Free Mad About the Earl by Christina Brooke Page B

protégé of my mother’s. She asked me to model for a … portrait.”
    He cocked an eyebrow toward the door, then looked back at her. She thought he might take exception to her behavior—certainly she was conscious of the impropriety of it—but he said nothing.
    Rosamund stood there, feeling awkward and unsure. She longed to escape his gaze and cover herself, but she was loath to admit she’d done anything wrong by posing thus. Everyone knew artists were like doctors; they didn’t count as men .
    She regarded him uncertainly. Perhaps Griffin was not so enlightened as to subscribe to such a view.
    The plinth raised her many inches from the ground. Yet she had to look up into Griffin’s storm-cloud eyes.
    What she saw there made her hot and a little giddy. She was conscious of a strong pull of attraction, as if his sheer size created a gravitational force all its own. She stopped herself swaying into it and stepped down from the plinth.
    And found herself quite overwhelmed by the man before her. She’d forgotten how very large he was.
    As calmly as she could, she said, “Excuse me. I must dress.”
    He reached out to put his hand on her arm. He wore no gloves, and her arm was bare. Warmth tingled beneath his palm and flowed through her body. The memory of him picking her up and kissing her invaded her senses.
    “Stay as you are,” he said. “My business with you won’t take long.”
    She stepped back, breaking the contact that raced up her arm like a flash of fire. “Very well. Pray, say your piece, my lord, and go.”
    It was only then that she noticed the way he was dressed, all thrown together anyhow. His hair was wild; in place of a cravat, he wore some approximation of a belcher handkerchief. He probably still had the dirt of Pendon beneath his fingernails, its mud on his boots. And he sported a great red welt covering his left jaw.
    She winced in sympathy. In spite of all that lay between them, tenderness welled in her chest. Her hands itched to soothe that livid flesh.
    With an inward struggle, Rosamund fought off the moment of weakness.
    She’d be fooling herself to think he’d come by that bruise in some noble manner. He’d probably stopped for a taproom brawl along the way.
    “My God, sir, who hit you?” she demanded.
    “Your cousin Lydgate,” he replied.
    “Good!” The response broke from her without warning. Then a fear clutched her. Andy had probably come off the worse in that encounter. “What did you do to him ?”
    “Nothing at all. He’s downstairs with your mama.”
    Oh, no! Poor Andy. That was worse punishment than anything Griffin could dish out with his fists.
    Bewildered, she said, “But why—?”
    He interrupted her. “My lady, I don’t have time for explanations. You must prepare yourself at once for our marriage and a journey back to Cornwall.”
    She looked up at him in sudden consternation. “Why the rush? Has there been an accident?”
    She could not imagine what—unless … “Your brother?” She knew his brother Timothy was fighting in the Americas. If Timothy had been killed, that might explain Griffin’s sudden wish to marry and gain an heir.
    His heavy brows contracted, stretching the scar that slashed so close to one eye. “What? No, no, nothing like that. I’m here to marry you, that’s all.”
    “I see.” Relief swelled to anger. “And after my stipulation that you must court me in form, you come to me in this guise?”
    His gaze meandered down her form and back to her face, with a blatant linger at her breasts. “If we are to talk of guises…”
    Heat flared in her cheeks. Of course, he would refer to her embarrassing costume, even play upon it to set her at a disadvantage. She couldn’t count on him to act the gentleman.
    Her face must be as red as a poppy, but she refused to show any other sign of discomfiture. Instead, she lifted her chin and stared blandly back at him.
    Griffin gave a curt shake of his head, as if to dislodge something inside