Margaret Moore by The Wastrel

Author:The Wastrel [Wastrel, The]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Clara Wells’ bearing was as regal as a queen’s, Paris thought as he regretfully watched her go. Perhaps Jean Claude’s assertion that she possessed royal blood wasn’t so farfetched.

And perhaps he shouldn’t have made any references to what had happened last night.

He simply couldn’t help himself. The memory of her in his arms and the kiss they had shared was too vivid and delightful. She kept intruding into his mind, and he had wanted to know if she had been as affected.

Unfortunately, he couldn’t be sure if she hated him, tolerated him or cared for him. Never in his life had he met such an inscrutable woman. Or one so intelligent, protective and honorable.

If he didn’t take care, he might fall in love with her.

He feared it was already too late for his heart to be forced to follow the rules of reason. If his passion could be dominated by his rational mind, he never would have given in to the temptation to kiss her, and would certainly never have agreed to pose for Eros Discovered. Nor would he have felt so disappointed when he later realized that Clara’s scruples would probably ensure that she never posed with him again, and certainly never in such an intriguing and compromising position.

“Ah, Caliope, divine muse of epic poetry!” Byron Wells cried despondently, reminding Paris that he was not alone, “I am stuckl”

“Come, Byron,” his wife consoled, “let us take a turn about the garden, too.”

The artistic couple departed, and once they were out of sight, Tommy gave Paris a speculative look. “What do you think Lord and Lady Pimblett will make of them?”

“I met them at the Pimbletts’ town house,” Paris said matter-of-factly, and as if he himself hadn’t been wondering about their appearance there. The Wells were definitely not the type of people one tended to meet at the Pimbletts’.

“The lovely Helena will be sorry you’ll be wasting the mornings posing for your portrait,” Tommy continued meaningfully, “unless you intend it to be a present for your bride.”

Paris had never been as sorely tempted to punch Tommy in the face as he was at this moment, but the impulse passed quickly. Tommy was only saying in a very unsubtle way what several other people would think. However, Paris had no wish to consider Helena at all. Not now, and not ever.

Nevertheless, he forced an equanimical smile onto his face. “Perhaps I shall make a gift of it.”

“Marriage is not a joking matter, Paris,” Jonas said reprovingly, as if, Paris thought, he was nearer sixty than thirty. “Now, if you will excuse me, I don’t want to be late for the vicar. Some of us prefer to spend our time in serious pursuits.”

His last words did not make Paris feel guilty. Rather, they made all Paris’s frustrations vanish as if by magic. Had not Clara Wells refused an invitation to accompany Jonas? If she cared anything at all for the cleric, she would have accepted.

“If you say so,” Paris said, his face grave and his tone teasing.

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