Page 33 of What a Lord Wants

Davies leveled a pointed gaze on him. “The rumors say it wasn’t apoplexy that killed her late husband in his bed.”

Dom grinned rakishly as he began to unbutton his waistcoat. “Ah, but what a glorious death that would be!”

Thatearned him the aggravated glare he expected. Muttering to himself about painters, marquesses, and madmen, Davies turned back to his work.

Dom chuckled to himself, enjoying baiting the man far more than he should. Though, truly, when he’d received word from the contessa last week that she would be in London and was seeking an escort for the evening, Dom knew exactly what she wanted.Him.Sabrina had never been coy about that, and that directness had led to several highly memorable encounters. Yet he’d been too wrapped up in the painting and the exhibition to give her much thought beyond accepting her invitation as a courtesy to an old acquaintance.

Now, though, an evening with the contessa might be exactly what he needed to get Eve out from under his skin and back into her proper place as his model. A thorough reminder to not confuse the passions he held for his art with those he felt as a man, given by a woman who had no trouble removing her clothes for him.

Davies shook out each garment and laid it carefully across the bed. Then he turned his attention to the hat, boots, and other accessories tucked into the two boxes.

“Matheson sent this for you.” He handed Dom a message from his secretary that he’d tucked into one of the boxes. “He wants you to confirm the list of paintings to be sent to the Royal Academy for display.”

Dom frowned. “This could have waited until I returned home.”

“Since none of us knew when that would be, sir,” he reminded him chidingly, “I agreed to deliver it to you.”

That stung. But hehadbeen ignoring his duties at home lately in order to focus on the painting. Something he hoped would change forever by season’s end when he revealed his masterpiece.

He glanced at the list. “Tell Matheson that it looks fine.” He paused, then decided, “But add another painting to the list. One to be entered into the summer exhibition. I’ll have it waiting at Mercer House for pick up.”

Davies tucked the list back into the box and continued with his preparations by moving to the shaving accoutrements laid out on the chest of drawers. “Which painting, sir?”

“A new one.” He smiled to himself. “Earthbound Venus,by an unknown artist named Dominick James.”

“Yes, sir.” In afterthought, Davies reached beneath his waistcoat and drew out a small note. “This arrived for you by messenger. The boy refused to say who sent it.”

His chest tightened. Such messengers never portended good fortune. “Thank you.”

He cracked the seal and unfolded it. The elegant handwriting and floral scent wafting from the card told him immediately who it was from. So did the threat.

Iwant what you owe me. Make the arrangements I asked for, or all of England will hear what I have to say.

“Anything of importance, sir?” Davies tested the razor blade on his thumb.

Dom shook his head and crumpled the card in his fist. He tossed the unwanted note onto the bed and took a seat on the chair by the lamp, so that Davies could shave him. “Just a headache that will soon go away.”

The contest that the Royal Academy hosted as part of their summer exhibition couldn’t come fast enough, even if the paint on the canvas would barely be dry. Then, he could put his own name to it, and finally put Vincenzo—and Constance’s threats—behind him for good.

Pushing Constance from his mind, he tilted back his head and closed his eyes. “Try not to slit my throat, will you?”

Davies laughed a bit too maniacally for comfort and lathered up his face.

Chapter 9

“Where have you been?” Mariah asked.

Already dressed in her pale pink ball gown, her hair pulled up into a riot of ebony curls, Mariah Winslow Carlisle walked into the dressing room and found Eve with one arm hanging out of her dress, mid-removal.

Her older sister halted and blinked, dropping an assessing gaze over her. “And what on earth are you wearing?”

“Work clothes.” Not a complete lie. Itwasa work dress that she’d yanked on over the breeches and corset. Just not a dress in which she did any actual work. “I was in Chelsea.”

With a suspicious expression, Mariah leaned against the doorway and watched Eve undress, shedding layer upon layer and dropping each to the floor where her maid would collect them later. “Since when do society ladies do manual work, even in the name of charity?”

“Since when am I a society lady?” She snatched up her robe and sauntered past Mariah to the waiting bath, which had long ago grown cool.

She gritted her teeth as she sank into the cold water. This was her punishment for not paying attention to the time. At least being late meant that she would be quickly out of her cold bath.