Samantha James Read Free

with bold, stark lines she had managed to capture every facet of his dark mood—his rage, his utter bleakness.
    He disliked it. He disliked it intensely.
    Slowly his gaze returned to her. “I should very much like to have it.” He wasted no time conveying his wishes.
    “Oh, but such a hastily done piece is hardly worth keeping.” With a shake of her head, she objected just as staunchly. “I should be embarrassed to part with such a mediocre effort.”
    He remained pleasant, but adamant. “On the contrary, miss. It’s really quite good, and I wish to have it. The price is of no consequence.”
    “Oh, but it’s not money I’m interested in, sir. ’Tis—’tis simply not for sale.”
    A fleeting solution buzzed through his mind. He considered keeping it, withholding it from her, for he was not a man to display his emotions for all and sundry to see; it was as if this girl had glimpsed a part of him he would far rather keep hidden. He felt—oh, as if he’d been caught in some illicit act.
    From the corner of his eye he saw a small cart and pony grazing nearby. It would be simple indeed to whirl and mount his stallion, then ride off; if he were on horseback, she would never catch him.
    One dark brow arched. “You’re very modest,” he observed.
    Small, white teeth caught the fullness of her lower lip. “Modest?” she repeated, her tone light. “Nay, sir, simply honest. ’Twould be robberywere you to part with money for this piece—and it not yet finished!”
    Damien struggled for patience. Why was she being so stubborn? For the first time then he looked at her…really looked at her.
    Her beauty was like a blow to the belly.
    She was exquisite, though in a quite unfashionable way. Her gown was rather faded and old, the laces of the bodice undone against the heat; the rounded neckline revealed smooth, unblemished skin that had acquired a light tan. Clearly she was not a London miss who never faced daylight without bonnet or parasol. Nor was her hair a riot of curls, as was the current vogue. It tumbled down her back, sleek and straight, so dark it was almost black. Her feet were bare, small, pink toes peeping out from the hem of her dress, reminding him of a gypsy.
    But it was her eyes that held him spellbound, and his own narrowed in unguarded appreciation. In all his days he’d never seen eyes the color of these. They were extraordinary, their hue deepest violet-blue.
    The color of heather in full, vibrant bloom…
    Who was she? he wondered. A girl from the village? And where had she learned to sketch so well? A natural talent? Surely it was so, he mused. But she was well-spoken. Perhaps she was a maid at Lockhaven Park, whose owner he was to visit that very afternoon. At the thought, something knotted within him. He was not looking forward to his meeting with Miss Heather Duval, mistress of Lockhaven. He had a verygood idea what he would encounter—a shrewish, calculating virago whose looks would undoubtedly match her disposition. No wonder the chit had yet to find a husband.
    Ruthlessly he pushed the thought aside. He would much rather not think about Heather Duval. Indeed, what he wanted was to take this vision of loveliness back to his room at the inn and make love to her until the very instant he had to leave.
    Ah, yes, he thought, feeling desire stir his loins and tighten his middle. If this lass were willing, he would strip away every last stitch of clothing from her, bury his heartache—and his hardness—in the depths of her body. Indeed, he could think of no better way to banish the darkness from his heart.
    “Do you have a name, lass?”
    Again that hesitation, as she surveyed him from beneath the cast of long, thick lashes. “Alice,” she murmured at last.
    “Well, Alice, are you certain I cannot convince you to part with it?” In truth, the sketch no longer mattered. Oddly, he found himself reluctant to leave. He even wished she would invite him to stay and sit with her.
    A hint of rose