Margaret Moore - The Wastrel

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.