Page 47 of Desperately Seeking Seduction

“I offered me, and I don’t offer that to just any lady.”

“In London, not here,” she reminded him.

“Anywhere and everywhere,” he promised. He drew in a deep breath and stood slowly. He took his time reaching her, and when he did, he only looked down into her face with his lips pursed. “I want to show you something,” he said finally.

“Of course, my lord.”

The frown on his face grew more pronounced as he stared at her. “Is there something you want to tell me?”

“No.”

His eyes narrowed. “Has something happened?”

“No, my lord.”

He wet his lips. “Does anyone but me know about you yet?”

“No, of course not,” she assured quickly. “My gender is no one’s business but my own.”

“I thought the same once.”

Winston smiled at him, despite the odd questions. She pushed at his arm, hoping to snap him out of whatever thoughts were in his head. “What was it you wanted to show me?”

Lord Stratford strode away to the bed and pulled a canvas out from under it. He held it out before him and then put it on his easel. “Come and look at this, Win.”

Winston dutifully went to stand beside her employer to look at what she assumed must be one of his paintings. It was definitely his work. A painting of a young boy…

A sweat broke out over Winston’s entire body as she recognized the face.

It was a painting of her as a child.

She did not remember sitting for this painting or having made the acquaintance of Stratford before meeting him at the inn. But she must have known him. Once. That would explain her intense reaction to him at their first meeting. Winston made herself nod in admiration of the likeness, but her mind was in a whirl. How had she been so stupid not to recall meeting her employer before? She swallowed the lump in her throat. “Is it one of your brothers?”

“None of us had hair so pale or curly.” He looked down on her, and then he moved to stand behind her and held her in his arms. “Do you see this fellow’s eyes? What shade do you think they are?”

She pretended to squint at the painting, heart in her throat the entire time. It was a good likeness of her. “I don’t truly know, my lord.”

Lord Stratford’s arms tightened around her. “I never did either. They are like yours. As changeable as the weather.”

She gulped and tried not to squirm. “Was this boy a friend of yours?”

“No. He was my enemy for some reason.”

“Your enemy?”

Stratford released her and moved to stand beside the painting he’d done. “The fellow took an instant dislike to me. I tried everything possible to win his good graces, too, fool that I was back then. Some things never change really.”

Winston suddenly remembered meeting Lord Stratford Sweet, and blanched. An important visitor had come to her father’s estate, and he had brought a young boy with him one summer. Winston had entirely forgotten the family name until this moment, but it must have been the late Duke of Ravenswood and his youngest son.

The man standing before her now had dogged her steps for the whole of his visit, talking nonstop. Winston had never had a friend before and had enjoyed being around someone her own age at first. But then Mother had warned her not to become comfortable around the young lad. Stratford had been inquisitive even then, and he still was, it seemed. It had been hard to rebuff Stratford when she was a child, and now she’d failed again. She was in trouble indeed. She had come full circle.

“I’m sure it was nothing you did,” she said carefully, turning away, determined not to give herself up. There was still a slim chance she could explain away the resemblance through denial or coincidence.

“Oh, I’m sure I was an annoying insect back then. Quite crushed by the snub for a long time.” He remained near the painting, but she could feel his eyes upon her. “I didn’t see him again for the longest time. When we met again, years later, he even denied the time we’d spent together as boys. I painted this from memory of him, after I returned home from my visit. I could never exactly capture the essence of the fellow or perhaps understand my frustration and fascination with him then.”

Winston was unexpectedly touched by the gesture. She’d always hated sitting still for portraits. She’d been utterly horrible to Stratford by the end of his visit, too. She’d expected, hoped, to have been forgotten over the intervening years by everyone. But knowing she had made such an impression on that chattering young boy changed nothing. She was not that young lad he’d painted. She never had been.

Winston forced a smile. “It was good of you to keep such a charming memento of him.”