Twice Fallen by Emma Wildes Read Free Book Online Page B

aristocratic society. She controlled her inheritance so she didn’t
have
to marry, and always, always, she kept her lovers—the few of them there had been—at arm’s length, and she gloried in her freedom.
    Never had she offered anyone a glimpse of her latest work.
    Until James Bourne.
    He rose from the bed in a lithe movement, the ripple of muscle impressive under his skin, and she offered him a dark blue robe she’d left draped over the chair. There was no problem interpreting the faint ironic twist of his mouth as he accepted it, and she didn’t doubt he was wondering who might have left it behind.
    One day she might tell him it had belonged to her father. She had bought it for his birthday but he’d suddenly become gravely ill and died, and she’d never been able to give it to him. For now, if James assumed it had belonged to one of her previous lovers, she was disinclined to explain.
    She
never
explained or made excuses. Not even to her family. And even she was puzzled as to why she had gotten out the robe in the first place.
    Because you don’t want James to get dressed and leave
.
    Their association unsettled her life. She’d expected it to be like her past brief affairs, but she hadn’t tired of him rapidly. If anything, she was more fascinated than before and maybe that was why she had just made the unprecedented offer of the robe and a viewing of her art.
    “This way.” She tied the sash of her dressing gown carelessly and preceded him out the door, not looking back. Her studio was downstairs in the back of the house, originally intended as the formal drawing room and had tall French doors that opened to the garden. When Luke inherited the title and the much grander family residence, he had given her the town house he’d purchased for himself in his bachelor days. She’d been delighted, not because the house was elegantly appointed and in a fashionable neighborhood—it was, but that hadn’t really mattered much to her—but because the drawing room was situated so it received glorious natural light. To the horror of the housekeeper, she’d had all the beautiful furnishings sent to the attic and instead had easels, shelves for her paints, and some shabby chairs brought in, and she worked there every afternoon without fail unless the day was truly dismal. The largeness of the room and the sparse furnishings pleased her as there were few distractions and the bare floor was cool against her feet. Occasionally, when she was not certain how she would proceed, she went and sat, paint-stained smock and all, in one of the old wing chairs and stared out the window, just thinking.
    It was serene, and though some might find the clutter of oils and brushes and rags and discarded palettes unappealing, she found it helped her focus on her creative purpose.
    The painting she wanted to show James had needed no such contemplation. It had flowed easily, at first a trickle, but then a flood, from her mind to her hand. It wasn’t quite done, but the main figure was clear enough, as was the ethereal background of mist and forest, and she was particularly pleased with the way a single ray of light pierced the clouds.
    The earlier rain had departed and there was enough moonlight she could find her way to light a lamp, slow and deliberate, because she still wasn’t quite sure of her motivation in inviting her lover to her sanctuary. The easel stood angled to the glass of the doors, the dried palette nearby. “This is it,” she murmured, motioning with her hand. “What do you think?”
    James picked up the lamp and moved closer, the illumination sliding over the canvas.
    Does he realize how much this matters to me
?
    His expression was difficult to read, the dark color of the robe accenting the light gleam of his hair and the fine line of his handsome profile. “The work is superb. Can I venture a guess?”
    “A guess?” Regina crossed her arms under her breasts and lifted a brow.
    “As to what you want it to