The Wastrel. Margaret Moore
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of demanding to know what the devil Helena knew about it. But Hester would never answer such a query if he were to ask it bluntly.
Fortunately, Hester saw the almost equally curious expression on Clara Wells’ face. “She saw him without his shirt one day when she was walking past his bedroom,” Hester explained.
Gad! Paris thought angrily. He would keep his door bolted from now on, especially given that the Pimbletts were due to visit his country home when the Season ended.
“Well, then, I must do a portrait of him,” Mrs. Wells replied decisively. “I shall have to improve upon the acquaintance first, of course, and show him samples of my work. If only the Season were not nearly over! I shall have to wait until it resumes, I suppose.”
“Yes,” Hester agreed. “He is leaving soon for his house in the country.” She gave Mrs. Wells a smile. “My family is to visit him there later.” She flushed a bright red. “I don’t know how I shall ever look him in the face now!”
Mrs. Wells laughed genially and winked. “The man is so perfectly charming, I’m sure you’ll find a way.”
“Oh, no! Not at all! I have no interest in him that way,” Hester protested sincerely, blushing again. “My sister...” Her words trailed off, but there could be no mistaking the significance of her look.
Paris frowned. He had never given Helena much encouragement; she had never needed any. And he had supposed that if he had to marry, he could do worse. Helena was a beautiful and wealthy young woman from a fine, old family. She was also spoiled, vain and had a voice that could grate like a squeaking wheel, but he had thought he would have to make some compromises when he eventually married. Nevertheless, he did not enjoy having this match presented as a fait accompli, not even by the harmless Hester.
“I envy you your invitation, Lady Hester,” Mrs. Wells said with a sigh. “Being poor and struggling artists,” she continued, not without a certain obvious pride in the virtuosity of her sacrifice, “we must remain in the dirt and congestion of the city.”
When Paris heard that, he knew there was only one thing to do, and he did it.
Chapter Three
With the suddenness of an apparition, Lord Paris Mulholland appeared in the music room, a wry grin on his handsome face.
Startled and embarrassed, Clara unfortunately said the first thing that entered her head. “What are you doing here?”
Hester Pimblett gasped and Aunt Aurora gaped. Rightly so, Clara thought helplessly as the full realization of the rudeness of her demand came to her. She flushed hotly, thinking of all the times she had secretly condemned her aunt for doing the same thing.
But where had he come from? How much had he heard? She surveyed the room, desperately seeking some avenue of escape. There wasn’t any, for his muscular body blocked the door.
“The general answer is fulfilling a social obligation,” his lordship replied as if there were nothing untoward in her unorthodox greeting. His lack of affronted shock did not assuage Clara’s embarrassment, and she wished she had stayed in the drawing room. Being bored was infinitely better than her current state of flustered feelings.
“As for my presence here,” he went on smoothly with a graceful wave of his aristocratic hand, “I am merely being decorative.”
Coming from any other handsome man, such words might have been taken as outrageous vanity; in his case, there was enough evidence of self-mockery in his tone and his blue eyes to lead her to believe he was trying to be amusing.
Clara told herself that she didn’t find his efforts charming, or his way of playing the droll comedian humorous. He was an intelligent man and, judging by his conversation in the drawing room with the pompous and ignorant Lord Pimblett, one with at least a particle of social conscience. Why did he hide those qualities? Or was it simply that it was so much easier to play the lighthearted gadabout?
Why should she care?
“If you think I’m intruding, I shall take myself off,” he finished.
Before Clara could speak, Aunt Aurora recovered. “Oh, dear me, no! We are so glad to see you!” she cried happily. “We were just discussing you.”
“I hope you were only saying good things of me,” Lord Mulholland said genially, looking at Lady Hester.
Although Hester Pimblett’s smile lighted her good-natured face, Clara couldn’t help noticing that she did not meet his gaze. “I believe I hear the music for dancing,” she said softly, moving toward the door. “So if you will excuse me, I shall look forward to meeting you again at Mulholland House, my lord.”
She hurried out of the room, and Clara fought the urge to follow.
“I have been reconsidering your offer,” Lord Mulholland said.
“Really?” Aunt Aurora cried, clapping her hands like an excited child. “How delightful! How wonderful! I do think you owe it to posterity, Lord Mulholland.”
“That shall be for posterity to decide,” he answered. “I only know I should be honored to sit for you.”
He sounded so sincere, Clara could almost believe he meant it. Nevertheless, she kept her attention firmly fastened on Aunt Aurora, who was apparently perfectly content, and further, quite delighted to think she had achieved so much so soon.
Then he frowned slightly. “However, I am leaving London tomorrow, so it occurs to me that you must come to my house in Lincolnshire to do the picture, if you are able.”
“Oh, my lord! How marvelous! Of course we shall be only too delighted to go! Clara, isn’t he just too kind?”
“Too kind, indeed,” Clara replied flatly. Her mind was full of suspicions. Why would this rich, titled man want Aunt Aurora to do his portrait?
“I will happily pay your travel expenses,” he offered.
“Well, my dear man, this is so sudden — so unexpected. I shall have to finish one or two small commissions—a matter of mere days—and a few trifling bills to pay...then the house must be shut up.”
“Aunt, we cannot abandon the household,” Clara protested.
“Bring the household along, by all means,” Lord Mulholland said languidly. “Or perhaps your niece would prefer to remain in London?”
To her great chagrin, the idea that he could so easily leave her behind disturbed Clara immensely. Had she somehow imbibed far more wine than she realized?
Fortunately, Aunt Aurora looked as if he had proposed doing away with her niece. “I certainly could not! She cannot remain alone in London, Lord Mulholland. It would not be proper.”
There! Clara thought triumphantly. This man had best understand that she belonged to a family every bit as moral as his own. Or, considering what she knew of the upper classes, considerably more so.
“Very well,” he acquiesced graciously. “Then she must come, too, by all means.”
Damn him! She didn’t want to find him gracious, or charming or handsome. Nor did she want to go to his house in the country, even if it meant getting out of London for a while.
Had Aunt Aurora forgotten everything they had heard about Lord Mulholland? The flippant bets, the mistress who had made a bonfire of all his clothes when she thought he was dallying with another woman who was said to be married, the money he wasted on frivolous entertainment? Surely Aunt Aurora wouldn’t wish to expose her niece to such a man, not even for the sake of a major commission.
“Perhaps we should settle the details of our arrangement at once,” Lord Mulholland said, his deep voice persuasively soft as he gazed at Clara. “Then your niece will believe that my desire is a serious one.”
Clara