Chapter One
Spring 1818...
Where on earth was the blasted man?
Lady Gillian Marley resisted the urge to stalk to her
front door, throw it open, and scour the streets of London
for him herself.
What if he wasn't coming at all?
The thought tightened the muscles in her shoulders, but
she refused to let her well-practiced smile so much as
twitch. Instead, she surveyed the room with the air of
serene confidence worn only by a hostess who has
accomplished the difficult task of melding a diverse group
of people into a cohesive gathering.
There were perhaps twenty in attendance at her salon
tonight. In one corner, several members of Parliament
argued amicably about some obscure issue. Another grouping
dissected the latest work of a rising poet, while the
merits of a new exhibit of paintings held the attention of
yet another duster of guests.
Gillian's skill as a hostess in such a setting was
unrivaled, her reputation for gatherings of this nature
unequaled. The picture she presented to the world was, as
always, cool and controlled and competent.
Not a single guest here would suspect every nerve in her
body was stretched as taut as a piano wire. Not even the
most astute observer would imagine the upheaval in her
stomach. And absolutely no one would ever dream it took
every ounce of self-discipline she possessed not to scream
aloud in sheer frustration.
Where was Shelbrooke?
Gillian glanced at the doorway once again, just as she had
every few minutes since her guests had begun arriving. He
should have been here half an hour ago. Oh, certainly it
was not unusual for attendees to arrive late. But tonight
theonly guest whose presence she wished for, the only
guest who mattered, was the only guest who had not yet
seen fit to cross her threshold.
Surely, he had not changed his mind? He'd responded to her
invitation with a terse note of acceptance, and it would
be unforgivable of him to renege now. How could the man be
so impolite? Had he no sense of proper behavior? She was
not about to align herself with anyone as rude as to
accept an invitation then fail to appear without so much
as a message of apology. It would certainly serve him
right.
Still, her rejection would not have the desired effect on
Shelbrooke, since the man had no idea of her intentions.
Gillian forced the subject, and the accompanying flurry of
nerves, to the back of her mind and turned her attention
to her guests. She dutifully meandered from group to
group, offering an observation here, a comment there. Any
other evening, she would have taken part enthusiastically
in one discussion or another, but tonight she simply
couldn't concentrate. She paused at a small knot of guests
gathered before a new painting her brother Thomas had sent
her and listened halfheartedly.
". . surely, Sir Edmond, you're not suggesting art, has no
merit unless it includes figures?"
Sir Edmond, a collector noted for his extravagance but not
necessarily his taste, adopted a smug expression. "Come
now, Mr. Addison, without depictions of the human form,
this is nothing more than a pretty picture. There is a
reason why great art typically portrays some significant
moment in history--"
"And is there something wrong simply with a pretty
picture?" A wry voice sounded behind her, and she turned
sharply.
Richard Shelton, the Earl of Shelbrooke, stood with his
hands clasped behind his back, studying the painting with
an air of thoughtful consideration. Her heart skipped a
beat.
So this was the man who'd filled her thoughts in recent
days. She hadn't stood this close to him in years. He was
a good six inches taller than she, his dark brows pulled
together in concentration. His hair was a deep, rich
walnut, with an unruly curl and just a shade too long, as
if he'd forgotten to keep it trimmed or simply didn't
care. Wasn't he able to afford a valet?
Sir Edmond's eyes narrowed as if he couldn't believe this
unknown newcomer's temerity to question his
opinion. "Without an aspect of humanity, a painting has no
emotion. No soul as it were."
"Nonsense," Mr. Addison, a critic of some note, snorted in
disdain. "How can you look at a scene like this and say it
has no soul? Why, you can almost smell the fresh scent of
the grasses and feel the winds blowing the clouds across
that sky."
"One could say the painting expresses not the soul of man
but the soul of God," Lord Shelbrooke said mildly.
"The soul of God." Sir Edmond's face reddened with
outrage. "What blasphem--"
"What perception..." Mr. Addison laughed. "I don't believe
we've met."
"I have just now arrived." He turned to her and took her
hand. "Please forgive me, Lady Gillian, I was unavoidably
detained." He raised her hand to his lips, his gaze never
leaving hers.
His eyes, too, were brown, deep and endless and intense,
and for the briefest moment she wondered if he could see
her soul in her eyes as he'd seen the soul in the
painting. The touch of his lips on her hand was
unexpectedly warm and intimate even here in the midst of
the crowded room, and an odd shiver ran up her spine. She
resisted the desire to jerk her hand away and forced a
cool note to her voice. "Were you late, my lord? I hadn't
noticed."
"Then I shall save my apology for a more noticeable
offense."He released her hand and straightened. A twinkle
lurked in his eyes, but he did not smile.
She raised a brow. "And do you plan on more noticeable
offenses?"
"I plan little beyond the moment, my lady." He nodded and
turned to introduce himself to Mr. Addison and the others.
At once, the debate over the value of the work before them
resumed, and she was left with an annoying sense of
dismissal. Why, she had been right in the first place: the
man was definitely rude. Although, she had to admit, his
immediate immersion in the discussion saved her from
conversing with him alone. And at the moment, she had no
idea what to say and not the faintest notion where to
begin.
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