“You expect me to behave better than you, Miss Wells?” About the Author Title Page About the Author Dedication Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve Chapter Thirteen Chapter Fourteen Chapter Fifteen Chapter Sixteen Chapter Seventeen Chapter Eighteen Chapter Nineteen Chapter Twenty Chapter Twenty-One Chapter Twenty-Two Chapter Twenty-Three Chapter Twenty-Four Chapter Twenty-Five Author Note Copyright

“You expect me to behave better than you, Miss Wells?”

Paris asked softly, a wry smile playing about his lips.

“Yes, I do,” Clara answered, trying to sound determined, all her effort threatening to be undone by the pleasure his touch sent thrilling through her.

“You present me with an interesting dilemma. Most people believe me to be the epitome of wasted profligacy, yet you seem to think me to be an honorable nobleman. I wonder why, and which you would truly prefer?”

“I expect you to be honorable all the time,” she said, her pulse throbbing in her ears, her breathing rushed and shallow. She felt like a moth trapped in the flame of his eyes. Suddenly, he blew out her candle, trapping her in the darkness.

“That would be your mistake,” he murmured, and she felt his arms go around her and draw her to him....

Dear Reader,

The Wastrel, by Margaret Moore, introduces a new series of Victorian romance novels from this award-winning author, featuring a trio of “most unsuitable” heroes that she has aptly named MOST UNSUITABLE.... The Wastrel is the magical story of a disowned heiress and a devil-may-care bachelor who learn about love with the help of her colorful relatives. Don’t miss it.

Longtime Harlequin Historicals author DeLoras Scott is back this month with The Devil’s Kiss, a Western romantic comedy about two misfits who discover love, despite Indians, outlaws and themselves. And with her is talented newcomer Tori Phillips, whose new medieval novel Silent Knight, is the tale of a would-be monk and a French noblewoman who fall in love on a delightful journey across medieval England.

A Western from Rae Muir, another 1996 March Madness author, The Trail to Temptation, about a star-crossed couple who fight their attraction on a trail drive from Texas to Montana, rounds out this month’s selection.

Whatever your taste in reading, we hope Harlequin Historicals will keep you coming back for more. Please keep a lookout for all four titles, available wherever books are sold.

Sincerely,

Tracy Farrell

Senior Editor

Please address questions and book requests to:

Harlequin Reader Service

U.S.: 3010 Walden Ave., P.O. Box 1325, Buffalo, NY 14269

Canadian: P.O. Box 609, Fort Erie, Ont. L2A 5X3

The Wastrel

Margaret Moore

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MARGARET MOORE

confesses that her first “crush” was Errol Flynn. The second was “Mr. Spock.” She thinks that it explains why her heroes tend to be either charming rogues or lean, inscrutable tough guys.

Margaret lives in Scarborough, Ontario, with her husband, two children and two cats. She used to sew and read for reasons other than research.

To my brother, David,

who teased me.

You’re forgiven.

Chapter One

England, 1862

“We should be there, should we not?” Aurora Wells demanded anxiously as she leaned toward the window on her niece’s side of the hansom cab and peered out onto the foggy streets of London.

“We haven’t been gone quite long enough, Aunt,” Clara Wells replied patiently. She surreptitiously tried to extricate the skirt of her gown from beneath her aunt’s ample hip before the expensive silk was hopelessly crushed.

Aunt Aurora’s turban of cloth of gold perched on her henna-dyed hair tilted over one pale blue eye and threatened to tumble into Clara’s lap. “It cannot be this far to Lord Pimblett’s, surely,” she insisted, this time addressing her husband, “not even in such fog. I do believe the cabbie intends to cheat us!”

“‘Had we but world enough, and time,”’ Uncle Byron quoted absently from his place on the opposite seat, his gaze fastened on the water-stained ceiling of the cab.

Despite his distracted manner, he was, Clara noted approvingly, dressed in very proper evening clothes, unlike Aunt Aurora. With his beatific expression and shoulder-length white hair, Uncle Byron looked kind, and even quite wise. Kind he certainly was, and wise he might have been, had his mother not made the fatal error of naming him Byron, for her son had come to believe that with such a name he must be a poet.

Her aunt, on the other hand, wore what might have been fashionable among the artistic set fifty years ago. Her gown was a Regency style, with the waistline beneath her substantial bosom and made of several layers of flowing white muslin, which was at least inexpensive, if not flattering. The style was intended to look Grecian. Over this, she wore a flowing stole of gold-colored taffeta that matched her usual exotic headdress.

Aunt Aurora blessedly shifted and Clara’s dress was momentarily out of danger.

The gown had cost far more than Clara had been willing to pay. Unfortunately, her aunt had been embarrassingly insistent. After all, she had exclaimed several times, regardless of the other customers in the dressmaker’s shop, Clara should dress as befitted her station. She was a duke’s granddaughter, even if her mother had been disowned by the old reprobate, and this was to be her introduction into London society. It was only by using her knowledge of her aunt’s mental processes that Clara had managed to avoid a garish gown of bright peacock blue or deep purple and a headdress that resembled an overgrown bouquet. Clara had convinced her aunt that she should appear demure, almost nunlike, in case word of her appearance should get back to her grandfather. Let there be nothing — nothing — about Clara’s clothes or demeanor that anyone could fault. Fortunately, Aunt Aurora had agreed, so Clara had no cause to be concerned about her garments — provided they could escape being squashed.

“Perhaps Lord Mulholland will be there, too,” Aunt Aurora said excitedly. “Wouldn’t that be wonderful—the handsomest man in England, or so they say! What a triumph it would be to do his portrait!”

“I daresay he already has several, if he is the conceited wastrel people say he is,” Clara replied. “He’s probably a vain coxcomb without a brain inside his handsome head,” she concluded, for she had indeed heard of the wealthy nobleman whose first name, Paris, seemed to have been chosen with predestination. Paris of Troy was the legendary seducer of Helen of Sparta, an act which caused the Trojan War.

No one possessed of such a combination of looks, wealth and title would pass unremarked in London. Unfortunately, Clara could easily imagine how such a man would respond to her aunt.

“I am absolutely certain the cabbie has gone out of his way,” Aunt Aurora declared again, straining to see outside. “Is that not Rotten Row? We should not be in Hyde Park! I feel sure he is going to deceive us!”

“No, Aunt,” Clara said calmly. “He is going the right route.”

She kept a bemused smile from her face, for even if the cabbie was trying to cheat them, Aunt Aurora would never confront the man. It would be Clara’s responsibility to pay the cabbie, just as she paid all the household bills for her guardians. She had done so from the time she had come to live with them after her parents’ deaths when she was thirteen. Clara realized then that Aunt Aurora and Uncle Byron had minds above the daily practicalities, or so they honestly believed.

For her part, Clara was in no great hurry to get to the London mansion of Lord and Lady Pimblett, for the distance from their lodgings in Bloomsbury to this exclusive part of the city was much farther socially than it was geographically.

She wasn’t even sure why or how they had been invited to this ball. She had been lingering over one of the mummies in the British Museum when she realized that her aunt had approached an extremely well-dressed, extremely poised older woman and engaged her in conversation.

Clara had immediately suspected the worst: that her aunt was asking if the lady wished to have her portrait painted.

No matter how many times her aunt approached complete strangers with the object of obtaining a commission, Clara never got used to it. This summer, her aunt had been worse than usual, and Clara knew it was all her fault. If she had not been over the age to be “out,” her aunt would have been much less persistent. Clara sighed as she wished that she didn’t have to grow up at all, if this...this solicitation were to be part of the price.

After the woman had moved on, her aunt had revealed, with her usual unbridled enthusiasm, that they were invited to this ball.

“Just think of it!” Aunt Aurora declared, returning Clara’s thoughts to the present as she clasped together her plump hands bejeweled by rings of paste stones that she thought quite lovely. “An invitation to a social evening with Lord and Lady Pimblett! What a delight! What a pleasure! I knew it was no mistake to speak with her in the museum! Dear Lady Pimblett! What a form! What a figure!”

“What a corset,” Clara remarked with a good-natured smile. “She swooned when she tried to catch her husband up at the museum. I suppose she spends most of the day on a sofa and considers herself sickly.”

“Clara!” Aunt Aurora admonished, tapping Clara on the arm with her fan that was decorated with a hand-painted scene of half-naked nymphs and dryads that Clara was certain was going to cause some scandalized whispers at a Mayfair mansion. “She is a woman of great position, and we are deeply honored to be invited to her home. I must ask you to remember that.”

Clara flushed and nodded, for it was not often that kindhearted Aunt Aurora rebuked her. She would simply have to be calm and patient, and try not to let Aunt Aurora’s manner upset her, even though she knew exactly what was going to happen. Her aunt would wander about the ball asking anybody who glanced her way if they would care to have their portrait done.

Clara wondered for what seemed the thousandth time why she had let her aunt talk her into accompanying them to this vast house surely full of dull, uninteresting people who would snub her. Or worse, look at her as if she led some kind of vaguely dishonest life not much removed from those unfortunate women in the streets.

Aunt Aurora, however, seemed to neither fear nor notice other people’s reactions, like that of the cabbie, who had stared with his mouth open as they approached his vehicle.

Aunt Aurora frowned. “Perhaps she needs such an undergarment. She may have a weak back, and not every woman is naturally blessed with a figure like yours, Clara.”

“Nor has every woman such an amiable and forward-thinking aunt to ban the detestable undergarment from her home,” Clara acknowledged.

“Hear, hear!” Uncle Byron cried, leaning forward suddenly and grasping his wife’s hand while gazing at her adoringly. “My Amazon! My warrior queen, has ever been, so far seen....” Uncle Byron’s brow wrinkled, his green eyes became serious and he began to rub his chin as his attention returned to the ceiling. “Now what?” he murmured. “Queen, been, seen, tangerine...?”

“The muse speaks!” Aunt Aurora whispered quite unnecessarily as she put her finger on her lips, obviously unable to remain silent despite the muse’s unseen presence.

Clara turned to look out the window and hide her smile. When the muse spoke, she had best be quiet. It was the fastest way to achieve the end to one of Uncle Byron’s poetic reveries.

A row of particularly fine town houses alight with blazing windows came into view. The tall white buildings seemed to glow in the moonlight, as if even the fog could be held at bay if one was rich enough.

“I believe we have arrived,” Clara said softly, suddenly terrified.

She knew nothing of these people and little of the aristocratic world they inhabited, for her mother had been disowned before Clara was born. What did they know of hers—of watching how every tuppence was spent, of the small, stuffy flat they lived in, of the noise of the neighbors and the street? What would they make of her, a woman of no great beauty whose mother had had the effrontery and bad taste to fall in love with her dancing master, and worse manners to marry the fellow? How could her guardians have accepted this invitation? How could they be so willfully blind?

She looked at them again, her uncle thoughtfully surveying the town house, her aunt breathless with anticipation—and was ashamed of herself. Why shouldn’t they be there? Aunt Aurora was the kindest, sweetest person Clara knew. Her uncle was an intelligent, well-read man who could have been a success in almost any field, if his mother had named him anything other than Byron. She was a lady’s daughter, of higher rank than even Lord and Lady Pimblett. She would remember these things, and hold her head high.

After they disembarked, Clara reached into her reticule and brought out the exact amount necessary to pay the cabbie, leaving a similar amount for the journey home. The cabbie squinted at the coins in his palm, sniffed scornfully, then clicked his tongue to alert his horse and drove off.

“That poor man does not have the artistic sentiment, I fear,” Aunt Aurora remarked sadly, as if the man suffered a grave deficiency.

Then, blissfully unaware that Clara was not enthused by this social engagement, Aunt Aurora and Uncle Byron proceeded toward the steps leading into the mansion while Clara followed slowly behind.

As they reached the bottom step, a private coach adorned with a family crest stopped where the cab had been moments before. Clara glanced back as the door opened and a top hat appeared, followed quickly by a broad-shouldered, well-dressed individual wearing an opera cape. The dark fabric swirled when the man leapt lightly onto the walk, revealing a brilliant scarlet lining.

As if this man needed anything extra to draw attention to himself, Clara thought, looking at his classically handsome profile in the lamplight.

Then she realized, without having to be told, that she must be looking at the handsomest man in England—Lord Paris Mulholland. There could not be two men in London with such a form and face.

He reached into his pocket and flipped a coin toward the driver. “Three hours, Jones,” he announced in a languid, deep voice that bespoke wealth and education, and that also held a tinge of amused good humor in it. “Mind, I shall be most aggrieved if you are late, and I won’t listen to any excuses! Then we’ll be off to White’s, for I’ve laid on a bet with poor, dim Boffington that I can make her ladyship swoon at least five times before I meet him there. Too easy, really. I should have made it ten.”

The lighthearted command in the man’s voice quite captivated Clara and she wished she had a part of that bet, which would surely be won, so much so that when Lord Mulholland suddenly turned and looked at her, she gasped with guilt. She attempted to mask her shame and surprise by effecting a cough—and wound up sounding as though she were in immediate danger of choking to death.

Aunt Aurora and Uncle Byron, who had also halted when the stranger arrived, hurried to her. “Are you quite all right, my dear?” Aunt Aurora asked.

Clara nodded, took a step toward the town house and unfortunately tripped on the hem of her lovely new gown. She hastily disentangled herself, but before she could move farther away, the stranger was beside her.

“Somebody expiring on the very steps?” he inquired politely, reaching out to take her arm in a grip that was surprising strong.

Seen so close, Clara realized he was extremely attractive, with eyes of such brilliant piercing blue beneath finely arched blond brows that she felt some kind of pure, invigorating energy blaze forth from them. He was smiling, and his chin had the merest hint of a dimple beneath full, sensual lips.

She had expected a man with his reputation to be a vain dandy, but she couldn’t have been more wrong, for Paris Mulholland exuded a masculinity that needed no embellishment.

If there was any mercy under heaven, the ground would open up and swallow her.

“I tripped.” Her embarrassment caused her to put on as severe an expression as she could muster as she pulled away from Lord Mulholland. “I am fine, thank you.”

Clara could look very severe, yet that only seemed to amuse the man, who smiled most charmingly and ran his gaze over the three of them.

It was happening already, Clara thought with dismay. Impertinent appraisal. She knew what he would think when he discovered that her aunt was an artist and her uncle a poet—that she, living with such people, must be of lax morals.

Clara drew herself up and directed a steely gaze at him, remembering that she was most properly and demurely dressed, so there could be no good reason for his long assessment of her.

“Greetings, fellow bacchanal! Are you come to join the revels?” Uncle Byron asked by way of salutation.

To speak so to a stranger, and in Mayfair, too! Would Uncle Byron never learn to observe the social niceties?

The nobleman lifted his black silk top hat and bowed gracefully, and she noted his sleek, blond hair and long, slender fingers. “Allow me to present myself. I am Lord Paris Mulholland.”

Aunt Aurora gave Clara what could only be described as an impressed and triumphant look, and Uncle Byron would have swept his hat from his head if he had worn one. Instead, he made a very low and flourishing bow such as Lord Mulholland might recently have witnessed on a theater stage. “Byron Bromblehampton Wells, sir,” he announced. “My wife, Aurora, and our niece, Miss Clara Covington Wells. Charmed to make your acquaintance, my lord!”

“I’ve been hoping to meet you, my lord,” Aunt Aurora gushed with equal enthusiasm. “I have heard it said you are a handsome man worthy of your legendary name, and it is most gratifying to see that your reputation is quite well-founded.”

“Thank you, dear lady,” the sleek and undoubtedly seductive Lord Mulholland replied as he took Aunt Aurora’s plump hand and gallantly pressed a kiss upon it. “But I am named for the city, not the man.”

He took Clara’s hand in his. Even though they both wore gloves, his touch was astoundingly delightful—firm yet gentle, too. “Your servant, Miss Wells,” he said, kissing the back of her hand lightly. He glanced up at her face with a roguish grin.

It occurred to Clara that it didn’t much matter how Lord Mulholland came by his name, for it was all too fitting.

“Have you ever had your portrait done?” Aunt Aurora asked eagerly.

At that moment, it would have been a blessed relief if there had been a tornado, or an earthquake or any other cataclysm—anything other than to have to stand there and listen while Aunt Aurora said, “I’m an artist, my lord, and nothing would give me greater pleasure than to paint you.”

“Indeed?” Lord Mulholland replied. “That is a most intriguing proposition.” He faced Clara. “And does this delightful young creature also paint?”

“No, my lord. This creature does not,” she answered firmly, moving away and telling herself that his roguish smile was probably nothing more than a habit with him. No doubt he considered any and every woman an object for an attempted seduction.

“A pity,” he replied. “May I escort you inside?”

No! Clara wanted to shout. What would people think if they entered here together? Think! They would believe they knew. A female stranger of such dubious social heritage accompanying a man like Lord Paris Mulholland must be “under his protection.” What little reputation she might have hoped to maintain with a demure manner and extremely plain and modest gown would fly away like a frightened sparrow. She should have insisted that she remain at home tonight!

He held out his arm, but toward Aunt Aurora, not her. It was the most impeccably correct thing to do, and Clara thought she must have been temporarily deranged to imagine that he would want to escort her.

“How perfectly delightful,” Aunt Aurora said as she stepped ahead to take his proffered arm. “Now, about your portrait....”

“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?

“If you think I’m intruding, I shall take myself off,” he finished.

Before Clara could speak, Aunt Aurora recovered. “Oh, dear me, no! We are so glad to see you!” she cried happily. “We were just discussing you.”

“I hope you were only saying good things of me,” Lord Mulholland said genially, looking at Lady Hester.

Although Hester Pimblett’s smile lighted her good-natured face, Clara couldn’t help noticing that she did not meet his gaze. “I believe I hear the music for dancing,” she said softly, moving toward the door. “So if you will excuse me, I shall look forward to meeting you again at Mulholland House, my lord.”

She hurried out of the room, and Clara fought the urge to follow.

“I have been reconsidering your offer,” Lord Mulholland said.

“Really?” Aunt Aurora cried, clapping her hands like an excited child. “How delightful! How wonderful! I do think you owe it to posterity, Lord Mulholland.”

“That shall be for posterity to decide,” he answered. “I only know I should be honored to sit for you.”

He sounded so sincere, Clara could almost believe he meant it. Nevertheless, she kept her attention firmly fastened on Aunt Aurora, who was apparently perfectly content, and further, quite delighted to think she had achieved so much so soon.

Then he frowned slightly. “However, I am leaving London tomorrow, so it occurs to me that you must come to my house in Lincolnshire to do the picture, if you are able.”

“Oh, my lord! How marvelous! Of course we shall be only too delighted to go! Clara, isn’t he just too kind?”

“Too kind, indeed,” Clara replied flatly. Her mind was full of suspicions. Why would this rich, titled man want Aunt Aurora to do his portrait?

“I will happily pay your travel expenses,” he offered.

“Well, my dear man, this is so sudden — so unexpected. I shall have to finish one or two small commissions—a matter of mere days—and a few trifling bills to pay...then the house must be shut up.”

“Aunt, we cannot abandon the household,” Clara protested.

“Bring the household along, by all means,” Lord Mulholland said languidly. “Or perhaps your niece would prefer to remain in London?”

To her great chagrin, the idea that he could so easily leave her behind disturbed Clara immensely. Had she somehow imbibed far more wine than she realized?

Fortunately, Aunt Aurora looked as if he had proposed doing away with her niece. “I certainly could not! She cannot remain alone in London, Lord Mulholland. It would not be proper.”

There! Clara thought triumphantly. This man had best understand that she belonged to a family every bit as moral as his own. Or, considering what she knew of the upper classes, considerably more so.

“Very well,” he acquiesced graciously. “Then she must come, too, by all means.”

Damn him! She didn’t want to find him gracious, or charming or handsome. Nor did she want to go to his house in the country, even if it meant getting out of London for a while.

Had Aunt Aurora forgotten everything they had heard about Lord Mulholland? The flippant bets, the mistress who had made a bonfire of all his clothes when she thought he was dallying with another woman who was said to be married, the money he wasted on frivolous entertainment? Surely Aunt Aurora wouldn’t wish to expose her niece to such a man, not even for the sake of a major commission.

“Perhaps we should settle the details of our arrangement at once,” Lord Mulholland said, his deep voice persuasively soft as he gazed at Clara. “Then your niece will believe that my desire is a serious one.”

Clara had read of women’s knees weakening at certain romantic moments, but she had always considered it an invention of fiction, until Paris Mulholland said, “desire.” Now she knew that it could indeed happen. Nevertheless, she would die before she would let him know that his words or tone had any effect on her at all.

“You are too gracious, my lord!” Aunt Aurora cried, obviously completely oblivious to the undercurrent of anxiety her niece was experiencing.

“Don’t you wish to see examples of my aunt’s work?” Clara asked, a hint of desperation creeping into her voice.

“Not at all,” he said. “I’m sure I will be completely satisfied.”

She risked a glance at the noble wastrel, and saw the laughter lurking in Lord Mulholland’s eyes. So, he found them amusing, as if they were clowns he could hire? Perhaps, while having her guardians for jesters, he thought to practice his seductive skills on their surely easily-wooed niece.

Anger built inside Clara. Aunt Aurora could be absurd, but she was a kind, generous woman who truly thought of herself as an artist. Despite his lack of skill, Uncle Byron took his writing career seriously. As for seducing her, she was no easy prey for any man, not even the famous Paris Mulholland, as he would inevitably learn.

She summoned every reserve of calm she had, so that when she faced him, her countenance was bland and her voice controlled. “Don’t you want to know my aunt’s usual commission?”

“I must go tell Byron about your proposal, my lord!” Aunt Aurora said excitedly, obviously believing that only the details remained to be settled.

“Aunt!” Clara said swiftly. “You can’t—!”

“Oh, never fear. I’ll find him somehow. And you know I never like talking about money!” With a dismissive wave of her hand, Aunt Aurora trotted off in search of her husband, leaving Clara alone and unchaperoned with the most notorious wastrel in London.

“I won’t bite,” Lord Mulholland remarked coolly.

“This is most improper, my lord, as you well know,” Clara said, wanting to run out the door, but just as determined not to seem frightened or flustered.

“Then you can afford to pick and choose who your aunt will paint?”

Like the Paris of the myth who shot and killed Achilles, he had found her weakest spot. They did need the money, and badly, too, a weakness she hesitatingly acknowledged.

“Very well. Let us do our haggling and rejoin the others before there can be any hint of impropriety.”

“Oh, yes, we wouldn’t want your reputation to suffer,” Clara replied sardonically.

He tugged the cuff of his jacket into perfect alignment with his shirt. “I was thinking of yours.”

To her surprise, he sounded absolutely sincere. But then, he had sounded the perfect fop in the drawing room. She decided it would be better to settle the price at once, and get away from such a chameleon.

When she met his interrogative gaze, she thought it might be better just to get away. She would run and fight another day. “The hour is late,” she said abruptly.

“Not very,” he said, glancing down the hall with his mocking little smile, as if he knew very well why she was sidling toward the doorway, and found her concern amusing. “You seem less than delighted by the prospect of your aunt rendering me.”

Since he spoke the truth, she did not deign to reply.

“Don’t you want your aunt to paint me?” he asked.

“What shade did you have in mind?” she retorted.

“What color would you suggest?” he countered. “Perhaps something to bring out the color of my eyes?”

His response made Clara look at his eyes, which were a shade of deep blue like the sky in springtime. Then she realized he was laughing at her. She could see it in those merry, mocking, sky blue eyes, and detect it in the slight upturn of his sensual lips. He reminded her of a sardonic satyr.

She was no plaything for his amusement, and it was time he learned that. She wouldn’t have fled from him now if he pulled out a pistol.

Instead, she thought of a reasonable sum for the portrait, and quadrupled it. Then she doubled that. “Four hundred pounds,” she announced gravely.

“Very well.” Lord Mulholland reached into the breast pocket of his jacket with his long, slender fingers whose warmth she well recalled, and drew out his wallet. “Will a check do, or would you prefer the cash?”

In spite of her anger and resolution to remain cool and calm, she gasped. “Surely you...you don’t carry such a sum on your person?”

He simply smiled.

Good heavens, he was a fool. Rich, but a fool!

“Since I have never paid for my portrait before, I will have to trust that this is an honest rate.”

Clara’s gaze faltered. She was ashamed of herself, despite her reasoning. For an instant, honor and a desire to hoodwink him battled in her breast; honor quickly triumphed. “No, Lord Mulholland. It is not,” she said quietly. “I inflated the sum.”

“Why? Did I strike you as an easy mark?” He did not look angry at her admission, which she rather wished he would. He made another calm, inquisitive smile.

She straightened her slim shoulders and gazed at him staunchly. “I thought you were making sport of us.”

“Ah!” His eyes grew serious.

“You would not be the first.”

“I give you my most solemn assurances that I truly want your aunt to do my portrait, and I have no ulterior motive beyond that.”

He was so unmistakably earnest that she felt some of the anxiety flee her body. Nevertheless, she did not relax. She couldn’t, not when she was alone with him.

She nodded stiffly. “Then we shall accept your commission.”

“That makes me very happy,” he said softly as he reached out to take her hand. “I am suddenly all aflame to have my portrait done.” She held her breath as he bent down and kissed her fingers gallantly.

She yanked her hand from his. It had to be the unexpectedness of his action that took her breath away and made her heart race.

“The real price is fifty pounds,” she said huskily, hoping he was in no mood to haggle. She had discovered that some of her aunt’s wealthiest patrons were the ones most unwilling to part with a penny. “Twenty-five before she begins, twenty-five when she is finished.”

His expression mercifully returned to languid normality. “That much?”

“It will be a large picture,” she said quickly. “My aunt does them life size.”

“I see. So I will be certain of getting my money’s worth. Perhaps I could use it as a substitute for myself in the House of Lords when the debates get too boring.” He opened his slender wallet and drew out twenty-five pounds.

Clara took the offered money, then chewed her lip as she considered where she should keep it. Her reticule was too small, being made with the idea that a woman need only carry a delicate lace handkerchief and smelling salts to be prepared for any emergency. After another moment’s consideration, she turned away from Lord Mulholland and swiftly tucked the folded bills into her bodice.

“I envy my money,” he remarked with a gleam in his sparkling eyes, all his indifference gone.

This man was indeed seduction personified! “As well you should, since it is safely where you will never venture,” she answered defensively.

He sighed melodramatically. “Hard-hearted wench!”

He drew out his watch with such a knowing smile that she cursed herself for a fool and a ninny. She was reacting like some green schoolgirl! But he was surely a master of seduction. She must be on her guard.

He glanced at the timepiece. “I perceive that it is time for me to leave, and as much as I would dearly enjoy chatting with you, I have friends awaiting me. If you will excuse me, Miss Wells, I look forward to meeting you again in Lincolnshire.”

She watched him stroll away unconcerned, as though nothing of any import had happened. She felt as if one of the Greek gods had suddenly appeared before her in mortal form and invited her to Olympus.

Most surprising of all, she wanted to go.

Paris leaned back against the cushions of his carriage, oblivious to the sounds of London as Jones took him to White’s.

Paris knew he should have been feeling quite pleased with himself, for he was going to get a considerable sum from old Boffington, and could probably dine out on the tale of this wager for the rest of the year.

However, there could be no denying, even to himself—and Paris Mulholland was a past master at denying any troubling twinges of emotion—that his little interview with the artist’s niece upset him far more than it should. By rights, he should be quite immune to the opinions of others, and especially those of a very serious, disdainful young lady whose social station was so below his own, even if she did proclaim them in a delightful voice, her eyes shining with indignant passion. When was the last time he had seen authentic passion, even of an angry sort? He couldn’t remember—and he shouldn’t be trying to.

What did it matter if her shrewd observation that he was planning to get some amusement from her aunt’s foibles had been correct, at first? She said it had happened before; she should be used to it. Indeed, he told himself, if she were really clever, she would have been exploiting her aunt and uncle’s eccentric ways as a means of living. They could easily be a traveling circus.

He wrapped his cape tighter against the damp chill. No, he didn’t mean that. He knew how it felt to have the adult in one’s life make embarrassing remarks. He, too, would have bristled at such treatment, had he been in her place.

Paris Mulholland suddenly had the distinct sensation that this perfect stranger, this hazel-eyed embodiment of outraged familial loyalty and pride, had not just upset the equanimity of his life. She had managed to touch his heart and set it strumming in understanding sympathy.

He didn’t want his life disturbed, or any sympathetic feelings roused. He didn’t want to feel very much of anything. Life was much safer and so much more pleasant that way.

He wished he had never extended the invitation to her aunt that they all come to Lincolnshire. Perhaps he could undo it...but then, he would miss the pleasure of her guardian’s company.

They were amusing and interesting, and would certainly liven up his dull days. What was so very wrong with taking advantage of that?

Chapter Four

The Wells heard nothing further from the infamous Paris Mulholland during the few days immediately after Lord Pimblett’s ball. Clara decided he had changed his mind about the portrait and told herself she was glad of it. No matter how her aunt fretted—and dear Aunt Aurora could fuet—Clara couldn’t help feeling it would be a blessing if they never saw the man again. It would be awkward to return the money, yet that might be far preferable to dealing with Lord Mulholland for any length of time.

There was also another reason Clara did not wish to spend more time in such company. What might her guardians say or do at Mulholland House? They were so...so enthusiastic about their passions! She was not ashamed of them exactly, but more than once their unbridled remarks had caused Clara to wish to bury her head in the proverbial sand. A man like Paris Mulholland would have stories to tell for years—and he would tell them, too, in that seductive, utterly captivating voice of his.

Then, a fortnight after the Pimbletts’ ball, they received a note from a Mr. Mycroft, Lord Mulholland’s man of business in the city, detailing the travel arrangements and providing the funds. They were to go to Folkingham in Lincolnshire and disembark at the Greyhound Inn, where they would be met by a coachman from Mulholland House who would drive them to the manor.

There was no doubt, from that moment, that they would go.

Although preparing for the journey to Lincolnshire severely taxed Clara’s patience, she dared not protest. Aunt Aurora and Uncle Byron now believed that Lord Paris Mulholland was something of a saint, and they would not listen to any attempt to persuade them otherwise.

Aunt Aurora, who considered her commission to paint Lord Mulholland as the beginning of a new and important phase of her career, simply could not be made to see the troubles this journey entailed. She quite cheerfully entrusted all the arrangements to Clara, with the single exception of the preparation of her painting materials.

Uncle Byron concerned himself with composing a farewell ode to the Thames and outfitting himself with what he considered the proper garb of a country gentleman, which meant tweeds and gaiters. Under no circumstances did he wish to hear that they could not afford new clothes, and Clara finally gave up trying.

The landlady of their shabby and meager lodgings proved to be completely unreasonable. She insisted that if they were going to vacate the rooms, vacate them they must, which meant packing up all their belongings and paying rent for the cellar, where they were graciously allowed to store the few pieces of furniture they owned outright.

There was also the matter of Zeus, the family cat, a large and dignified black feline. Clara wasn’t sure what to do about him, until Aunt Aurora suggested turning him over to the tender mercies of one of her artistic friends, a young woman who kept decidedly odd hours and rarely managed to feed herself, let alone a cat. Clara refused, and finally decided that since Lord Mulholland had invited “the whole household,” he would get the whole household.

Clara’s anxiety over their imminent departure was not assisted by her deep-seated dread that they would all have a terrible time in the country. For one thing, their host, who was said to be completely at the mercy of his whims, might take it into his head not to have his portrait painted at all once they arrived, and they would be left with no lodgings and perhaps having to return the twenty-five pounds, already gone to the purchase of new paints, canvas and Uncle Byron’s clothes.

That was bad enough, but the idea of living in the same house as the handsome and charming Lord Mulholland who could make her knees weak with a look was worse yet. She knew the visit was going to prove a great strain, especially if he exerted himself to seduce her. Not that she thought he could succeed, of course; she knew all the games and stratagems, even if they had not been practiced by such an attractive man. She finally decided she would simply avoid him and hope that Aunt Aurora painted quickly.

At last the day they were to leave for Lincolnshire arrived. Clara greeted it with great trepidation and considerable anxiety, and all too soon found herself wedged inside the coach for the journey north, with her aunt on one side and the basket holding Zeus on her own lap. Her uncle sat across from them with his feet sticking out into the middle of the compartment. He fell into a doze the moment the coach, with several other passengers perched on the top, lurched into motion.

Despite her misgivings, as the coach left the suburbs of London and entered the countryside, Clara found herself pleased and excited to be out of the city. She had forgotten how green and pleasant rural England could be, and how much sweeter smelling. The day was a fine one, and although the road was dusty, it was still better than London.

If only they were not going to the country home of Lord Paris Mulholland!

“Folkingham!” the coachman bellowed as the coach began rattling over the cobblestones of a village street.

Clara woke with a start and a jerk. She had fallen asleep during the last stretch of their journey. Mercifully, this final part of the ride was brief, or Clara doubted that her internal organs would ever be set right again. The jostling also managed to awaken her aunt, whose bonnet was more than slightly askew.

“We’re at Folkingham,” Clara said, grabbing Zeus’s basket with a tighter grip.

“Folkingham?” Aunt Aurora repeated, confused. As she struggled to a more upright position, she looked like a caterpillar making its way out of a cocoon, for she was encumbered by petticoats, a heavy skirt, a cloak and three shawls, having decided there was an unseasonable chill in the air that morning after they had stopped for the night. “Heaven forbid I should have the ague!” she had declared.

She had also wrapped a large scarf round her head, which was topped with a bonnet of her own design generously covered with artificial flowers. It looked more like a centerpiece than a hat. “Folkingham?” she said again.

“Yes, Aunt. We are to meet Lord Mulholland’s carriage here, remember?”

“Oh, indeed. Byron!” Aunt Aurora gave her husband a gentle kick.

“Hail, my nymph!” he muttered sleepily, blinking. He looked not unlike a turtle whose slumber has been disturbed. “Where the devil are we?”

“Folkingham,” Clara reiterated as the coach came to a stop. They felt the conveyance sway as the driver and some of the passengers climbed down. “I daresay this is the yard of the Greyhound Inn.”

She looked out the window at the large, pale orange brick building, and saw a confirming sign of that name. “I wonder if we shall have to wait long for Lord Mulholland’s carriage.”

“It matters not!” Uncle Byron exclaimed. “Such a beautiful day in the heart of a bucolic paradise! It will be a pleasure to wait here!”

He opened the door and stepped forth like a conquering hero surveying his recently acquired domain. Such was his natural grace and bearing that nobody, either from the top of the coach or the stables nearby, made any comment, and for that, Clara was grateful. She put her hand in his outstretched one and stepped down.

Folkingham was a delightful village, small but utterly charming. The large green was surrounded by prosperous-looking houses, and the contented bleating of sheep reached them from the surrounding low hills.

Then Clara noticed several poorly dressed people being handed a small loaf of bread by a couple, neatly and plainly dressed and standing behind a table upon which other loaves were piled. The ragged wanderers gratefully accepted this apparent gift. Munching on their bread, they trudged toward the southern end of town.

Looking their way, to the south and between the houses, Clara saw a tall, all-too-familiar wall. Either it was a workhouse or a prison. She surmised the tattered and threadbare group were on their way to visit the inmates, and those two kind souls were doing their best to relieve some of their poverty.

Clara sighed. Even here, poverty and want reared its ugly head. Perhaps she had been foolish to think it would be otherwise.

“Ah, Arcadian delights abound!” Aunt Aurora cried as she grappled her way down from the carriage, quite oblivious to the straggling walkers. Unfortunately, her appearance seemed to unleash the impertinent snickers of the other passengers.

“The horses’ll eat that hat!” one wag called out.

Her aunt didn’t seem to hear the comment as she happily surveyed the street and green. “How absolutely delightful! How picturesque! How truly rustic!” she enthused.

“Indeed, my Ceres!” Then Uncle Byron realized he had stepped into something he should not have, wrinkled his nose in distaste, scraped his boot on the wheel rim and held out his arm for his wife to take, all his actions accompanied by hoots of laughter from the other passengers of the coach.

Clara flushed to the roots of her hair, straightened her shoulders and tightened her grip on Zeus’s basket as she tried to lift her fast-muddying skirts a little higher. She, wearing a very severe, plain traveling gown of dark brown, and a most demure bonnet, feared no censure from anyone regarding her clothing. She glanced over her shoulder and gave the passengers a black, chastising look. She had been practicing that look for many years now, and had it to such an art that it was far more effective than any mere words could have been. Not surprisingly, the rabble fell silent.

“Come, Clara!” her aunt said, grabbing Clara’s arm and strolling toward the inn.

With Zeus’s basket bumping against her leg, Clara allowed herself to be thus escorted, Uncle Byron following majestically behind.

The inside of the Greyhound Inn was dim, the oak wainscoting dark and the rest of the walls and ceiling smoke stained.

A middle-aged man in spotless blue livery and hat in hand approached them, his gaze fastened on Aunt Aurora’s distinctive bonnet. “Mrs. Wells?” he asked, making a small bow.

“Yes,” Aunt Aurora replied.

“I’m from Mulholland House, Mrs. Wells. I was sent to bring you in the carriage.”

“Just as Lord Mulholland promised!” Aunt Aurora cried triumphantly.

Clara did not point out that if Lord Mulholland had not sent his carriage, they would have had few alternative means of getting to his estate.

“Byron., my own!” Aunt Aurora said to her husband. “See here! This is the driver to take us to Mulholland House.”

Uncle Byron regally nodded his understanding.

“It’s not a long drive,” the driver said deferentially. “Perhaps you’d care to refresh yourself first?”

“A simple drink of spring water, a crust of bread and the delightful air of the countryside will be enough for me,” Uncle Byron announced. “Under yon towering oak on the charming village green would be the perfect spot for an alfresco repast, don’t you agree, my dear?”

Clara had an instant vision of the spectacle of her aunt and uncle lunching on the village green. “It is the middle of the afternoon,” she pointed out. “I think it would be better if we were to get to Mulholland House without further delay.”

The innkeeper’s rosy-cheeked wife appeared. “Ale, sir? Coffee, ladies?” she asked with a pleasant smile.

“Ah, salve, prophetess!” Uncle Byron declared. “Ale, indeed—something smooth and dark. And tea for the ladies.”

“I don’t believe there will be time before we must be on our way,” Clara said firmly. “Thank you all the same.”

“You’re going to Mulholland House?” the innkeeper’s wife inquired cordially. “Ah, a lovely place!”

Before Clara could steer Aunt Aurora outside, her aunt said, “Who are all those poor unfortunates on the other side of the green?” Proving that she had, perhaps, not been as oblivious to the other attributes of Folkingham as Clara had assumed.

“Visiting the House of Correction, ma’am,” the woman replied cheerfully.

Aunt Aurora was horrified. “A jail? Dear me! A jail! Aren’t you afraid to sleep in your bed at night?”

Clara gave her aunt a fierce look. Supposing the woman was — it didn’t do to remind her.

“Oh, no. It’s not that kind of jail, really. Mostly vagrants, disorderlies.” The woman lifted her chin with a touch of pride. “Takes them from all of Kesteven, they does.”

“I suppose the building keeps them warm and dry,” Clara offered doubtfully.

Uncle Byron shielded his eyes with his hand and sighed loudly. “Deprived of the open air, shut up in a dungeon! It is monstrous! It is cruel!”

“Don’t upset yourself, my own!” Aunt Aurora cried, putting her arms around him and laying her forehead on his shoulder.

The driver and innkeeper’s wife exchanged looks over Aunt Aurora and Uncle Byron’s heads. “I believe I heard his lordship’s going to wait tea for you,” the driver murmured.

“There, you see!” Clara said with some desperation. “We had best be on our way.”

“Very well, my good man,” Uncle Byron said, suddenly brisk. “You will find our baggage on the coach, clearly marked.”

Clara thought of the trunks her aunt had decorated in her own inimitable way one afternoon and decided the driver would have no trouble deciding which articles of baggage were theirs. Not many traveling bags would have pictures of scenes from the Arabian Nights on them. Nevertheless, Clara thought being outside would be preferable to staying inside the inn, so she said, “I will show you which ones they are. There is also an easel and a large package of canvases.”

The driver nodded and led the way outside. The coachman was seeing to the changing of the horses, and some of the passengers milled about in the yard. Clara ignored their speculative looks as she showed the driver the appropriate baggage, then followed him to Lord Mulholland’s gleaming black landau that was at the far side of the yard. A pair of very fine horses had their noses in feed bags.

The driver glanced at her as he loaded the largest piece of baggage. “Quite a pair, those two, miss.”

“My aunt is an artist and my uncle is a poet,” Clara explained matter-of-factly. “They are both very... emotional.”

The driver chuckled companionably. “Oh, we’ve had lots of emotional people at Mulholland House,” he said. “And some were just plain crazy, if you ask me.”

Clara wondered peevishly which category the driver thought Aunt Aurora and Uncle Byron would occupy. Perhaps Lord Mulholland didn’t invite people to his country home only for his own amusement; perhaps he tried to keep his servants laughing, too. She should have refused the invitation, and let Aunt Aurora complain....

“Our dear mistress, the late Lady Mulholland, that was, liked lots o’ different sorts of people,” the driver continued, chuckling. “Her son’s just the same. Why, one time, this Italian count we had a’ stayin’ here — walked about in somethin’ looked like a baby’s nappy most o’ the time. Been to India or some such.” The driver reached down for the canvases. “’Nother time, these singers came. Sounded like a bunch of cats in a bag, we all thought.” He sighed for happy days gone by. “There, all stowed. We can go now.”

At least Aunt Aurora and Uncle Byron wouldn’t be the most unusual people to stay at Mulholland House, Clara thought as she nodded absently. Nevertheless, her dread was not lessened by that notion. If anything, the closer she got to Mulholland House, the tenser she became.

She reminded herself that she would simply evade the sleek and seductive Lord Mulholland. The painting would be done soon, and then they would be gone. “I shall fetch my aunt and uncle,” she said.

As she made her way toward the inn, the coach, with its passengers restored, rattled on its way. Clara was not sorry to see it, or its noisy passengers, leave.

Uncle Byron spotted Clara in the doorway and sprang to his feet. “Come, my dear!” he called to his wife. “Our chariot awaits!”

Chapter Five

Paris sat in his study in a large, comfortable wing chair, with his dog, Jupiter, at his feet. The yellow-haired beast of dubious parentage lay as still as one of the statues in the garden as he slumbered. His master was likewise motionless as he deciphered two letters, one from Tommy Taddington and the other from Reverend Jonas Clark, both of whom had been Paris’s friends at Oxford. Tommy’s letter informed Paris that Tommy was once again experiencing familial troubles, and unless he heard otherwise from Paris, would arrive sooner than planned. Jonas, to whom Paris was gladly giving the living in one of the nearby parishes, was expected to arrive at Mulholland House shortly, there to stay until the vicarage of St. Andrew’s had been repaired and prepared for the new pastor.

Paris’s attention was drawn from the letters by Jupiter, who lumbered to his feet just as the study door opened to reveal the presence of the butler, Witherspoon. At present, the white-haired Witherspoon looked decidedly icy.

“Yes?” Paris asked.

“My lord, the Wells have arrived.” By a process that Paris had yet to figure out, even though Witherspoon had been butler at Mulholland House for twenty years, Witherspoon managed to convey the impression that it would have been better if the Wells had never been born.

“Oh, come now, Witherspoon!” Paris chided. “They’re not as bad as all that! Granted, the niece is rather severe, but the aunt is delightful and her husband most amusing.” Grinning, Paris rose and tugged down his waistcoat. “I thought we needed some livening up around here, Witherspoon. I shall die of ennui otherwise.”

“Indeed, my lord.” The butler’s eyebrow rose a fraction and Paris saw a telltale twinkle of amusement in the man’s dark eyes. “That cause of death would at least be tasteful, my lord, unlike your guest’s bonnet.”

Paris chuckled amicably as he clapped a familiar hand on the retainer’s narrow shoulder. “Mrs. Wells is an artist,” he explained patiently. “She’s going to paint my portrait.”

“If you say so, my lord.”

Paris drew back and examined Witherspoon suspiciously. “You look as if I were up to no good, Witherspoon!” he exclaimed.

Witherspoon thawed a little, as he always did.

“I assure you, I will treat them royally,” Paris continued. “Speaking of which, where have you put them?”

“Since the hour is so close to tea,” Witherspoon said, miraculously conveying the impression that the late arrival of the Wells was somehow their fault, “I told Mrs. Dibble to escort them to their rooms.” He nearly smiled. “I must say the older lady was most fulsome in her praise of Mulholland House.”

Paris grinned. “I daresay she was. I believe Mrs. Dibble, our jewel among housekeepers, may finally —”

He was going to say that Mrs. Dibble may finally have encountered someone even more vivacious than herself, when there was a loud crash from the vicinity of the kitchen, followed by the sight of a black shape streaking past the study door as a lamenting female voice wailed, “Zeus, come back!”

With a bark and a bound, Jupiter shoved his way past the butler and his master and was out the door, his progress impeded by the freshly waxed floor. His huge paws slipped on the polished surface as he tried to give chase toward the foyer. After a moment of desperate scrambling, he found his footing and bounded away.

“Call off your dog!” Miss Wells cried, appearing in the corridor with a very flushed face and attired in the most ugly brown traveling dress Paris had ever seen. “Call him off!”

“Zounds and gadzooks,” Byron Wells cried from somewhere nearby, “what’s afoot? Tallyho!”

Mr. and Mrs. Wells appeared at the top of the staircase, by their appearance having interrupted their toilette. Byron Wells wore a finely tailored tweed suit that owed more to town than country, and Mrs. Wells’ dressing gown simply defied description.

Before Paris could answer, Clara Wells darted past him at the same time the black cat reappeared, this time returning toward its mistress and the kitchen wing. Before Paris could step back inside the sanctuary of his study, Jupiter tore down the corridor and crashed into his master, sending him reeling. Paris slipped on the polished floor and collided with Miss Wells. Stumbling over her skirts, he managed to right himself, then lost his footing again and finally fell to the ground, one foot shooting out and inadvertently kicking Miss Wells.

She lost her balance and landed on top of him in a pile of skirts and righteous indignation. “Get up!” she cried, putting her slender hands on Paris’s chest and pushing. “Get up!”

Paris could easily imagine how ridiculous they looked, him flat on his back in the middle of the hall with a young lady, red of face and glaring of eye, sprawled on top of him and telling him to get up. However, he wasn’t so startled that he didn’t notice that although her eyes blazed with indignation and despite her ugly brown dress, Clara Wells was really very pretty.

“I should point out that task would be much simpler if you were to rise first,” he said, hard-pressed not to laugh out loud as he put his hands about her slim waist to lift her up.

She wore no corset, for he felt only soft flesh beneath her gown, not whalebone. She was breathing hard. A few wisps of hair had escaped her tight bun and her mouth was partly opened. He had but to raise himself a few inches and he could capture those lips with his own....

Miss Wells’ face turned even redder as she realized her position. “Take your hands off me, sir!”

“May I be of assistance, miss?” Witherspoon intoned.

“Yes, please,” Miss Wells said, scuttling backward in a crablike manner that imparted to Paris new and fascinating sensations.

With great dignity, Witherspoon inclined and took Clara Wells’ hand in his to help her stand.

“Lord Mulholland, are you hurt?” Aurora Wells asked, bustling toward him solicitously, her ringlets quivering with concern.

“Only my pride,” he replied, standing and bestowing a gracious smile on his guests, especially the youngest of them.

Then Jupiter started to bay.

“He’s trapped Zeus!” Clara Wells cried anxiously as she turned once more toward the corridor leading to the kitchen. “Poor thing!”

“Jupiter won’t hurt your cat,” Paris said, hurrying after her. “He’s very gentle.”

Miss Wells shot him a withering glance. “I was thinking of your foolish dog,” she said. “Zeus can take care of himself.”

Before Paris could formulate an answer, Jupiter gave a great long howl, and in the next instant, came careening around the corner, Zeus clinging to his back and yowling. Jupiter looked as if he had Satan himself for a rider, and this cat could have been a familiar, for it held on with demonic determination as they rushed past the startled onlookers who pressed themselves back against the wall. Jupiter, with another wild yelp, spun around in the foyer and dashed back past them.

“I believe they are returning to the kitchen, my lord,” Witherspoon remarked unnecessarily.

A shocked screech—Mrs. Macurdy, the cook’s, no doubt—and a clash of pots confirmed Witherspoon’s assumption.

Paris ran to the kitchen followed by the Wells and halted abruptly on the threshold. Mrs. Macurdy, surrounded by fragments of pastry and pieces of tea sandwiches, was leaning against the table in the middle of the large room as if she had had the fright of her life. A kitchen maid stood in the corner with a ladle clutched in her hand, Jupiter was in the corner by the coal box whimpering and a black cat not nearly as huge as it had looked on Jupiter’s back sat on the windowsill calmly licking its paw.

Mrs. Macurdy turned her shocked visage toward him. “What in the name of heaven happened, my lord?” she asked in a stunned whisper. “Is that cat possessed?”

“No, he isn’t,” Miss Wells said as she pushed her way past him. “Your maid dropped a pan.” The scullery maid flushed guiltily and slowly lowered her ladle. “That scared poor Zeus, so he ran.” She glanced over her shoulder with a scathing look. “And then your brute of a dog chased him.”

She went to the windowsill and picked up the cat, nestling it to her chest and crooning, “Did he try to hurt you, Zeus, that nasty, stupid dog?”

Paris felt contrite until he saw the bloody scratches on Jupiter’s back. “That cat is a menace!” he said through clenched teeth as he went toward his wounded pet. “Poor Jupe,” he murmured. He crouched down and stroked the dog’s head. “Did that nasty, stupid cat attack you?”

Jupiter looked at him as if to ask what he had ever done to deserve such a punishment, and Paris had to agree.

“Since there is nothing for me to do here, I believe I shall decamp,” Aurora Wells announced grandly. She gathered her brightly colored wrapper around her ample frame. “Come, Byron!”

Byron was in the process of sampling one of the remaining intact pastries when his wife’s command interrupted. While continuing to unashamedly hold on to the cream puff, he bid everyone an airy adieu and ambled after her retreating figure, taking great care not to step on any fragments of food.

“I assume, my lord, that tea will be indefinitely postponed?” the ever-unflappable Witherspoon remarked.

Miss Wells paused in her crooning and, for the first time since this whole episode began, looked contrite. “Oh, dear me,” she said, and Paris noticed she spoke more to Mrs. Macurdy than to him. “Please, don’t make any more on our account. We can wait for dinner.”

“Good,” Paris said rather ungraciously. He was discovering that he detested being ignored, especially in his own home. “Mrs. Macurdy, don’t bother with tea.”

The cook nodded, turning a murderous eye onto Miss Wells and her cat triumphant. Witherspoon nodded his understanding and drifted out of the room.

“He’s usually no trouble at all,” Miss Wells said defensively. She brushed back one of the stray wisps of hair from her flushed face with the back of her hand. “I don’t think he’ll bother Jupiter again.”

“I should hope not.”

She frowned, making a furrow of worry appear between her shapely brows. So, she was not completely immune to his opinion.

Suddenly all was forgiven. Until she spoke again. “Such a large dog should be kept outside, shouldn’t it?”

“I like having him in the house,” Paris replied. “I didn’t realize you were bringing a cat.”

“You did say to bring all the household.”

“And is this all, or have you a mynah bird, a bear or an elephant somewhere hereabouts?”

“No, my lord. Only Zeus.” Clara Wells’ lips twitched as if she were trying to suppress a smile.

Paris did not remark that “only Zeus” had reduced his kitchen to a shambles and possibly upset Mrs. Macurdy’s delicate nervous system. He didn’t speak because the knowledge that she found his sarcastic comment amusing affected him strangely. On the one hand, he was pleased to think he could make her smile. On the other, he had never before wanted a young woman to take him seriously, as he did Clara Wells.

She glanced at the door leading to the kitchen garden and buttery and went toward it, opening it and setting her cat down. The beast walked majestically away, as one would expect any pet of the senior Wells to do.

“Sending your familiar to fend for himself?” Paris inquired.

Clara Wells rose and turned to face him. Rather unexpectedly, she did not meet his gaze. “I will see that he stays outside, my lord.”

Paris was suddenly aware that Mrs. Macurdy and the scullery maid were listening attentively as they made desultory motions of cleaning up.

He moved into the corridor. Miss Wells followed him, albeit a few paces behind. Once they were out of earshot of the kitchen, he looked at her and smiled. “If you keep your cat outside, who will guard your potions and spells?” he asked softly.

Chapter Six

Clara was now convinced by Lord Mulholland’s mischievous eyes and friendly smile that he wasn’t angry, which pleased her. It would not do to upset their host. Unfortunately, she suspected that other emotions were now coming into play, at least on her part. In self-defense, she forced herself to meet shallow levity with a similar nonchalance. “I left all my brews behind in London,” she answered.

“There is no need to banish the cat.”

“You won’t mind him in the house? What about your dog?”

“Jupe will recover, I’m sure,” he said, “although his primary caretaker is an irresponsible lout.” He frowned with what looked like genuine dismay.

“If he is, surely you have several people who could care for the dog.”

“I was referring, my dear Miss Wells, to myself.”

“Oh.” Clara fell silent. She was no longer in any humor to play games, nor did she wish to remember that he had called her “my dear” in that sinfully wicked voice of his.

“I daresay he’ll avoid your pet the next time,” Lord Mulholland said, “so all should be well.”

“I’m sorry. But you did say the household,” she repeated, trying to avoid looking at his face, which she felt was far too close to her own.

“I meant your servants.”

Clara bit her lip and blushed. “We don’t have any servants.”

“Who keeps your household organized?” he asked. “Your aunt, worthy woman though she may be, hardly seems the type. And your uncle—I cannot see him shopping in a market.”

“We are not of your class, my lord,” Clara pointedly observed.

“I daresay there are plenty of people who would say I’m not worthy to belong to any class,” he replied flippantly. “I suspect, Miss Wells, that it is you who sees to the orderly running of your household, the cat included.”

“Someone has to, and since I am not a gifted painter, nor can I write, much to my uncle’s chagrin, those tasks fall to me,” she admitted.

His expression softened and his blue eyes were full of sympathy. “That must be very difficult.”

“No more than trying to keep a large dog under control,” she replied, attempting to sound matter-of-fact. She was determined not to let herself get weak and silly in his presence. “I must say, my lord, I would have expected you to have a purebred hunting dog. I would not have thought a mongrel elegant enough for a man of your distinction.”

Then something happened that Clara would not have expected in a hundred years. Lord Paris Mulholland blushed. “I caught a fellow trying to drown a bag of puppies. Jupe was one of them,” he explained.

Clara took a step back. She should get away from this man at once. She was proof against his foolish-wastrel persona; against this sincere and handsome man who had saved drowning puppies, she had fewer defenses.

His gaze met hers and he paused, then straightened his shoulders as if attempting to resume his usual languid attitude—with some success, Clara noted regretfully. “I tried to give him away once he was recovered, but the poor chap looks upon me as his savior apparently. If I give him away, he keeps coming back. Foolish, isn’t it, but there it is.”

“I don’t consider loyalty a foolish characteristic, my lord,” she replied. “I hope you will forgive Zeus. And me.”

“Since the destruction of the kitchen was also the fault of my dog, I could hardly hold you responsible, could I?” He stepped in front of her, so that she had to look at his face. “Quite frankly, I’m relieved to be spared the social necessity of teatime. Besides, I detest the beverage, and Mrs. Macurdy, while a dear old soul and the maker of the finest pies in Christendom, is utterly defeated when it comes to sandwiches.”

There was something so winning in the way he said this that Clara had to smile.

“I’m delighted to know I can make the iron maiden laugh,” he remarked, with a truly warm smile that, had Clara known him better, she would have realized was very rare indeed.

Unfortunately, she did not know him better, and it did not please her to be called “the iron maiden” by anyone.

“Clara, my dear!” Aunt Aurora called out from upstairs, just as if they were at home. This time, her aunt’s lack of social polish didn’t trouble Clara. She was far too glad of an excuse to get away.

“If you will excuse me, my lord,” she said coldly. “I must see if my aunt requires assistance.”

This time, his smile was charming and completely devoid of meaning. “Of course, Miss Wells.”

With her slim back as straight as Witherspoon’s, and her chin high, she walked past him and up the stairs.

She marched along the upper corridor. She could tell from her aunt’s rather loud tones which room had been given to her, and headed toward it.

Iron maiden, indeed! Was she supposed to be flattered by his attention? Did Lord Paris Mulholland think, in his smug, bold way, that he could make her laugh?

If she seemed hard or cold, it was because somebody in her family had to be, or her poor aunt and uncle would be at the mercy of every tradesman, merchant, landlord and swindler in London.

What would this lazy, selfish man know of her troubles? What gave him the right to call her names?

She suddenly realized a short, thin man stood at the other end of the corridor staring at her. He had thick, dark, wavy hair brushed back and oiled, a thin mustache, well-tailored clothes in the latest fashion and a very shrewd expression in his beady black eyes. “Greetings, mademoiselle, ” he said in a French accent as he came toward her. He stopped and made a gentlemanly bow. “Permit me to introduce myself. Jean Claude Beaumaris, valet de chambre to Lord Mulholland.”

“Enchanté de faire votre connaissance, Monsieur Beaumaris, ” Clara replied in French.

“Ah, mademoiselle!” he cried with pleasure. “Votre accent est excellent.”

“Merci, monsieur. Excusez-moi, s’il vous plaît. Ma tante a besoin de ma présence.”

“Certainement, ” he replied with another bow as he backed away, a wide grin on his face that made him resemble the mask of comedy.

She rapped once on Aunt Aurora’s door. What a strange fellow, she thought as she heard Aunt Aurora respond. Almost as strange, she supposed, as one would consider her guardians.

She entered the bedroom. Aunt Aurora was sitting in front of a large gilt mirror wearing her brightly patterned dressing gown and attempting to arrange her heavy, hennaed hair. The furniture was Oriental in design, with beautiful gold inlays in the dark lacquer. The bed had an ornately scrolled, gilded partial canopy. The bed curtains, of a light chintz pattern, matched the embroidered satin coverlet and the Oriental wallpaper.

Clara could think of no room in the world that would appeal to Aunt Aurora more, because of her love of all things exotic, except perhaps one in a sultan’s palace.

The moment she saw Clara, Aunt Aurora swiveled on the chair and looked at her niece worriedly. “What on earth happened below?” she asked. “I hope his lordship isn’t too upset!”

“No, he didn’t seem to be,” Clara replied. “I was letting Zeus out of his basket when the kitchen maid dropped a pot. Zeus was frightened, so he ran. Then Lord Mulholland’s dog gave chase.”

“Oh, dear, I knew bringing Zeus was not a wise idea.”

“It was the dog’s fault, too.”

Aunt Aurora continued to look concerned. “I don’t want to anger Lord Mulholland and have to leave,” she said. “I didn’t want to alarm you before, Clara, but we have not the funds we should and this commission is rather important.”

Clara was surprised that Aunt Aurora suspected the perilous nature of their financial situation; nevertheless, she hastened to reassure her. “He wasn’t so very angry,” she said placatingly. “More annoyed, I believe, and he was soon over that.”

“I should have known you would make things right,” Aunt Aurora said with satisfaction as she turned back to regard her reflection. “He is a most delightful young man. Just think, my dear, if your foolish grandfather was not so stubborn, you would be enjoying such society as a matter of course.”

Clara said nothing as she began to unpack her aunt’s gowns. What was there to say?

“Lord Mulholland is perfectly charming,” Aunt Aurora went on enthusiastically. “And so handsome! Paris, indeed!” She glanced at Clara. “He looks so much better in these bucolic surroundings, don’t you think?”

“He is handsome,” Clara agreed.

Who could disagree, she thought, recalling his casual attire of an open-necked white shirt, his surprisingly broad shoulders that were certainly not the result of the tailor’s art and his fawn-colored riding breeches that emphasized the muscularity of his thighs.

Aunt Aurora tried another arrangement of her front hair. “He’s a perfect gentleman, too, I’m certain.”

“I hope so,” Clara replied absently, staring at the brilliant colors of her aunt’s wardrobe and mentally contrasting them with the muted tones of the wallpaper.

“Not like some of those other young men who’ve come to my studio.”

Clara slowly turned to look at her aunt. Until this moment, she had assumed Aunt Aurora had no inkling of the antics of some of her male customers and models.

“Why, you needn’t stare so, Clara, although I’m sure a girl of your moral fiber didn’t even notice their cruder behavior.”

Clara certainly had; the wonder of it was that Aunt Aurora had not been oblivious. “You...you never sent anyone away,” she said slowly.

“Why should I? They were harmless enough, and I certainly had no fear that you would not see them for the vain puppies they were!”

Clara didn’t know whether she should frown or smile. It was good to think her aunt had faith in her perception, but was it not her guardian’s place to guard Clara from her customers’ attentions?

There was a soft knock on the door, and Clara opened it to find a pretty, smiling young woman in a maid’s uniform who dipped a curtsy. “Good day, miss,” she said nervously. “I’m to be your maid while you’re here.”

Clara was about to protest that they didn’t need a maid when Aunt Aurora rose as majestically as any queen and gave Clara a most triumphant look. “How thoughtful of Lord Mulholland! I am Aurora Wells, and this is my niece, Clara.”

The maid dipped another curtsy. The young woman looked so keen and anxious, Clara didn’t have the heart to send her away, and on second thought, it occurred to her that it might be a pleasant break not to have to help Aunt Aurora for a little while.

Nor should she make too much out of Lord Mulholland’s generosity. Providing a maid for their assistance was surely to be expected of any gentleman.

Of course, it still remained to be seen if Lord Mulholland was worthy of such an appellation.

Paris opened the door of his bedchamber at the far end of the corridor to discover that his valet was in a state of such excitement, the fellow could barely stand still. He looked not unlike one of the drunken revelers depicted in the medieval harvest tapestry hanging in the small drawing room.

“My lord!” Jean Claude exclaimed with true Gallic enthusiasm. “At last you bring home a young woman worthy of your attention!”

“What are you talking about?” Paris demanded as he closed the door, although he thought he could guess what Jean Claude was talking about. “The only young woman new in the house is Miss Wells,” he said coolly, shooting the bolt home when he recalled Hester’s tale about another young lady spying on him. “And she’s no beauty. Pretty, perhaps, but surely not worth your fulsome praise. Now where’s my dress shirt?”

He went over toward the large canopied mahogany bed and began to undress, still wondering why the laughter in Clara Wells’ beautiful hazel eyes had died and her mouth had become a hard, grim line.

Because he had teased her a little?

Then, when her aunt had shouted for her, she had started and looked around as if she expected to see a bevy of Robert Peel’s bobbies waiting to arrest her. Because her aunt was a little boisterous?

Perhaps he would regret his hasty decision to have Aurora Wells paint his portrait, he thought grimly as he unbuttoned his shirt. It was not going to be a blissful experience, having such a stern, censorious miss in his household.

He could send them away, he supposed, and he had to admit that the thought was tempting. However, he couldn’t deny that Clara Wells was rather tempting, too, in a challenging sort of way. Besides, the family could use the money this commission would provide.

Jean Claude frowned darkly as he brought forth a fresh white shirt while Paris divested himself of the one he had been wearing. “Ce n’est pas possible! Am I in the presence of a dolt? A fool? A simpleton? Have I not taught you better than that, you...you Englishman! Anyone of any breeding and discernment would see that she is une jeune fille très magnifique!” He handed the shirt to a half-naked Paris and crossed his arms, daring his employer to disagree.

Which naturally Paris did, for it appeared that Jean Claude was going to outdo himself in defending Miss Wells—and his own judgment, of course. “I think she’s a prim-and-proper bourgeois prude,” he said.

“Are you blind?” Jean Claude demanded as Paris changed his trousers. “That woman is a powder keg waiting for a match!”

“Why don’t you try lighting her up then?”

“Because she is not French,” Jean Claude announced huffily.

“I’ll agree she’s explosive,” Paris replied, lifting an aristocratic eyebrow as he tied his white cravat. Jean Claude impatiently adjusted it before providing Paris with his white satin vest. “However, that is not a quality guaranteed to recommend her to me.”

“It should be,” Jean Claude retorted while Paris put on his tails.

The valet picked up a clothes brush and attacked Paris’s jacket furiously, nearly knocking Paris backward with the violence of his strokes.

“Besides, she is not of my social class,” his lordship said.

Jean Claude’s brush strokes became even more aggressive. “You are not such a pigheaded cabbage to think that way,” the Frenchman admonished. “And even a pigheaded cabbage could see that she must have royal blood in her veins.”

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