street. Happily, his manners were unobjectionable. The man glanced at her, no more than mildly curious. Beyond that, he seemed to make no judgment about her presence.
Of course, as an infamous artist's butler, he must have served more than his share of female guests.
As soon as the servant left, Mr. Craven lounged back in his chair, his chin propped on two fingers and a thumb, his legs sprawled out until his long, naked toes nearly touched her boot.
Unlike most men she knew, he seemed to feel no need to speak.
She forced herself to look down at her hands. Returning his gaze struck her as incautious. She didn't
want to spoil her progress by giving him the wrong idea. It was one tiling to hint she might welcome his advances, which, to judge by his behavior, required no more than showing up on his doorstep and being female. Actually giving in to those advances, however, was more than she wished to do. To her mind,
the less real damage she did to her person the better. She didn't dismiss the possibility of one day having an affair, but she'd learned her lesson from Edward Burbrooke. The next time she offered herself, it would be to a man who wanted her as much as she wanted him.
She couldn't imagine that happening with Nicolas Craven.
"So," he said, crinkling his eyes in a manner that was, despite its urbanity, surprisingly sympathetic,
"your life is about to start anew."
Had her story been true, Merry thought this was a very kind way to put it.
"I hope so," she said. "I've always wanted to have adventures."
"Good for you," he responded, his smile curling into his cheeks. His lips, she noticed, were thin and mobile. Their color was rich, as if they'd been stained by wine. Despite its gravelly timbre, his voice
was soft. "Couldn't go home to your folks?"
"Dead," she lied, crossing her fingers in her skirt. "For a number of years."
"I'm sorry." To her surprise, he reached forward to squeeze the muscle between her shoulder and her neck. His grip was comforting, despite her lack of any need for comfort. "Don't worry, Mary. I'll make sure you have sufficient funds to keep you when we're done."
"That's very kind of you, Mr.—"
"For God's sake, call me Nic," he said. "And it's not kind, merely good business. I want the best models champing at the bit to work with me."
Merry grinned at the brass-bound edge of the Chinese table. "I imagine plenty of women would be eager to work with you, no matter what you paid."
He laughed, his thumb sliding past her collar to the sensitive skin along her neck. "Lord, I can't wait to
get you in my studio."
His enthusiasm surprised her, though he'd said as much the night before. He genuinely seemed to want
to paint her, plain old Merry Vance. She didn't know what to make of him, with his lingering touches
and his smoldering stares and his "for God's sake, call me Nic." Merry's own manners were hardly priggish, but she had no clue how she ought to respond to his.
He treated her as if she'd been in his bed already.
Was this what Isabel meant by savoring his conquests bit by bit?
"Have I frightened you?" he asked, leaning so close she could smell the bergamot soap in which he washed.
"No," she said staunchly, though she could not suppress a shiver. "I'm looking forward to posing in your studio, Mr. Craven. I'm a great admirer of your work."
He sat back with a chuckle. "A great admirer, eh? Well, Lord willing, you'll have more reason to admire me before long. Maybe you'll even learn to call me Nic."
His implication was as clear as his wagging brows and yet she found she could not take offense. He was so good-naturedly rakish. More a wolf pup than a wolf. Her resistance to his charm began to melt like chocolate in the sun.
This man is dangerous, she thought.
Perhaps to her misfortune, the knowledge did not incline her to turn and run.
* * *
The savories Nic had called for
Of course, as an infamous artist's butler, he must have served more than his share of female guests.
As soon as the servant left, Mr. Craven lounged back in his chair, his chin propped on two fingers and a thumb, his legs sprawled out until his long, naked toes nearly touched her boot.
Unlike most men she knew, he seemed to feel no need to speak.
She forced herself to look down at her hands. Returning his gaze struck her as incautious. She didn't
want to spoil her progress by giving him the wrong idea. It was one tiling to hint she might welcome his advances, which, to judge by his behavior, required no more than showing up on his doorstep and being female. Actually giving in to those advances, however, was more than she wished to do. To her mind,
the less real damage she did to her person the better. She didn't dismiss the possibility of one day having an affair, but she'd learned her lesson from Edward Burbrooke. The next time she offered herself, it would be to a man who wanted her as much as she wanted him.
She couldn't imagine that happening with Nicolas Craven.
"So," he said, crinkling his eyes in a manner that was, despite its urbanity, surprisingly sympathetic,
"your life is about to start anew."
Had her story been true, Merry thought this was a very kind way to put it.
"I hope so," she said. "I've always wanted to have adventures."
"Good for you," he responded, his smile curling into his cheeks. His lips, she noticed, were thin and mobile. Their color was rich, as if they'd been stained by wine. Despite its gravelly timbre, his voice
was soft. "Couldn't go home to your folks?"
"Dead," she lied, crossing her fingers in her skirt. "For a number of years."
"I'm sorry." To her surprise, he reached forward to squeeze the muscle between her shoulder and her neck. His grip was comforting, despite her lack of any need for comfort. "Don't worry, Mary. I'll make sure you have sufficient funds to keep you when we're done."
"That's very kind of you, Mr.—"
"For God's sake, call me Nic," he said. "And it's not kind, merely good business. I want the best models champing at the bit to work with me."
Merry grinned at the brass-bound edge of the Chinese table. "I imagine plenty of women would be eager to work with you, no matter what you paid."
He laughed, his thumb sliding past her collar to the sensitive skin along her neck. "Lord, I can't wait to
get you in my studio."
His enthusiasm surprised her, though he'd said as much the night before. He genuinely seemed to want
to paint her, plain old Merry Vance. She didn't know what to make of him, with his lingering touches
and his smoldering stares and his "for God's sake, call me Nic." Merry's own manners were hardly priggish, but she had no clue how she ought to respond to his.
He treated her as if she'd been in his bed already.
Was this what Isabel meant by savoring his conquests bit by bit?
"Have I frightened you?" he asked, leaning so close she could smell the bergamot soap in which he washed.
"No," she said staunchly, though she could not suppress a shiver. "I'm looking forward to posing in your studio, Mr. Craven. I'm a great admirer of your work."
He sat back with a chuckle. "A great admirer, eh? Well, Lord willing, you'll have more reason to admire me before long. Maybe you'll even learn to call me Nic."
His implication was as clear as his wagging brows and yet she found she could not take offense. He was so good-naturedly rakish. More a wolf pup than a wolf. Her resistance to his charm began to melt like chocolate in the sun.
This man is dangerous, she thought.
Perhaps to her misfortune, the knowledge did not incline her to turn and run.
* * *
The savories Nic had called for
Similar Books
