All the Pleasures of the Season by Lecia Cornwall Read Free Book Online Page A

half-drunk and dazed with lust, he had decided the only thing for it was to leave London at once and put himself well outside of the reach of temptation. The Earl of Westlake had ships. He would go and ask Adam to give him a place on board the next outbound vessel. In Spain, at war, surely he’d be too busy to even think about Miranda.
    He took a long ride in the park before he arrived at De Courcey House, and asked if the earl was in. If Northcott was surprised to see a caller on the doorstep so early, he gave no indication other than a subtle glance at the clock. He showed Gilbert to the salon and asked him to wait while he checked to see if the earl was at home to callers.
    Gilbert turned to take a place on the settee, and came face to face with Miranda.
    Well, not Miranda herself, but the betrothal portrait of her, painted by a famous Italian artist. It stood against the wall, no doubt in preparation for shipping to Kelton Grange, where it would grace her husband’s home. He stood staring into the laughing eyes, his gut clenched with longing.
    â€œGilbert?”
    Was the portrait so lifelike it could speak? “I need sleep, and food,” he muttered, running a hand over his face. He turned toward the bell pull, considering asking for tea, or a drink of water, and there she was, real this time.
    Only her head was visible above the high back of the settee. Her hair was a loose tumble around her shoulders. Had he imagined the portrait true to life? She was infinitely more beautiful than that. The familiar ache in his chest poked him.
    He pointed over his shoulder at the painting, his eyes fixed on Miranda. “There’s a flaw. In the portrait. I only just noticed it.”
    She rose to her feet. She wore a simple woolen gown, blue like her eyes, and as she came toward him, he saw that her feet were bare. She looked like a simple country lass, not a duke’s granddaughter, fresh from the meadows. He imagined wildflowers in her hair, her hem wet with dew.
    â€œWhat is it?” she asked. “The flaw?”
    He pointed to her neck. “You have a birth mark. Just there,” his finger hovered inches from her skin, indicating the tiny spot just under her left ear. “He’s painted it on the wrong side.”
    She touched it self-consciously, her fingers long and white. The betrothal ring glittered. “It’s a game the artist plays. He paints in a tiny mistake in every picture. I thought perhaps it was a religious foible, an acknowledgement that he could never be as perfect as God himself, but apparently he simply does it to challenge his patrons, to show them he is greater than they are. Marianne has been trying to find the error for weeks.”
    He heard her voice break slightly, watched her swallow and turn away for a moment. Did she have tears in her eyes?
    â€œI won’t tell a soul,” he said, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. He wanted to touch her, to clasp her shoulders, console her.
    She shook her head and turned back, her eyes pools of rainwater. A tear spilled over her cheek. “Oh, it’s not that. I daresay Marianne will be overjoyed to have the secret revealed at last. She will be utterly delighted to have the opportunity to write to Signor Condotti and tell him she has discovered his secret.”
    He took a step toward her, then hesitated. “Then why are you crying?”
    She swiped at the tears. “I-I’ve lost something. I was looking for it when you came in.”
    â€œCan I help?” he asked at once. “What is it?”
    â€œA necklace.” She dropped to her knees and looked under the settee. He joined her there.
    â€œWhat does it look like?”
    She looked up, her face inches from his. “It’s the sapphires I was wearing at Lady Endersly’s ball. I have to find it. It was my mother’s.” She was searching among the cushions of the settee with desperate haste. “My grandfather wanted