half object. She could scarcely say which manner disturbed her more. And of all things,
he thought her father— her father — had despoiled her. The duke of Monmouth was not that sort of
man, and yet her tongue cleaved to her mouth before she could push the words out to defend him.
True or not, it was a convincing explanation of why a maid might have been fired.
And it did seem to make Mr. Craven, who obviously had a protective streak, more eager to take her in. Heavens, he'd invited her to board with him! A stroke of luck, that, since she hadn't known where she'd stay if he did not. Given how conveniently everything was falling into place, it hardly behooved her to correct his erroneous impression of her sire.
She couldn't reveal her true identity, after all. No matter how debauched he was, Nicolas Craven would never compromise the daughter of a duke—at least, not an unmarried one.
She had thought her plan through most carefully. Not only was she going to accept his offer to paint her, she was going to let him paint her nude. That would be a scandal even her father could not suppress. She'd be utterly unmarriageable then, not just to Ernest but to any respectable man.
Yes, her father would be furious, but Nicolas Craven was wealthy and well known. Beyond a bit of unpleasantness, she suspected the man could defend himself. Certainly, if his swift disposal of her attacker were an indication, her brothers would pose no threat. In truth, they might have to worry about themselves. Still—she waved a mental hand—no mere artist would dare do serious injury to a peer.
Best of all, even if the duke decided to marry her to a commoner, a confirmed bachelor like Mr. Craven was certain to dig his heels in.
When the dust settled, Merry would have her freedom and Mr. Craven would have his art. His reputation might be a touch more notorious, but surely no harm lay in that. Artists like him thrived on notoriety.
The plan was, as far as she could see, without a single flaw.
Or almost without a flaw, she mused, as he led her down a narrow hall. The previous night's encounter had not prepared her for Nicolas Craven in the daylight. He wasn't just good-looking, he was gorgeous. Devilishly so, as if beauty could be a sin. His hair, which she'd simply thought untidy, was poetically long, a dark, smooth spill across his brow. The eyes she'd judged expressive downright smoldered in the light. They were gray and shining, like diamonds filled with smoke. And he was tall, almost as tall as her brothers, his shoulders as lean and broad as a statue from ancient Rome .
The fact that half his chest was showing did nothing to calm her pulse. Even as he walked before her,
the sight was emblazoned in her mind. His shirt was in the American style, the kind that buttoned all the way down the tails. Naturally, with four not particularly modest brothers, she'd seen her share of bare male chests. But this male chest was different.
For one thing, Mr. Craven could have posed for an anatomy manual. His muscles looked as if they'd
been laid in sculptor's clay directly on his frame. He had little chest hair, a mere smattering between his nipples, which—from the glimpses she caught beneath his shirt—were small and sharp. His feet were
bare as well: long, strangely graceful feet. Merry was certain she'd never noticed a man's feet before.
She found it disconcerting to notice them now, not to mention very personal.
Seemingly unaware of the flutter he had caused, Mr. Craven ushered her into a crowded Chinese parlor, where he rang for tea and savories. The servant who answered, a man he called Farnham, had a crooked nose and brush-cut iron-gray hair. A nasty scar slashed diagonally across his chin between the ends of his long mustache. Its skin puckered as if it had healed without medical care. Since he looked like an old pugilist, she wondered if he'd taught Nic the art of subduing strangers in the
he thought her father— her father — had despoiled her. The duke of Monmouth was not that sort of
man, and yet her tongue cleaved to her mouth before she could push the words out to defend him.
True or not, it was a convincing explanation of why a maid might have been fired.
And it did seem to make Mr. Craven, who obviously had a protective streak, more eager to take her in. Heavens, he'd invited her to board with him! A stroke of luck, that, since she hadn't known where she'd stay if he did not. Given how conveniently everything was falling into place, it hardly behooved her to correct his erroneous impression of her sire.
She couldn't reveal her true identity, after all. No matter how debauched he was, Nicolas Craven would never compromise the daughter of a duke—at least, not an unmarried one.
She had thought her plan through most carefully. Not only was she going to accept his offer to paint her, she was going to let him paint her nude. That would be a scandal even her father could not suppress. She'd be utterly unmarriageable then, not just to Ernest but to any respectable man.
Yes, her father would be furious, but Nicolas Craven was wealthy and well known. Beyond a bit of unpleasantness, she suspected the man could defend himself. Certainly, if his swift disposal of her attacker were an indication, her brothers would pose no threat. In truth, they might have to worry about themselves. Still—she waved a mental hand—no mere artist would dare do serious injury to a peer.
Best of all, even if the duke decided to marry her to a commoner, a confirmed bachelor like Mr. Craven was certain to dig his heels in.
When the dust settled, Merry would have her freedom and Mr. Craven would have his art. His reputation might be a touch more notorious, but surely no harm lay in that. Artists like him thrived on notoriety.
The plan was, as far as she could see, without a single flaw.
Or almost without a flaw, she mused, as he led her down a narrow hall. The previous night's encounter had not prepared her for Nicolas Craven in the daylight. He wasn't just good-looking, he was gorgeous. Devilishly so, as if beauty could be a sin. His hair, which she'd simply thought untidy, was poetically long, a dark, smooth spill across his brow. The eyes she'd judged expressive downright smoldered in the light. They were gray and shining, like diamonds filled with smoke. And he was tall, almost as tall as her brothers, his shoulders as lean and broad as a statue from ancient Rome .
The fact that half his chest was showing did nothing to calm her pulse. Even as he walked before her,
the sight was emblazoned in her mind. His shirt was in the American style, the kind that buttoned all the way down the tails. Naturally, with four not particularly modest brothers, she'd seen her share of bare male chests. But this male chest was different.
For one thing, Mr. Craven could have posed for an anatomy manual. His muscles looked as if they'd
been laid in sculptor's clay directly on his frame. He had little chest hair, a mere smattering between his nipples, which—from the glimpses she caught beneath his shirt—were small and sharp. His feet were
bare as well: long, strangely graceful feet. Merry was certain she'd never noticed a man's feet before.
She found it disconcerting to notice them now, not to mention very personal.
Seemingly unaware of the flutter he had caused, Mr. Craven ushered her into a crowded Chinese parlor, where he rang for tea and savories. The servant who answered, a man he called Farnham, had a crooked nose and brush-cut iron-gray hair. A nasty scar slashed diagonally across his chin between the ends of his long mustache. Its skin puckered as if it had healed without medical care. Since he looked like an old pugilist, she wondered if he'd taught Nic the art of subduing strangers in the
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