Resting on his elbows, his heated body balanced over hers, his dark hair falling in damp ringlets over his forehead, he smiled down at her. "I'm glad you approve."
"Approve's too tame a word," she breathlessly murmured, her arms wrapped around his neck. "Paradise comes to mind or something with choirs of angels and a thousand glittering trumpets."
"Or this bed with your warm body close to mine," he gently murmured.
"Better yet," she whispered, but she was afraid suddenly, such unrelenting happiness too blissful, her time with him ephemeral.
"I think I'll take you dancing this evening," he softly said.
"Take me anywhere at all," she purred.
"Have you seen the Spice Islands?" His voice was teasing.
"Only twice," she nonsensically replied, "but take me there again. I miss the sunsets."
And he wanted suddenly to take her ther
e
—
n
ot only in jest but in truth, the pleasure of Serena alone on a tropical island warming his heart. "We'll have to start more mundanely with a dance at the embass
y
—
w
hich reminds me . . ." And kissing her lightly, he swung away from her, slipped from the bed, and reached for his breeches.
"What are you doing? Stay with me."
"I'll be right back." Pulling his breeches over his lean hips, he swiftly buttoned them. "What do you want for breakfast?"
"Anything, everything . . ." She was famished from the hours of making love but she was more drowsy, filled with lassitude, and the energy needed to feed herself was too much to contemplate at the moment. "Whatever you want will be fine," she murmured, already half asleep.
Before Beau finished dressing she'd dozed off.
Gently covering her, he locked the door behind him so she wouldn't be disturbed and departed on his errands. First, he woke the proprietor of a small store whose address had been given him by the hotel manager, pounding on the front door until a bewildered man poked his head out of the window above. When the owner came down from his living quarters and opened the door, he was carrying the remains of his breakfast. Waving him on with his morning meal, Beau eased his way through the cramped aisles of the tiny shop, gathering up containers of paint in every shade and hue, picking up several handfuls of brushes as well, the hodgepodge of other paraphernalia foreign to him. By the time Beau's purchases were piled on the counter, the bearded old man had finished eating and helped select canvas, sizing, linseed oil, shellacs, and stretchers. "Send the packages to the York Hotel," Beau instructed when he was satisfied he'd assembled everything Serena would need, "but deliver the charges to the British embassy. And thank you, you've been most helpful."
His driver brought him next to Mrs. Moore's establishment, his arrival following on the heels of the modiste herself, who was just opening her door to her seamstresses. After apologizing for his early arrival, Beau explained his urgent need for a ballgown. And if she would give him an idea of the color, he went on with an amiable smile, assuming his wishes would be complied with, he'd find some jewelry to complement the dress. Although diamonds were always suitable, he added, half aloud, suddenly recalling a display he'd seen yesterday.
He and Mrs. Moore soon agreed on an embroidered silk gauze in a blush rose. "So perfect with mademoiselle's coloring," Mrs. Moore cooed.
"Slippers and all the rest too," he reminded her, poised to take his leave, his hand on the door latch. "And a bonus for your seamstresses if the clothing is delivered by five."
"Most certainly, milord," the modiste replied, her smile in place, already contemplating the extravagant sum she'd charge.
Stop three. The jeweler didn't take long. Beau settled on diamonds.
And then to the embassy, where he needed to explain Serena's insecurities to his uncle and Emma.
He found them at breakfast in their sun-filled garden room.
Da
m
ien refrained from saying, You're up early, and instead exchanged bland comments with his nephew on the state of the weather while Beau filled his plate from the food arranged on the buffet. They briefly discussed the condition of the street under repair outside the embassy as Beau settled himself and waited for the footman to finish serving his coffee.
"That will be all," Da
m
ien said, dismissing the servants, his nephew's extraordinary appearance at eight o'clock likely to be a private matter.
Cutting through a thick slab of ham, Beau looked up and said, "Do you have any event planned at the embassy tonight?"
The ambassador cast a glance at Emma, who returned an amused, knowing smile before Damien turned back to his nephew. "An assortment of consul-generals are coming to dinner," his uncle said, "along with a handful of local government officials and a few regimental officer
s
—
a
nd their wives too, of course. Are you interested in joining us?"
Swallowing a bite of ham, Beau nodded. "Serena's never been to a ball, so I promised her one. Yours, as a matter of fact." Concentrating on his food again, he speared a piece of kipper. "I hope you have some good musicians."
His uncle concealed his surprise with effort. "Emma, who are we having play tonight?"
"Your favorites, dear," she replied, anticipating the evening ahead with a new and piquant interest. "The group with the virtuoso violinist. The violinist's a young girl and quite accomplished," Emma explained to Beau. "Somewhat of a child prodigy at ten."
"How nice," Beau casually replied, stirring sugar into his coffee, immune to the merits of child prodigies. "But I need dancing music," he declared. "Is that possible?"
"Of course; their repertoire is extensive. Give us a list of requests if you wish."
"I'll leave that up to you, dearest Em," Beau murmured, his smile one of gratification. Turning his gaze on his uncle, he added, "By the way, I'm about to lose that Brook's wager tonight. I expect Monty will find good use for an extra five thousand in his pursuit of Miss Gambetta."
"Really." Astonished, Damien was at a loss for words, Beau's wager having been persistently put to the test by enterprising females in the pas
t
—
w
ithout success.
Shrugging, Beau added another spoonful of sugar to his cup. "Serena was fearful of appearing in proper society so I offered to dance with her. Ease her discomfort," he casually noted.
"How kind of you," Emma murmured, looking forward to teasing Da
m
ien unmercifully.
"I was thinking . . . could she be some family connection of yours, Em?" Beau mused, lifting his coffee cup to his mouth. "She's apprehensive and nervous and all in a dither about being cut if she appears as my, er, well . . . friend." His brows rose and fell in self-deprecation over the rim of his cup.
"I'm not altogether certain we aren't actually distantly related," Emma said, reassuring him of her cooperation. "My steppapa's aunt married a Blythe years and years ago."
"There," Beau exclaimed with satisfaction. "I knew you'd agree." Leaning back in his chair, he set down his cup, his smile beatific. "We'll come 'round early for drinks. Before all the boring, gold-braided diplomats appear."
And he talked then about the diamonds he'd just purchased for Serena, asking Emma's advice on the best approach to take in offering them to her. "She's reluctant to accept expensive gifts. There's a change," he added with a grin.
"Apparently she's not interested in your money," Damien ironically noted.
"Apparently not," Beau ruefully admitted. "I'm playing with a new, perplexing set of rules. Tell me what to do, Em."
"If it would help, you could tell her I'll be wearing my diamonds. Although she doesn't have to wear jewelry," Emma said. "She's quite lovely without it."
"But I
want
her to," Beau said with an unabashed grin.
"In that case," his uncle interjected, "we'll expect to see Serena's new diamonds tonight."
•
•
•
Da
m
ien wrote to Sinjin shortly after Beau left, informing him of his son's newest attachment. I thought you might be interested to know, he wrote, that Beau intends to dance tonight. He described Serena in a few deft phrases: her beauty; her background; her unusual education; her charming manne
r
—
a
nd then briefly outlined the unhappy events of her recent years. As you may understand, he went on, she's quite out of the ordinary and has captured Beau's interest enough that he's willing to overlook his conspicuous wager with Monty. Damien lapsed into rather strong wording to express his surprise and shock at Beau's infatuatio
n
—
i
f that indeed was all it was, he unnecessarily commented, his letter by definition expressing his doubt. While he'd been skeptical the previous evening, he explained to his brother, the morning's events seriously altered his previous assessment. The boy would be
dancing
tonight, he wrote, underlining the word to emphasize his amazement.
The young couple was traveling on to Italy soon, he finished, and then he didn't know what more to say. Was thi
s
all cause for alarm or celebration or in the end irrelevant? he wondered and, scribbling a few more words a propos his uncertainty about even sending such a curious letter, he wished his brother and his family well.
He signed it Damien and Emma for the first time.
******************
The paint supplies had been delivered to the hotel by the time Beau returned to their suite and Serena was already stretching a small canvas. Still in her sleeping gown, kneeling on the floor of the sitting room, she was systematically easing the canvas tightly over the wooden frame.
"I
adore
you," she said, casting a radiant smile at him as he entered. "How did you
think
of these? And the colors! They're the very best ones! How much did they cost, because I want to pay you for them. And you're sitting for me today, aren't you?" she gaily went on. "Out in the garden, I think, where the light is good."
Leaning against the door, he smiled at her elation. "I'm at your disposal, darling."
"Perfect. Come here and hold this side while I tack it."
She was totally absorbed in her endeavor, the light from the windows outlining her slender form through the sheer white fabric of her nightgown, her golden hair pushed behind her ears to keep her unruly curls out of the way, her bottom lip lightly clamped under her upper teeth in her concentration.
The vision of her voluptuous body so delectably displayed brought to mind other activities than tacking canvas, Beau reflected as he moved toward her, his body responding automatically to her sensuality.
"Why don't you pose nude for me?" Serena said, looking up at him from under her lashes as he approached.
"My thoughts exactly. Although painting wasn't in my equation."
"I'm serious."
"You wouldn't get any painting done if I was nude."
She stopped in her activity, the flat pinchers arrested in her hand. "Are you saying I can't resist you?"
"No, I'm saying I can't resist you."
Her smile was both heated and sweet. "Am I that adorable?"
"Sexy, I'd say."
"And you can't resist me."
"Would you like it in writing?"
"H
m
mm . . . that sounds official. Could I use it someday to blackmail your wife?" she facetiously queried.
"I don't intend to have a wife."
He didn't, she suddenly realized, her romantical dreams evaporating on the spot. "You might want a wife
some
day."
"Yes, I suppose I might," he said, aware of the abrupt change in her demeanor. "But not today, is that all right?" he gently asked.
Her expression changed as if the curtain had gone up on a new act. "My apologies. How rude of me, dear Glory, to importune you like all the other women. You must be quite weary of it." And she went back to tightening the canvas.
"Let me help you," he said, dropping onto the floor beside her. "You tell me what to hold."
She was sweet and amiable as they worked the canvas together, careful not to move into subject areas of a personal nature. Beau told her of his visit to the embassy that morning, telling her that Emma was pleased to call her a relative.
"In truth," he said, "some stepfather's aunt married a Blythe, and she's certain there's a connection."
"How curious. Are you sure?"
"Ask Emma tonight. She'll explain it all." He was careful not to mention the new ballgown or the diamonds, hoping a more opportune occasion would arise later.
In her present disquieted frame of mind Serena decided against painting Beau in the nude, opting instead for a safer composition of the colorful terrace garden. Lying in the sun, Beau drank while she painted, half dozing at times, entertaining her when he was awake with stories of the ton. She made a sketch of him stretched out on the chaise while he slept, working swiftly in broad strokes on a scrap of canvas, and then tucked it away in a bureau drawer. She could roll it up in her luggage when it drie
d
—
a
souvenir of their days in Lisbon, her own visual memory of a glorious time.