kissed. She had a permanent crease between her eyebrows as though she spent a good deal of time frowning. Caring for wounded soldiers, she no doubt had. He wished he’d known her three years ago, so he could now catalogue the changes in her.
How many might he be responsible for? For the first time in his life he wished he’d kept his damned trousers fastened. But more than that, he wished he remembered every single moment that he’d been nestled inside her.
His musings were interrupted by the arrival of their last dinner guest.
With no fanfare but still managing to draw attention, Leo strolled in. Before Stephen had met him, he’d not known anyone who did everything with as leisurely a purpose as Leo. The man had never revealed his last name. He simply went by Leo.
“Miss Dawson,” his mother began, drawing the woman away from Stephen, leaving him to wish she hadn’t, “allow me to introduce to you the artist I was telling you about earlier. Leo.”
“Mr. Leo.”
“It’s simply Leo,” he drawled as he sauntered forward, took her hand, and lifted it to his lips.
Stephen was aware of the hand not holding his cane balling into a tightened fist. He wanted to snatch Miss Dawson’s fingers free from Leo’s lips. From where had this possessiveness emerged? He was never jealous of another man’s attentions on a woman he favored. He could always easily find another to replace her. He’d had lovers, but never a mistress. He’d never bothered to go to the trouble to set a woman up for his amusements alone, because he grew too easily bored. He preferred variety.
“Your arrival has made the duchess exceedingly happy,” Leo murmured, “which in turn pleases me. Thank you for coming.”
Ainsley gave Stephen a pointed look. Their mother was happy because she thought Stephen was regaining his senses. He’d have to find a private moment with her to reveal the truth. Yet another time in his life when he’d disappointed her.
“I must admit to being curious. I took a quick peek at the boy before coming down. He is quite the handsome lad,” Leo said.
“Thank you. I can take no credit for that. He takes after his father.”
“Yes, the resemblance is uncanny.”
“Leo is quite skilled at noting the particulars of the human form. The artist in him. If he sees a resemblance, you may rest assured it is there,” the duchess said, pride in her voice at her lover’s incredible ability—as though with it, he could capture the moon and stars for her.
Beside Stephen, Ainsley issued a low groan and whispered, “That was no doubt for my benefit.”
“To quell your doubts regarding the boy’s sire?” Stephen asked.
Ainsley shrugged. “Mother will have her way.”
“Do you enjoy your work?” Miss Dawson asked of Leo, a sparkle in her eyes that once again had Stephen clenching his fist. Was she flirting with the artist? Why was she so relaxed with him and not with Stephen? What the devil had their relationship entailed?
“Very much so.” Leo placed his finger beneath her chin and tilted her head slightly so she was looking toward a distant corner of the ceiling. “I would very much like to paint you, Miss Dawson.”
“As long as all you’re doing is painting,” Stephen grumbled.
“Stephen,” his mother chastised.
Leo grinned. “Why would I do anything else? I have a woman I love. Why would I want for more?”
“Oh, Leo.” The duchess certainly meant to chastise him as well, but her voice held the satisfaction and teasing of a woman half her age. “Let’s go in to dinner, shall we?”
“Yes, by all means,” Stephen said. He took Miss Dawson’s wineglass, twisted to set it down on a nearby table, and when he straightened, discovered that Ainsley had already wrapped her arm around his and was leading her from the room, murmuring near her ear.
Stephen’s stomach tightened. He knew his brother would never reveal a secret that was not his; he’d not tell her the true depth of Stephen’s
How many might he be responsible for? For the first time in his life he wished he’d kept his damned trousers fastened. But more than that, he wished he remembered every single moment that he’d been nestled inside her.
His musings were interrupted by the arrival of their last dinner guest.
With no fanfare but still managing to draw attention, Leo strolled in. Before Stephen had met him, he’d not known anyone who did everything with as leisurely a purpose as Leo. The man had never revealed his last name. He simply went by Leo.
“Miss Dawson,” his mother began, drawing the woman away from Stephen, leaving him to wish she hadn’t, “allow me to introduce to you the artist I was telling you about earlier. Leo.”
“Mr. Leo.”
“It’s simply Leo,” he drawled as he sauntered forward, took her hand, and lifted it to his lips.
Stephen was aware of the hand not holding his cane balling into a tightened fist. He wanted to snatch Miss Dawson’s fingers free from Leo’s lips. From where had this possessiveness emerged? He was never jealous of another man’s attentions on a woman he favored. He could always easily find another to replace her. He’d had lovers, but never a mistress. He’d never bothered to go to the trouble to set a woman up for his amusements alone, because he grew too easily bored. He preferred variety.
“Your arrival has made the duchess exceedingly happy,” Leo murmured, “which in turn pleases me. Thank you for coming.”
Ainsley gave Stephen a pointed look. Their mother was happy because she thought Stephen was regaining his senses. He’d have to find a private moment with her to reveal the truth. Yet another time in his life when he’d disappointed her.
“I must admit to being curious. I took a quick peek at the boy before coming down. He is quite the handsome lad,” Leo said.
“Thank you. I can take no credit for that. He takes after his father.”
“Yes, the resemblance is uncanny.”
“Leo is quite skilled at noting the particulars of the human form. The artist in him. If he sees a resemblance, you may rest assured it is there,” the duchess said, pride in her voice at her lover’s incredible ability—as though with it, he could capture the moon and stars for her.
Beside Stephen, Ainsley issued a low groan and whispered, “That was no doubt for my benefit.”
“To quell your doubts regarding the boy’s sire?” Stephen asked.
Ainsley shrugged. “Mother will have her way.”
“Do you enjoy your work?” Miss Dawson asked of Leo, a sparkle in her eyes that once again had Stephen clenching his fist. Was she flirting with the artist? Why was she so relaxed with him and not with Stephen? What the devil had their relationship entailed?
“Very much so.” Leo placed his finger beneath her chin and tilted her head slightly so she was looking toward a distant corner of the ceiling. “I would very much like to paint you, Miss Dawson.”
“As long as all you’re doing is painting,” Stephen grumbled.
“Stephen,” his mother chastised.
Leo grinned. “Why would I do anything else? I have a woman I love. Why would I want for more?”
“Oh, Leo.” The duchess certainly meant to chastise him as well, but her voice held the satisfaction and teasing of a woman half her age. “Let’s go in to dinner, shall we?”
“Yes, by all means,” Stephen said. He took Miss Dawson’s wineglass, twisted to set it down on a nearby table, and when he straightened, discovered that Ainsley had already wrapped her arm around his and was leading her from the room, murmuring near her ear.
Stephen’s stomach tightened. He knew his brother would never reveal a secret that was not his; he’d not tell her the true depth of Stephen’s
Similar Books
