Free Passionate by Anthea Lawson Page A

the same.”
    “How practical.” He could not so easily erase the memory of her softness pressed against him, her lips warm under his.
    “Precisely. It is the only sensible course. And, Mr. Huntington…”
    “Yes?”
    “You should have no expectations. I do not allow—”
    “No, of course not.”
    “Then the matter is settled.”
    James regarded her for a long moment. “If that is how you want it to be, then it is settled.”
    She held his gaze a heartbeat too long, then dabbed her brush and returned to her work, some deeper emotion darkening her eyes. A strained silence fell between them.
    “I have ordered up a tea tray,” Lady Mary said as she came briskly up the walk some minutes later. She glanced from James to Lily. “It should be along shortly, if you are ready for some refreshment.”
    “Yes,” Lily said, “that would be lovely. Though I am nearly finished.”
    “Finished?”
    “Yes. The work has been going very well. Another quarter-hour should see it to completion.”
    James was curious to see the transformation from sketch to painting. Though more uncomfortable than he might have guessed, observing her in the act of creation had been captivating. He watched her paint, knowing it would be his last opportunity. It was like seeing any creature in its perfect element—a hawk soaring high, riding invisible currents, or a quicksilver fish darting through water. Time had seemed almost suspended, measured only by the dip of her brush, the beat of his own heart, the graceful presence of the artist before him.
    The scent of narcissus filled the air, sweet with an edge of citrus. Lady Mary turned her page over, the rustling of paper like the hush of palm fronds on a tropical shore. He was filled with a quiet regret that he and Lily could not enjoy an easy companionability. The shadow of yesterday stood between them.
    At last she set down her brush and took a deep breath. “I am done. Or near enough that you are now free, Mr. Huntington.”
    James rose and stretched. He and Lady Mary moved to join Lily at the easel.
    “Oh, Lily!” Lady Mary exclaimed.
    He could not speak at first, only look. His figure was cast against subdued greens, making it stand out strongly in vivid tones of gold, white and warm brown. Behind his shoulder the palm fronds were parted, revealing a shining glimpse of white petals.
    She had painted him looking slightly to the left, focused past the viewer as if searching for something in the far distance. The longing he saw there startled him. Was it so obvious? It was his yearning as the ship pulled away from the dock, the ache he still felt when he thought of the happy days when his father was still alive.
    But she had not just shown his longing—she had shown his hope. Hope that this mad adventure to Tunisia would succeed, that he could save Somergate and at last find a place he could belong to. Lily had painted more than his physical form, she had described his deepest emotion. It was something he had not anticipated—that her skill had transmuted him to this. His heart contracted painfully. He looked down into her upturned face, seeing the unspoken question there. Is it you?
    “It is wonderful,” he said softly.
    Her sea-green eyes smiled into his. Once again he felt the absurd impulse to reach out and gather her into his arms—but there was no place for him there.

Chapter 7
    James ignored the buzz of conversation that followed him through the club as he made his way to the back and selected a chair facing the fire. London, it seemed, had not yet forgotten his duel with the Duke of Hereford’s son.
    Sinking back into the supple leather of the armchair, he accepted a glass of brandy from the waiter. He had come to town for a day to take care of the last details of the journey. Passage to Tunisia was booked and all the arrangements made for loading their supplies and equipment. In all, preparations were going remarkably well despite the extra work necessary to accommodate the