Page 24 of Vanquishing the Viscount

The garden fell silent. There seemed to be no wind at all, no movement, no sensation other than the feel of Lord Tidworth’s gaze upon her face, noting every feature with such intensity it felt like a caress.

He gazed at her, he looked down at the book, he sketched, then looked up again—she could just see his movements from the corner of her eye. As she surreptitiously followed the deft strokes of his pencil, her breathing became more shallow, and her heartbeat more rapid.

No man had ever looked at her like this—as if he saw right through her flesh and into the very depths of her soul. She remained still, enclosed in the private universe that contained only herself and Tidworth, whose every action—good or bad—seemed to affect her on a deeper level than anyone else’s ever had. Which was extremely disturbing, because she’d sworn she would never again be taken in by the charms of a divinely handsome man.

Just like Elias, those men whom God had favored with looks that made women fall at their feet, became shallow and vain. The more conquests they made, the less they cared for any woman, it seemed. Even after having secured a good woman for her status, her fortune, and her ability to bear healthy children, such a man was liable to get bored and take a mistress.

Which meant that gentlemen like Viscount Tidworth needed to be kept at arm’s length. If not even farther away.

And yet, as he continued to draw her, she realized she was leaning toward him, pulled as if by an invisible cord or a magnetic force issuing from his body.

“Miss Hibbert!”

“Hmm?”

“Don’t fall asleep on me! I’m nearly done. I’m just trying to define your hair, to get the shine exactly right.”

He scratched away at the paper a few moments more, then said, “There. Done. But dare I show it to you?”

“Of course you must!” she exclaimed, coming back down to earth again. “Or what would be the reason for drawing it?”

“You might hate it. Or think it a caricature.”

“I won’t know until I see it, my lord.”

“No, I think I’d better keep it to myself.” He ripped the page smartly out of the sketchbook and pressed it, image inward, against his chest. “Perhaps you should go and see how your charges are faring. When all goes quiet is the most dangerous moment.”

Who’d have thought this man could be such a tease? “You can’t do that!” she protested. “You must show it to me.”

She put out a hand for it, but he flicked the drawing out of her reach. When she grabbed for the paper again, he stuffed it behind his back and sat there smirking at her.

She was almost breast to chest with him now—if she leaned over any farther, she’d tumble into his lap.

Her throat went dry, and she felt again that tug of recognition, that feeling of need, of bodily excitement, that he aroused in her. For a moment she wondered if he felt it, too, for he gazed soberly back at her, all humor suspended.

As her eyes held his, he raised the paper and interposed it between their faces. She edged back on the seat to see it better. And let out a slow breath. “Remarkable.”

He lowered his hand. “I’m assuming that’s a compliment,” he said with a lopsided grin.

“Yes, in all seriousness, it’s quite excellent.”

“I’ve surprised you—you didn’t expect me to have any skill.”

“I had no preconceptions either way. I am genuinely impressed.” Looking at his hands, she mused on the fact that fingers that had grasped a saber, fired a pistol, and punched adversaries in the boxing ring, could still make so fine a line, produce so poignant a portrait.

“Praise accepted. Now, I’d better find Charles, smooth his ruffled feathers, and see about getting you your release papers. Dare I hope you and I have now buried the hatchet?”

As one, they got to their feet, shook hands, and exchanged smiles. After a brief hesitation, Lord Tidworth released her and headed back toward the hall.

Transfixed, she watched his lithe figure as he strode away, then collapsed back onto the seat, sending her drawing things flying. While she couldn’t account for him, she’d felt again that extraordinary pulse of energy when they touched. It had rampaged through her body and stolen her breath. It took several long minutes before she felt fully composed again, and when she did, she hunted for the portrait, to admire it some more.

It wasn’t there. He must have taken it with him.

Whatever for?

Perhaps, she thought, her cheeks warming, he found her comely. Or he was just proud of his handiwork and wanted to show it to others.

She wasn’t sure how she felt about that. It ought really to be their secret, or people would suppose…they’d suppose…well, they might imagine he admired her in some way. Which was ridiculous. He’d made his feelings about her perfectly clear. He’d apologized only because he was truly a gentleman. Not because he actually wished to be friends with her. The very idea.