Read Online And Only to Deceive by TASHA ALEXANDER - Free Book Online
Authors: TASHA ALEXANDER
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smiling. “But in all seriousness, I think it’s terribly unfair.”
Colin leaned back in his chair and stared at me. After some time I wondered if I should speak but found myself mesmerized by his dark eyes.
“Dance with me, Emily,” he said quietly.
“What?”
“Dance with me.”
“There’s no music.”
“I’ll hum.”
“I shouldn’t. I’m in mourning.”
“You’re not dead,” he said, standing, never taking his eyes off me. I gave him my hand, and we began to waltz in what little open space my sitting room offered. His grace surprised me, but not as much as the way my skin responded to his touch. The feeling of his hand on my waist caused me to breathe deeply, and when at last he released me, my hands trembled as I stumbled back to my seat.
“I think I should go,” he said quietly.
“Yes, you’re probably right,” I agreed, not sure what to think. “But we haven’t had dinner.”
“I find that I am no longer hungry.” His eyes shone with an intensity I had not seen before in anyone. He kissed my hand, his lips lingering longer than strictly necessary, and rushed from my rooms.
21 A PRIL 1887
B ERKELEY S QUARE, L ONDON
Met a stunning girl at the Brandons’ last night—Earl Bromley’s daughter. Could not dance with her, as her card was already full. Dreaded encounter with Miss Huxley worse than expected. Will have words with Anne for having introduced me to her. Not only is she capable of speaking for fully a quarter of an hour without drawing breath (and on topics so boring that a mere three hours later I can’t recall a single one), she has a way of clinging to a chap’s arm that suggests she has no intention of ever letting go. Managed to eventually pry her away and sicced her on Hargreaves, who was unable to escape with as much ease as I did, not having the option of handing her off to a more handsome friend.
Have given thought to Lord Palmer’s views on Hector v. Achilles and cannot agree. Hector is what man can strive to become; Achilles is that of which he can only dream. Who would not prefer the latter?
7
S OON THEREAFTER I HIRED, ON R ENOIR’S RECOMMENDATION , a drawing master called Jean Pontiero to instruct me twice a week. His mother was French, his father Italian, and the two countries seemed engaged in an endless battle for his soul. He preferred Italian food, French wine, Italian music, and French women. Once I learned to decipher his speech, an odd combination of the two languages, we got along famously. He did not judge my limited skills too harshly; in return, I included a pasta course at luncheon on the days he came to me.
“The view from your rooms is too French. We cannot work here any longer,” he told me one day.
“I’m afraid we shall not be able to escape the French landscape, so we shall have to make do. Why don’t we go sit in the park? It’s quite warm today. A breeze would provide welcome relief.” Monsieur Pontiero sniffed, packed up my drawing materials, and led me to the Louvre, where he set me to the task of sketching the first of ten paintings by Francisco Guardi showing Venice during a festival in the eighteenth century.
“I do have quite a keen interest in antiquities, Monsieur Pontiero. Perhaps I could draw something Roman instead? The sarcophagus reliefs in the Salle de Mécène?” He ignored me and began to lecture on the use of light in the painting before me. I sighed and began to sketch. Before long we were interrupted by a short, rather pale Englishman, whom my teacher quickly introduced as Aldwin Attewater.
“You would be interested in his work, Lady Ashton,” Monsieur Pontiero said, smiling. “He copies antiquities.”
“Do you really?” I asked. “I should love to see your work. Monsieur Pontiero won’t let me draw anything but these landscapes, but I’d much rather sketch Greek vases.”
“Black-or red-figure? Which do you prefer?” Mr. Attewater continued without waiting for me to answer. “I’m partial
Colin leaned back in his chair and stared at me. After some time I wondered if I should speak but found myself mesmerized by his dark eyes.
“Dance with me, Emily,” he said quietly.
“What?”
“Dance with me.”
“There’s no music.”
“I’ll hum.”
“I shouldn’t. I’m in mourning.”
“You’re not dead,” he said, standing, never taking his eyes off me. I gave him my hand, and we began to waltz in what little open space my sitting room offered. His grace surprised me, but not as much as the way my skin responded to his touch. The feeling of his hand on my waist caused me to breathe deeply, and when at last he released me, my hands trembled as I stumbled back to my seat.
“I think I should go,” he said quietly.
“Yes, you’re probably right,” I agreed, not sure what to think. “But we haven’t had dinner.”
“I find that I am no longer hungry.” His eyes shone with an intensity I had not seen before in anyone. He kissed my hand, his lips lingering longer than strictly necessary, and rushed from my rooms.
21 A PRIL 1887
B ERKELEY S QUARE, L ONDON
Met a stunning girl at the Brandons’ last night—Earl Bromley’s daughter. Could not dance with her, as her card was already full. Dreaded encounter with Miss Huxley worse than expected. Will have words with Anne for having introduced me to her. Not only is she capable of speaking for fully a quarter of an hour without drawing breath (and on topics so boring that a mere three hours later I can’t recall a single one), she has a way of clinging to a chap’s arm that suggests she has no intention of ever letting go. Managed to eventually pry her away and sicced her on Hargreaves, who was unable to escape with as much ease as I did, not having the option of handing her off to a more handsome friend.
Have given thought to Lord Palmer’s views on Hector v. Achilles and cannot agree. Hector is what man can strive to become; Achilles is that of which he can only dream. Who would not prefer the latter?
7
S OON THEREAFTER I HIRED, ON R ENOIR’S RECOMMENDATION , a drawing master called Jean Pontiero to instruct me twice a week. His mother was French, his father Italian, and the two countries seemed engaged in an endless battle for his soul. He preferred Italian food, French wine, Italian music, and French women. Once I learned to decipher his speech, an odd combination of the two languages, we got along famously. He did not judge my limited skills too harshly; in return, I included a pasta course at luncheon on the days he came to me.
“The view from your rooms is too French. We cannot work here any longer,” he told me one day.
“I’m afraid we shall not be able to escape the French landscape, so we shall have to make do. Why don’t we go sit in the park? It’s quite warm today. A breeze would provide welcome relief.” Monsieur Pontiero sniffed, packed up my drawing materials, and led me to the Louvre, where he set me to the task of sketching the first of ten paintings by Francisco Guardi showing Venice during a festival in the eighteenth century.
“I do have quite a keen interest in antiquities, Monsieur Pontiero. Perhaps I could draw something Roman instead? The sarcophagus reliefs in the Salle de Mécène?” He ignored me and began to lecture on the use of light in the painting before me. I sighed and began to sketch. Before long we were interrupted by a short, rather pale Englishman, whom my teacher quickly introduced as Aldwin Attewater.
“You would be interested in his work, Lady Ashton,” Monsieur Pontiero said, smiling. “He copies antiquities.”
“Do you really?” I asked. “I should love to see your work. Monsieur Pontiero won’t let me draw anything but these landscapes, but I’d much rather sketch Greek vases.”
“Black-or red-figure? Which do you prefer?” Mr. Attewater continued without waiting for me to answer. “I’m partial
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