"Well, then—" She composed herself, swallowing down a wave of dissatisfaction that was not befitting and would get her nowhere, and she forced herself to the task at hand: ridding herself of her dapper nuisance. "Good-bye,
Mister
Cristofore."
"You're upset that I approached you." Not chastened in the least by her rudeness, he flashed a smile that lit up the room, blanking out all others who were present.
No one had ever looked at her like that before, as if she was alluring and desirable.
Against all volition and sanity, she reveled in that smile. The brilliance of it made her knees weak, and had her body slanting toward him with an impulsive aspiration to be nearer. She caught herself, but not before pondering why she was so eager to fall recklessly into his arms. The man exuded a wicked spell that was capturing her in its web.
Either that, or she was going mad.
"You're correct. I don't approve." She sounded snobbish and patronizing. "Your behavior is quite scandalous, and I can't fathom why you're so determined to harass me."
"Can't you?" He gawked at her as though she should have readily grasped his motives. "Your hair... the shading is so rich, so abundant. And your face... so impeccable. Your shape... so rounded, so generous, so womanly."
With each indiscreet reference, he waved his hand before her body, indicating the exact feature to which he referred, and she was positive that if they'd been alone, he'd have handled the places he'd mentioned. The inkling made her stir uncomfortably.
What would it be like to be touched intimately by him? She'd never previously contemplated such a drastic happenstance, and doing so produced a surge of uncontrollable fleshly excitement.
The red on her cheeks intensified to a striking crimson, and she furiously fanned herself. Striving for calm, she attempted to ignore his brazen assertions but, try as she might, she couldn't avoid ruminating on his description of her, which didn't fit with her own.
She regarded herself as average, as too full-figured and too dark-haired. In a culture where young misses were lauded for being blond and petite, she'd continually stuck out. At age thirteen, she had started to develop her amply endowed figure, and she'd felt gauche and inept Her sensitivity over her shape had never abated. As a girl in the initial stages of courting, the oafish boys of high society had been hurtful and crude, and she'd braved her share of offense and discourtesy.
Her father had been the first to subtly suggest that, with her mediocre bearing, she might be better off eschewing marriage altogether. When he'd encouraged her to forgo the marriage market and the family it would have brought, she'd seized the chance.
The few instances when she'd actually voiced doubts as to her decision, her father had habitually contended that her resolution was for the best and, without a thought, she'd agreed. She'd clung to the solitude and beneficial routine that spinsterhood rendered.
In the humdrum monotony that constituted her life, she'd never questioned his conviction that she was ordinary. How oddly refreshing to be apprised of another point of view, even though the man's opinion as to her attributes was ludicrous. Was he blind?
"Every time you open your mouth," she said, "your remarks become more outrageous."
"I can't help but be drawn to those captivating souls who cross my path," he righteously claimed. "I am an artist."
"An artist?' she scoffed.
"Yes. My portraiture work is exceptional. Perhaps you've heard of me?"
"No, sorry." She shook her head, but he wasn't deterred by her inability to confirm his fame.
"Let me paint you. With these talented hands"—he held them up—"we could reveal the goddess hidden within."
"Honestly," she sputtered, stifling a laugh, "what nonsense."
"The endeavor would bring me such joy."
She gazed into his spectacular blue eyes, and they were shining down on her with what appeared to be genuine affection, and it occurred to her that she'd like nothing more than to make him happy.
What was wrong with her?
She was out of her element where he was concerned, because there was something about the cad, an indefinable demeanor that sucked her in, that made her relish his company. If posing for a portrait would gladden him, then she was enthusiastic to comply.
Craziness,
she chastised. Perhaps the domestic troubles with her father and Charlotte were causing her more stress than she'd imagined, and she was gradually growing unbalanced.
"Thank you for your offer, Mr. Cristofore, but I couldn't—"
She stopped in mid-refusal when she realized mat he wasn't concentrating on her, but on a spot somewhere across the room. To her consternation, she hated that his attentiveness had been so easily diverted. Wanting to discover what held him rapt, she glanced over, but all she could behold were capes and lapels. He was a head taller than she, so whatever the sight, it was a mystery.
"I must go." He was thoroughly distracted.
Ridiculously, she suffered a pang of remorse. His arrival had been a thrilling escapade, and she could hardly restrain herself from mewling,
So soon?
With some effort, he refocused his intense consideration on her. "I must see you again. Let me paint you," he hurriedly repeated. "Say yes."
As she vacillated, struggling for a polite way to say no, he slipped a note into her hand and wrapped her fingers around it.
"Arrivederci a presto!"
Then, in a blink, he vanished into the crowd, and she couldn't believe the letdown she endured. It was as though he'd briefly filled her world with cheery colors and had taken them with him when he'd walked away, leaving her with tiresome grays and browns.
Desperate for a last glimpse of him, she tried to dawdle, but the throng behind was driving her forward, and she was finally at the stairs and ascending. She thought to hunt for him from the higher vantage point, but she trudged on, declining to further foster the inane flight of fancy he'd initiated.
A few more steps, and she was at her father's box and slipping inside, only to be interrogated by Charlotte, who'd manipulated the gathering with more finesse and was enthroned and impatient for Elizabeth to attend her.
"It's about time," Charlotte grumbled, petulant as ever. "I've been waiting an eternity. Where have you been?"
Regally, Charlotte glared as though she'd been stranded for hours in some godforsaken locale when, in actuality, she was established in the center of the most lavish box in the balcony and surrounded by a half-dozen youthful associates packed in on either side. As Elizabeth was well aware, Charlotte didn't really care about Elizabeth's tardiness; she just liked to complain.
"Ah ... reality returns." Elizabeth muttered under her breath, carefully shielding her aversion to the dreadful shrew, and relieved that Charlotte's horde of companions ensured that Elizabeth could sit in the back row rather than next to her unpalatable stepmother.
"What was that?" Charlotte asked, suspicious.
"It was really difficult to make the stairs," Elizabeth blithely replied. "The crush was hideous."
For once, the obtuse carper wasn't in the mood for controversy. She let Elizabeth's explanation slide without further discussion, for which Elizabeth was grateful. Usually, it was impossible to spend five minutes in the girl's company without a quarrel ensuing.
Doing her best to discount Charlotte, she adjusted her skirts and arranged herself in her chair, while trying not to brood over the miniature beauty as the girl chatted inanely with her gaggle of puerile colleagues.
When Elizabeth's fifty-year-old father had decided to marry Charlotte, Elizabeth had been convinced that he had suffered a fit of temporary insanity. One day, they were plodding along in the ho-hum, sedate fashion to which they were accustomed, and the next, he was spouting about how he'd never sired an heir, about his rapid and frantic compulsion to wed again.
As he'd unquestionably needed a son, Elizabeth hadn't argued with his determination or motives for matrimony, but never in her wildest dreams had she envisioned that he would seek out the likes of Charlotte as his bride. Without fail, the spoiled termagant was either whining or throwing temper tantrums. She thrived on berating the staff—once she'd even struck the butler! —And turning their placid household upside down with her foolish demands and antics.
She was a menace, but she was solidly ensconced in her position as countess, holding court like a queen, which meant that, unfortunately, Elizabeth was the one paying the price for her father's impetuous decision. Daily, she struggled to keep the peace.
With his club, business affairs, and obligations in Parliament, the earl was seldom available to witness the havoc the girl wrought. And, of course, whenever the earl deigned to grace them with his exalted presence, Charlotte exhibited exemplary comportment. Elizabeth had spoken to him about the incessant discord, but he wouldn't intervene.
"Women troubles," the earl would grouse. "Can't you just get along with her? Why must I be expected to act as arbiter?"
So Elizabeth had stopped supplicating for his assistance, and persevered as best she could. Yet, it galled, having Charlotte serve as hostess, superintend the house, and assume the duties—and execute them badly—that Elizabeth had once handled so well. Elizabeth was bored out of her mind, having had her responsibilities usurped by a newcomer who had no understanding of administration.
However, she did not want to be perceived as petty or jealous of Charlotte. She was just tired of having nothing to do. More and more, she wished that something—anything—would transpire to jolt her out of the predicament into which her father's precipitous action had landed her.
The ushers rushed down the aisles, deftly dousing the candles with their long sticks, and the audience noise hushed as the orchestra began the overture. The curtains opened, and Elizabeth settled in, hoping she might lose herself in the theater's operatic contribution, but within minutes, the stage couldn't hold her interest. The actors were atrocious, and the singing even worse.
Craving distraction, she peered down at Mr. Cristofore's note, which was still clutched in her fist. She tipped it toward the light and scanned the ornate lettering. It was a calling card.
Artista Straordinario.
"Extraordinary Artist." She harrumphed. The presumptuous title was listed under his name, and she rolled her eyes at his cheeky nature. The rascal was so full of himself!
Irritated, she started to toss the offending message on the floor then, almost as an afterthought, she slipped it into her reticule. Why throw it away? If nothing else, it would be an amusing reminder of their meeting.
Gradually, her attention wandered—to the other boxes, to the pit—and she clasped her opera glass to her eye, investigating nobles and commoners alike, for any trifle that might occupy her until the intermission.
Directly across was an empty box, which was partly sealed off by a curtain. A hint of candlelight glowed from behind it, and she paused, mildly curious as to whether anyone was in the secluded room. She looked... then looked again... only to determine that a man and a woman were huddled together in the shadows and—she tilted forward to the edge of her seat—they were kissing animatedly!
Furtively, she glanced at those around her, wondering if others in the distracted audience were watching, as well, but no one else seemed to have noticed the ardent couple. Apparently, Elizabeth was the only one who had the exact angle that allowed her to peek through the narrow slit in the curtain.
Transfixed, she clandestinely evaluated them. She'd never seen the likes! People in her world simply did not kiss. Not like this, anyway! The infrequent embraces she'd observed had been nothing but polite pecks, a curt brushing of dry lip to dry lip. Hands and bodies were never involved.
This was ... was ... indescribable, and definitely not the sort of behavior in which she'd ever imagined two adults might engage.
The couple's torsos were melded, and the man's hands were—Elizabeth focused in, struggling to see—on the woman's bottom! He was massaging her buttocks, pulling her pelvis into his own, flexing in a deliberate rhythm.
They were straining, reaching, and the longer Elizabeth stared, the more she was drawn in. She couldn't distinguish their faces, so she was surveying an anonymous episode of covert passion. Proper etiquette dictated that, at the least, she laid her glass aside, but the pair's activity was so riveting, so absorbing, that she couldn't.
The man's hand left its perch on the woman's behind, roving a slow, languid path up her hip, her waist, to stroke across breast, bosom, neck, and Elizabeth gaped in aghast fascination. With each area stroked, she tingled with a bizarre excitement that was disturbing and inexplicable.
Tenderly, he caressed his fingertips across the woman's cheek, then broke off the kiss, whispering something into her ear that had her vehemently shaking her head.
The man pulled away, and the candlelight that had protected his identity fell on him, clearly delineating him.
Gabriel Cristofore!
Elizabeth gasped so loudly that Charlotte spun around, scowling over her shoulder.
"Do you mind?" she sharply intoned. "I'm trying to watch the play."