peaceful, a temporary hermitage in a quarrelsome, perilous world, and the fine Highland whiskey served its purpose well in lessening Jamie’s disquiet. Neither touched on the serious or personal, both careful to keep the conversation companionable, and toward dawn, cheerfully drunk, the two men parted ways.
John went upstairs to his wife.
Jamie strolled to Grosvenor Square, entered a large house through a back door, conveniently unlocked, took the servants’ stairs to the second floor, and entered a shadowed bedchamber.
“I didn’t know if you’d come,” Isabella drowsily murmured, gazing at Jamie from under her lashes.
“I said I would.” Quietly closing the door, he slipped off his swallowtail coat, dropped it on the floor, and pulling his shirt studs free, moved toward the bed.
“How nice.” Pushing up on her elbows, Isabella smiled. “I don’t believe I’ve ever met an honest man.”
Jamie grinned. “I have an excuse. I live outside the fashionable world.”
“Too far outside at the moment,” she purred, tossing the covers aside. “Do come in . . .”
CHAPTER 2
T HE NEXT MORNING, the air heavy with the promise of rain, Sofia Eastleigh was cooling her heels in a small drawing room off the entrance hall of Minton House and becoming increasingly agitated. She didn’t as a rule agree to paint society portraits, finding those in the fashionable world too spoiled or difficult to sit the necessary hours required to complete a painting. But Isabella, Countess of Minton, was one of the reigning beauties of the day—not to be discounted when it came to publicity—and she was generous as well in terms of a fee.
She’d give her five minutes more, Sofia resentfully decided, and then the countess and her money could go to hell. With her artwork much sought after, Sofia didn’t need the money. Nor did she appreciate being kept waiting like a servant for—she glanced at the splendid Boulle clock on the mantel—damn it . . . thirty-five minutes!
Rising to her feet, she was slipping on her gloves when the drawing room door was thrown open by a liveried flunkey, Isabella was announced, and a moment later, a radiant, blushing countess, obviously just risen from bed, swept into the room, trailing lavender mousseline and a cloud of scent.
“Good, you’re still here. A matter of some importance delayed me.”
The countess’s partner in that important matter strolled into the room behind her and offered Sofia an engaging smile. “I’m sorry you had to wait. Please, accept my apology. Bella tells me you’re an artist of great renown.”
“The baron will keep me company while you paint,” the countess briskly interposed, ignoring Jamie’s apology. “We’re quite ready if you are.”
Understanding that Bella viewed an artist as a trades person, consequently not due the courtesies, Jamie introduced himself. “You’re Miss Eastleigh, I presume. James Blackwood at your service.”
Even with her temper in high dudgeon, Sofia couldn’t help but think, Wouldn’t it be grand to be serviced by a big, handsome brute like you. The man was splendid—tall, dark, powerfully muscled, and all male, with the languid gait of a panther and the green eyes to match. Now there was a portrait worth painting. She’d portray him as he was, casually dressed in the remnants of last night’s evening rig, his dark hair in mild disarray. He wore a cambric shirt and black trousers, the shirt open at the neck, his long, muscular legs shown to advantage in welltailored wool, his feet bare in his evening shoes.
A faint carnal tremor raced through her senses.
Commonplace and not in the least disconcerting.
She found handsome men attractive and in many cases, useful.
A modern woman, a bohemian in terms of cultural mores, Sofia enjoyed lovemaking. But on her terms. She decided if a man suited her; she decided when and if to make love and whether to continue a relationship—mostly she didn’t, preferring men as transient
John went upstairs to his wife.
Jamie strolled to Grosvenor Square, entered a large house through a back door, conveniently unlocked, took the servants’ stairs to the second floor, and entered a shadowed bedchamber.
“I didn’t know if you’d come,” Isabella drowsily murmured, gazing at Jamie from under her lashes.
“I said I would.” Quietly closing the door, he slipped off his swallowtail coat, dropped it on the floor, and pulling his shirt studs free, moved toward the bed.
“How nice.” Pushing up on her elbows, Isabella smiled. “I don’t believe I’ve ever met an honest man.”
Jamie grinned. “I have an excuse. I live outside the fashionable world.”
“Too far outside at the moment,” she purred, tossing the covers aside. “Do come in . . .”
CHAPTER 2
T HE NEXT MORNING, the air heavy with the promise of rain, Sofia Eastleigh was cooling her heels in a small drawing room off the entrance hall of Minton House and becoming increasingly agitated. She didn’t as a rule agree to paint society portraits, finding those in the fashionable world too spoiled or difficult to sit the necessary hours required to complete a painting. But Isabella, Countess of Minton, was one of the reigning beauties of the day—not to be discounted when it came to publicity—and she was generous as well in terms of a fee.
She’d give her five minutes more, Sofia resentfully decided, and then the countess and her money could go to hell. With her artwork much sought after, Sofia didn’t need the money. Nor did she appreciate being kept waiting like a servant for—she glanced at the splendid Boulle clock on the mantel—damn it . . . thirty-five minutes!
Rising to her feet, she was slipping on her gloves when the drawing room door was thrown open by a liveried flunkey, Isabella was announced, and a moment later, a radiant, blushing countess, obviously just risen from bed, swept into the room, trailing lavender mousseline and a cloud of scent.
“Good, you’re still here. A matter of some importance delayed me.”
The countess’s partner in that important matter strolled into the room behind her and offered Sofia an engaging smile. “I’m sorry you had to wait. Please, accept my apology. Bella tells me you’re an artist of great renown.”
“The baron will keep me company while you paint,” the countess briskly interposed, ignoring Jamie’s apology. “We’re quite ready if you are.”
Understanding that Bella viewed an artist as a trades person, consequently not due the courtesies, Jamie introduced himself. “You’re Miss Eastleigh, I presume. James Blackwood at your service.”
Even with her temper in high dudgeon, Sofia couldn’t help but think, Wouldn’t it be grand to be serviced by a big, handsome brute like you. The man was splendid—tall, dark, powerfully muscled, and all male, with the languid gait of a panther and the green eyes to match. Now there was a portrait worth painting. She’d portray him as he was, casually dressed in the remnants of last night’s evening rig, his dark hair in mild disarray. He wore a cambric shirt and black trousers, the shirt open at the neck, his long, muscular legs shown to advantage in welltailored wool, his feet bare in his evening shoes.
A faint carnal tremor raced through her senses.
Commonplace and not in the least disconcerting.
She found handsome men attractive and in many cases, useful.
A modern woman, a bohemian in terms of cultural mores, Sofia enjoyed lovemaking. But on her terms. She decided if a man suited her; she decided when and if to make love and whether to continue a relationship—mostly she didn’t, preferring men as transient
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