PROLOGUE
Paris,
November,
1816
Standing
in the drawing room of Lady Felicity Drummond’s Paris apartments, Chandler Rhys
felt a wave of dizziness swirl through his aching head, the result of having
been dragged around the city by one of the more affluent diplomats attached to
the British Consulate. Celebrating the end of his two-week lecture series at
the Sorbonne, Rhys, Lord Ardsley and others he couldn’t even remember had
downed champagne, twenty-year old scotch and vintage brandy.
But not
necessarily in that order.
And how
many bottles? He’d lost count after an
even dozen.
Now he
was seeing two of everything and felt incredibly hot. He twitched at his cravat and hoped he could
escape to his hotel before Felicity spotted him. It was bad enough that her
very presence – there was so much of that delectable ‘presence’ -- rattled him
badly. After three months of slogging
across the mountains of Norway in search of rare alpine plants for the Royal
Horticultural Society, he thought he was safe from that magnetic pull she had
spun around him back in Brighton last June.
He shifted his feet, making sure he could move without falling
over.
Bad
idea. The dizziness started again and he stumbled a bit to the left. Maybe if he could just get outside in the cold
air, he’d be able to clear his head.
Or his
stomach of its contents.
Slowly
he turned, hanging on to one of the Louis XIV chairs and made ready his escape,
praying he could keep his dignity intact.
He felt a tap on his shoulder, and knew instantly who it was. Damn that woman! A hint of soft fragrance tickled his nose
sending his stomach lurching. He turned
and drank in the woman standing before him.
Tonight she was a compelling vision with
her thick auburn hair swept up into an intricate mound of curls and tendrils,
laced with tiny gems that sparkled under the candlelight. Her flawless skin was like cream, deep green
eyes that he could easily drown in and a lower lip that begged to be
kissed. Rhys gave a slight bow, his eyes
skimming the sweep of exposed bosom that lay like soft pillows above layers of
silk and lace. He inhaled and blinked away the second set of bosoms. One set
was tempting enough, thank you.
"Good evening, Felicity," he croaked.
He noticed that she was watching him closely, one eyebrow raised.
"Rhys, I didn’t know you were in Paris, otherwise I would have sent you a
personal invitation to my little soiree.
How are you and how was your expedition to -- where was it again?"
She snapped open her fan and waved it slowly in front of the deep cleavage, his
eyes following for a moment.
"Norway. Very good. Excellent specimens." Unfortunately at that moment his eyes dropped
to her excellent specimens displayed before him. He stuttered.
"I mean plants, that is.
Alpine plants. Lots of 'em up
there, you know." Her smile widened and she licked her lower lip
with the tip of her tongue.
He
swallowed.
Hard.
"No, I don't know. About alpine
plants, that is. You must tell me all
about them sometime. But alas, not at this moment. I believe Monsieur Bouchard is ready for the
unveiling, and I must join him. Here,
you’re too far away to see it properly.
Come with me.” She took hold of
his arm and steered him through the crowd
Rhys let
her lead him closer to the dais, then plant him on a loveseat by an open
window. As she walked to the dais he
watched her hips sway, the gauze-like fabric doing nothing to hide her long
legs and a bit of slender ankle. What were they unveiling, he wondered? Probably some ancient painting with a bunch
of Greeks or Romans slaughtering each other.
Bah! He closed his eyes and waited for the grand
event. It was about all he was capable
of doing at the moment.
* * *
Chandler
Rhys was an odd duck, she thought as she waited for Pierre Bouchard to begin
the unveiling. When she had first met him in Brighton in June, she had found
him dressed in a shabby linen jacket – probably standard scholarly dress for a
university professor -- with spectacles sliding down his nose. But his eyes, once the glasses were off, were
of the strangest amber color, matching the thick, tawny hair he kept tied back in
the old-fashioned manner. But tonight he
was quite handsome in his formal black evening jacket and silk cravat, the
lengthy hair brushed back from his face, a face so browned from his travels she
had the urge to layer kisses up one side and down the other.
She
surveyed the crowd gathered in her drawing room, a glittering swarm of Parisian
society here to witness the unveiling of her portrait by the famous artist,
Pierre Bouchard. One could almost feel the growing excitement as Bouchard
approached the dais, his fingers caressing the swathe of silk draped over the
easel.
Felicity
stood to one side, smiling and nodding at acquaintances, but a sense of ennui
was ruining the moment. She was tired of Paris, and her eyes drifted to the large
windows lining one side of the room. A
thin veil of snow was falling, and she wondered what everyone back home at Watersperry
Manor, her family estate on the shores of Lake Windermere, was doing right this
moment. Bouchard's words droned on in her ear until, at the mention of her
name, she turned back to the artist.
"Madame,
would you do the honors, or shall I?" he asked. She extended her hand to convey that he, as
the artist, should do so. She knew how
much Bouchard was banking on this exhibition to bring him more patronage. France was still struggling from the war years
and art commissions had dried up for the moment.
"Ladies
and gentlemen, I give you Woman for all
Time,” and he whisked the cloth off, letting it slip to the floor.
Although
framed in heavy gilt, the painting was rather small, a size that conveyed a
degree of intimacy as if this work would be in someone’s private chambers, not
on display for the public. Under the
candlelight, shadow and light played across the outstretched body of Felicity
as she reclined on a red velvet divan, her back to the viewer. She was completely nude except for a length of
silk draped across her bottom. One extended
arm hid most of her breasts, and her dark red hair cascaded down her back onto the divan, mixing with the
plush velvet. But it was her expression, with just that hint of a teasing,
enticing smile, that caught one’s eye.
Felicity
heard the intake of breath as the guests viewed the portrait, but she wasn't
concerned. Bouchard had assured her that
a semi-nude would be accepted in Paris. Perhaps not in London, but certainly in
Paris. Had not Ingres exhibited his "Odalisque" just a few years
ago? But Felicity sensed an undertow of
criticism, mainly from the women in the room. The men were busy ogling the painting, then
studying her as if to see if both were one and the same. She felt herself blush, despite being an
experienced woman, widowed for seven years now.
* * *
Once the
veil had dropped, Rhys swung his aching head to look at the other guests.
Vaguely he registered the degrees of surprise, shock, but more disturbing was
the reaction of the men. They surged
forward, quizzing glasses raised, sly smiles breaking through the bland expressions. He turned to see Lord Ardsley stand and lean
forward, his eyes alight with -- what?
Something hard and possessive.
Then Rhys looked to his left and gazed at the painting.
He
stopped breathing. It was the smile that
was his undoing, the smile of a woman in love, an entreaty to her invisible lover. Something broke inside him.
"No!" It was a howl that rang through the room, and
Chandler Rhys lunged toward the dais, his eyes locked on Felicity's.
Instinctively
she raised her hands to ward him off, ready to block Rhys' progress. "Please
calm yourself, Rhys --"
Oof!
Rhys
picked her up like a sack of potatoes and tossed her over his shoulder, then
stooped and slid the silk back over the offending painting. With Felicity kicking and yelling, he turned
and made a quick bow to the crowd. A
moment later he was barreling down the hall as Felicity pummeled him with her
fists.
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