read the truth behind the mask. That he could see her for who she really was.

  Vulnerable. Lonely. Tired.

  She had to end this. He couldn’t be trusted.

  No man could.

  Her mind churned, groping for the most damaging thing she could say.

  “I’m my father’s daughter, Jonathan Miller’s offspring. You’d best not forget it, my lord.”

  Chapter Ten

  Grayson’s arms tightened around Eliza. Of all the bloody things to say. “You admit it then?” he said tersely.

  “Admit what? You know Miller is my father,” Eliza said.

  His pulse thrummed. His groin throbbed. The feel of her pressed tightly against him was intoxicating. “Not that, damn it. You admit to using Amelia’s talents to forge paintings?”

  “There was only one and we were desperate. It was soon after father left. We had no choice,” she said.

  “How desperate were you?” he demanded.

  “Our circumstances were dire. Chloe was ill again. We needed food, shelter, and medicine.”

  His brow furrowed. He didn’t like the image of Eliza and her sisters struggling to survive. “And what of your husband?”

  Her green eyes widened. “I didn’t marry until afterwards.”

  “Did he ever learn of your crime?”

  “No. I never told him.”

  “You’re willing to go to prison for Amelia’s mistakes?” he said.

  “I would,” she said with conviction. “Amelia was never to blame. I was the mastermind. I arranged for the painting to be sold to Viscount Tutton. I never considered his estate would hold an auction after his death.”

  “Would you do it again?”

  “Yes.” She lifted her chin. “Yes, I would!”

  Her breasts heaved in the bodice of her worn gown and it took every ounce of his willpower not to lower his gaze, not to reach out and caress her flesh.

  He’d forget his anger, lose his advantage.

  He dropped his arms from around her. “I won’t let you. Innocent people could be hurt.”

  She quickly stepped aside and met his hard gaze. “Only the rich, my lord. Father often said the wealthy can afford it. Forgery is a victimless crime.”

  Grayson recalled the humiliation he’d felt when it became known he’d raved about a forged painting. The newspapers had been quick to print his mistake. He hadn’t shown his face at the Royal Academy for close to a year afterwards.

  His thoughts turned bitter. I was a laughingstock.

 
Grayson hadn’t been alone. Jonathan Miller had other victims as well, dozens who’d fallen for his scams. They weren’t all wealthy and had taken considerable blows to their finances after learning that they had purchased worthless paintings and not valuable pieces of art from one of the masters.

  In short, people had been hurt.

  Anger and lust simmered in Grayson’s veins, a volatile mix. “You and Amelia are fortunate. Viscount Tutton never learned the truth behind the Wildens forgery before he died. I have the painting now, and I won’t allow you to do it again. I’m going to watch you, Eliza. Closely. Carefully.”

  Every curve of her body spoke defiance. “You do not own me, my lord. That was never part of our arrangement.”

  His eyes raked boldly over her. “It is now.”

  …

  She had been foolish to incite him.

  Eliza sat back in the earl’s coach as it drove away from the mansion. She would have hailed a hackney if Grayson hadn’t insisted his driver return her to her home.

  She shifted restlessly against the luxurious squabs and pulled the sable cloak more tightly around her. She’d come with every intention of returning the cloak, but as she’d stood in the vestibule after their heated argument, preparing to leave, he’d wrapped it around her and she’d been afraid to protest.

  She’d always believed Grayson was dangerous, but now that he knew the entire truth—that Amelia was the forger—she was even more convinced he could destroy them.

  But so far he hadn’t acted on the knowledge. Instead, he’d kissed her.

  Bone-melting kisses in the seclusion of his stunning gallery. She’d been easily seduced. He was unlike any other man she knew. So different from the wealthy merchants who frequented her shop and made their illicit interest in her known. As a widow and shopkeeper without the protection of any male relations, she’d had her fair share of men who’d thought she should be freely available. She’d never been the slightest bit interested in any of them.

  Until Grayson.

  Each time they were alone, she found it difficult to recall he was her adversary. And when he swept her into his arms and kissed her…

  Her stomach fluttered wildly. The touch of his lips was sensual and seductive, making her knees weaken. But more alarming than her physical response, his kiss revealed a hidden yearning buried deep within her.

  Huntingdon was a complex man—kind one moment and cold the next. He’d sent coal, shawls, and cloaks. He’d paid for a doctor to treat Chloe. He’d asked for her opinion on which of his valuable works he should loan to a museum. But just as quickly he’d revealed his knowledge of her family secret and warned that he’d watch her closely to ensure she’d not commit another crime.

  It was all so confusing. There was only one thing she knew to be true. He was a powerful, dominant male who was used to getting what he desired, and she shouldn’t—couldn’t—allow further intimacy.

  The risks were perilous.

  What if he thought he could kiss her any time he wanted in exchange for keeping Amelia’s secret? Or, heaven forbid, required more than that? A shiver of fear ran down her spine. If she were truthful to herself, she didn’t fear Grayson, but the effect he had on her senses. Would she be able to resist him if he kissed her elsewhere…touched her elsewhere? Her pulse quickened at the thought.

  Good God. What was she thinking?

  He was an earl, and she was a shopkeeper and a criminal’s daughter. They were as different as a colorful oil painting compared to a simple charcoal sketch. There could never be a future between them.

  Her only thoughts should be of her sisters and how she could keep Amelia out of trouble. She needed to focus on what was most important and not allow Grayson to distract her. He could watch her as closely as he wished; she had no intention of selling another of Amelia’s forgeries.

  Once the stolen Rembrandt was found, Grayson would return to his prior existence—his realm of wealth and privilege—and she, without further worry of scandal, would return to her old life and the print shop.

  Just as it should be.

  …

  As an earl and an important art critic, Grayson had certain obligations among polite society. Attending the annual ball hosted by Lord and Lady Ruskin—both generous patrons of the Royal Academy—was one of them.

  Grayson stepped into the crowded Mayfair ballroom. Dozens of chandeliers holding hundreds of candles illuminated the room. He reached for a glass of champagne from a passing footman’s tray and surveyed the guests.

  The ballgowns were a rainbow-like display rivaling an artist’s palette, from vibrant tones to pastels to the occasional white. The women’s hairstyles were just as varied—dyed ostrich plumes swayed from towering turbans beside braided coronets and Roman style ringlets with hair bandeaux.

  The men were not to be outdone. The dandies of the ton strutted about with brightly colored coats, striped and checked waistcoats, high, pointed shirtpoints, and intricately tied cravats. But the expensive silks and satins could not compare to the sparkle of diamonds, sapphires, and emeralds—the dazzling abundance of precious stones and gold.

  He’d never given the opulence and wealth of the beau monde a second thought. He’d been raised as the heir to an earldom. But tonight, for the first time, he was seeing it through different eyes.

  “You’re looking particularly glum tonight,” Brandon said.

  Grayson sipped his champagne. “I didn’t want to attend, but the host, Lord Ruskin, is a friend.”

  Glasses clinked and laughter floated. The elegant ballroom offered warmth, expensive champagne, and fine food. But his thoughts were of a small shop with novice artwork and colorful décor.

  Brandon raised his glass of claret. “Why not? The mamas of the ton are nearly throwing their daughters at your feet. Soon you’ll have to choose one.”

  Grayson didn’t care about the eligible debutantes and their eager mothers who reminded him of vultures circling their prey.

  The orchestra began a lively country reel and dancers swirled on the parquet dance floor.

  His mind kept turning to yesterday’s confrontation with Eliza.

  She’d intended to leave his home during a snowstorm wearing only her gown and wet shoes. Her wellbeing shouldn’t matter to him, but it did. He didn’t want her suffering frostbite or coming down with pneumonia, and his reasoning had nothing to do with their upcoming visit to Dorian Reed.

  The mystery that was Eliza Somerton was slowly unraveling. She wasn’t the calculating charlatan that she wanted him to believe. Her eyes had flashed emerald fire when she’d insisted that she would sell another of Amelia’s forgeries. His temper had risen, but afterwards he’d had time to calm and think.

  He didn’t believe her.

  She’d been desperate to reclaim the forged Wildens painting. If she intended to sell another of Amelia’s forgeries, then why bother with the Wildens painting? Why not let it sell at auction? Chances were no one would suspect it was a forgery. Amelia’s work was meticulous. He’d discovered it only because of Eliza’s avid interest in the painting at the Tutton auction. Otherwise, he’d never have given it a second glance.

  No, Eliza’s bold retort had been an attempt to anger him. She’d only been half successful. He had been angry, but he’d been even more aroused. He’d swept her into his arms then pinned her against his gallery wall and claimed her lips. He had not imagined the fervor of their first kiss. It didn’t matter that it had been swift; the undeniable magnetism was present. She’d tried to resist, but her passionate nature had quickly taken over.

  He relived the feeling of her hands slipping up his arms to caress the strong tendons in the back of his neck then tangle in his hair. Her body had arched toward his, and her moans had been a heady invitation. Her nipples had been taut beneath the thin fabric of her dowdy gown. In his hunger and desire, he’d wanted to peel off her clothing, and crush her breasts to his broad chest. He’d rouse her to the peak of excitement, then lay her down on the settee in his gal
lery and plunge inside her hot, welcoming body.

  “I’ve been thinking about Miss Amelia,” Brandon said.

  “What?”

  “Amelia. I’ve been thinking of her.”

  Grayson’s brows drew downward. “I’m not surprised.”

  “I plan to visit the Peacock Print Shop. I want to offer her a commission to paint my portrait,” Brandon said.

  “Have you lost your wits?”

  Brandon shrugged matter-of-factly. “You told Eliza that you know Amelia is the painter, correct?” Brandon didn’t wait for Grayson’s response. “Since it’s no longer a secret, I’ve decided to seize the opportunity. My grandmother has been pestering me to have my portrait painted.”

  “So? Go to the Academy. There are dozens of qualified portrait painters.”

  Brandon shook his head. “There’s something special about Miss Amelia. I can’t stop thinking of her. It’s a perfect solution. I need a portrait; she needs the money.”

  “Don’t fake generosity on my behalf. You’re like a randy schoolboy. You told me to find a mistress; maybe you should take your own advice.”

  “It’s more than that,” Brandon snapped. “She’s different.”

  “What about the Duke of Townsend’s daughter?”

  “Don’t even mention it. The duke and his family are present tonight.”

  Grayson followed Brandon’s gaze across the ballroom where Townsend and his family gathered. Brandon’s grandmother had been pressing for a match with Townsend’s daughter, Minerva.

  A pale blond with an ample bosom, Minerva had an annoying tendency to speak incessantly. She was the type of woman Grayson couldn’t tolerate—too much chatter, too little intellect. But Brandon didn’t have a choice. He’d inherited his father’s title along with his massive debt.

  They were similar in that regard; but where Grayson had managed to pay off his debt and earn money in the Stock Exchange, Brandon was not as successful. He desperately needed Minerva’s large dowry.

  “What about you? You must marry soon. Sara’s coming out will be here before you know it.”

  “I know it,” Grayson said tersely. He needed to find a suitable wife, a titled heiress would be best. But he would have to be forced to the altar before he’d willingly bind himself to someone like Lady Minerva.