Because there’d been a thirst for even more wealth. And more lands.
When her father’s sins had had come to light, Claire and her siblings, by nature of their blood connection had become inextricably linked with that plot to secure a grander title, with even greater wealth.
As such, Claire had just one thought in mind—escape. Leaving her family’s sins and crimes far behind, and starting over anew.
And it was her art that would set her free.
All she need do was convince famed artist Caleb Gray—her sister-in-law Poppy’s art instructor—to allow her to join him on his next tour, and help coordinate her placement at the Académie des Beaux-Arts; one of few institutions that accepted female students.
Caleb Gray, who rather… disliked her.
But he hadn’t always.
When he’d first begun arriving to visit Poppy for lessons, he and Claire had gotten on well enough. And it was that once-gruff, but not unkind, gentleman to whom she’d put her appeal.
Or perhaps that’s just what you’re telling yourself. Perhaps you imagined those handful of warm, teasing exchanges before he turned to ice.
Because it was a certainty that Caleb had been a foe longer than he’d been… a friend.
Standing outside the townhouse he kept, concealed by nothing more than a deep-hooded cloak, she found that reminder to be almost enough to make her consider leaving.
Almost.
Perhaps she would have if she weren’t so desperate.
Either way, before her courage deserted her, Claire collected the bronze ring upon one of the double doors and brought it down hard.
The clang of metal upon oak thundered inordinately loud.
And she stiffened, braced for people to duck their heads outside their windows and doorways to catch sight of the scandalous creature venturing here alone.
Alas… no one came running or rushing out.
And that included Mr. Caleb Gray’s butler.
She wrinkled her nose.
Claire waited several moments, long enough so as not to be considered rude, but short enough so as not to risk being discovered out here, any more than she already had risked that.
Catching the ring once more, she brought the knocker down.
Grumbling came from the other side of those double panels, and her heart lifted. Excitement at being that much closer to her goal managed to supersede the deserved anxiety of meeting with a man she’d been at odds with for the past handful of months.
Caleb’s butler drew the door open. “What?” he demanded.
Claire went absolutely motionless. For this was decidedly not his butler.
Caleb raked an up-and-down stare over her hooded person. “You,” he muttered.
You.
So he knew who she was. She took heart at that realization and also the fact that he’d not told her to leave.
“You answer your own door,” she blurted, forgetting to drop her voice to a whisper.
Should she have expected anything different from an American than to be so unconventional as to see to such a mundane task himself? And… she quite liked that about him.
Folding his arms, he nudged his deeply squared jaw her way. “Aren’t there rules with you people on ladies not paying visits to random households?”
“Is that really just an English thing? Or an American one, as well?” she asked, curiosity over that question more pressing than the fact that she risked ruin by being caught discussing anything with a gentleman. Alone. At midnight. “That is, regarding the servants.”
“Is that why you’ve come, Your Highness? To chat about international servant protocols?”
Did she detect a smile on his hard, perfectly masculine lips? Nay, it was gone so quick it had likely been a play of shadows, a flicker of the moon’s glow, or her own imagination… or all three.
Caleb Gray didn’t smile at her. Not any longer.
Once, he had.
Once, he’d even teased her and…
He made to shut the door.
Claire wedged her sketch pad between the door and the jamb to stop him. “I beg your pardon?” He’d just close the panel in her face? Though, should you really expect anything different? Actually, yes, she did. “How dare you, Mr. Gray?”
“How dare I? Tsk, tsk.” He managed to drawl that mocking clucking of his tongue. “Is this how you treat your craft?” He looked pointedly at the book, and it did not escape her notice that he’d not closed the door on her work.
Just like that, he provided Claire her perfect segue. “Yes, well, interestingly, that is what I came here to speak with you about.”
“You came to speak with me about how you don’t respect art?” he asked, his expression deadpan.
Indignation brought her spine straight. “I beg your pardon. I do not—” She squinted. No. It was there. A glint… or a glimmer. This time, of amusement. Claire stomped her foot. “Oh, will you just let me in?”
He hesitated a moment, and then sticking his head out, he glanced up and down the street. Then, collecting her by the wrist, he tugged her quickly inside. “What?” he demanded without preamble.
This was how their exchange would occur? In the middle of his foyer?
His very dusty foyer.
She sneezed, catching that achoo in her gloved fingers. “Perhaps we might speak somewhere more—”
“No,” he cut her off.
“I’d rather not speak about such sensitive matters”—she dropped her voice to a whisper—“with servants about… with anyone about.”
“You’ve no worries there. The help I have go on their way at the end of the day. They won’t return for four hours. I trust this meeting isn’t going to take the whole four?”
Too intrigued to be annoyed by his teasing query, she did another glance about. “No… servants,” she murmured, shoving her hood back. “How…” Her words and thoughts trailed off as his entire form was brought fully into focus. English gentlemen as a rule were wiry and pale and achingly… everything this man before her was not. Broad and powerful of form, as if Poseidon himself had tired of the sea and set himself up among mere mortals, Caleb Gray… captivated. “Fascinating?” she managed to finish, her voice breathless to her own ears.
He moved his gaze over her face. His thick, dark brown lashes swept low as he homed his focus on… her mouth. Not for the first time since they’d met, she thought he might kiss her. Warmth filled her belly, and her chest hitched as he inched his lips closer to hers. Claire angled her head up to—
Something that looked very much like horror lit his eyes. Caleb took a quick step back.
Shame brought her toes curling tight.
“What are you doing here, Claire?” he asked quietly, but not with the condescension that had recently crept into his tones whenever they spoke. “Is everything all—?”
“I want you to take me to Paris,” she blurted and then flinched as soon as the words left her lips. She’d thought to come in here with a good deal more… tact. Alas, he was an American. Perhaps he’d appreciate her directness.
Caleb scratched at his high brow, stirring the several loose curls hanging there. Her fingers ached to test that texture, to see if those strands were as luxuriant as they appeared from the shimmer alone. Just so that she might accurately capture the feel for artistic purposes.
Liar…
He shook his head. “You…?”
When he let the query go unfinished, she clarified, “As Poppy will no longer be joining you, I thought you might allow me to accompany you and introduce me to the instructor whom you intended to pair her with at the university.” Her sister-in-law, who was gifted in ways where Claire had to work harder, had been presented with the greatest gift, one available to so few women—to learn and hone her artistic capabilities at an institution. Now that she was newly expecting and her husband, Claire’s brother, was set to work in London at the Home Office, Poppy had made the decision to set aside that opportunity. For now.
At the protracted silence, she cleared her throat, filling the void. “I brought my work.” She held the sketch pad out for his inspection. When he made no move to take it, she added, “To show you that it has improved since—”
“What?” he barked, his voice soaring to the thirty-foot ceilings. “What the hell are you talking about?”
Claire’s heart slipped. He’d not known. He should have. Given his close relationship with her sister-in-law, Claire had simply assumed he would have been the first to know. Instead, she’d gone and divulged a private confidence. Accidentally, but that mattered not at all. “Oh, hell,” she whispered. “Uh…” Claire let her arm fall to her side.
“What did you say?”
“I’m…” She wet her lips. She briefly eyed the door behind her. Except, if she stepped through and quit this exchange, then she would also forfeit any hope of escape. And a future different than the one she currently looked forward to. “It’s not my place.”
“No. It’s not,” he snapped. “But you came here and started spewing information, and so now I’m asking for clarification.” Caleb jammed his index finger against his opposite palm.
“I won’t say it.”
He stalked over. “But you already did.”
He was livid. Fury poured from his muscular frame. At her impertinence? Or at the discovery his great student should reject the gift he’d offered her?
Her back knocked against the door, rattling the panel and putting an end to her retreat. And she gave thanks when he stopped several paces away. Seven inches past five feet, she was taller than many gentlemen, but always managed to feel small before this towering bear of a man. Her entire body went on alert, aware of him and his nearness. She wet her lips, her unease having little to do with his outrage and everything to do with him… and the pounding of her heart in response to him.
“You talked her out of it.”
She gasped. “No!” Indignation drew that exclamation from her. “Never. I would never—”
“You didn’t write your brother and summon him back from Ireland? Warn him about an interloper…” She widened her eyes. “You didn’t go about trying to end my lessons with her?”
Claire winced.
“Yeah, I know about that.”
So… that was the reason for his animosity. Or one of the reasons, anyway. Given it was increasingly more likely his beloved United States of America would rejoin the king’s empire than she’d be joining him in Paris, she’d be better served leaving and ending this already-bad exchange. “That wasn’t my intention.” She took an even breath. “Yes, I did summon my brother home.”
“Who ended her lessons,” he bit out.
Claire frowned. “She chose to reduce her time with you and spend more with Tristan.” Giving up her spot at the door, she marched the remaining steps over to him. “They are in love.”
“Love.” He wrapped that word in the harsh rasp of his deep baritone.
She lifted her chin a fraction. “I’ll not apologize for reuniting my sister-in-law and her husband.”
He lowered his face close to hers. “No, but you should apologize to her for forcing her into a staid, dull, tedious English life,” he said with a bluntness that sent heat rushing to her cheeks, “when she could have had a real future as an artist.”
Unlike Claire. His meaning was clear. She bit the inside of her cheek.
Their breathing rose hard and fast, falling in time into the same harsh rhythm. Their eyes locked. His eyes drifted to her mouth, and then he lifted his gaze back to hers.
She spoke softly. “You’d turn me asserting myself into something bad, Caleb.”
“I’d take you maneuvering and conniving to get what you want at all costs as something reprehensible,” he said flatly.
She gasped. “I’ll have you know, Poppy’s decision, whatever it may be, had nothing to do with me.”
“No. You just lamented your tedious state to her,” he shot back, immediately knocking her off-balance again. “I’m sure that didn’t have anything to do with her suggesting she stay behind and you go.”
Claire stared at him, stricken.
She’d confided in Poppy, just as she had her sisters, about her frustration. “No,” she said, shaking her head hard, refusing to believe she’d somehow altered Poppy’s plan. “She wouldn’t do that.” Except, she would.
“Wouldn’t she?” he asked quietly, and his snapping and snarling had been easier than this echoing of her own guilty musings.
She faltered, and needing space between them, she moved away several paces. “I won’t have you make my motives out to be mercenary, Caleb.”
He shrugged, that lift of his broad, wide shoulders worse than his earlier condemnation.
Claire hesitated. “You won’t even look at my work? And consider my request?”
Caleb laughed, a rusty chuckle that grated on her last nerve. “You’re dying to show me what’s in your notebook. I don’t need to even see it. I’ll bet every last canvas I ever painted on that you’ve got yourself one of your mother’s fine vases filled with some wildflowers, and because you didn’t paint the hothouse ones, you think you’re somehow bold.” He approached her, and she made herself hold her ground. “Maybe you even have them outside…” he whispered in his graveled tones as he circled behind her and paused, placing his lips near her ear.
Of their own volition, her eyes slipped shut. Why should she respond so to his nearness, when his words were cruel?
“Or next to a window to make some kind of artistic point about how the flowers deserve to be outside, but are trapped inside.” He came to stand before her, their bodies nearly touching, his gaze a hot, piercing caress. His throat moved. “You’re no artist, Claire. You’re a pastel and paint miss who has no place in an art room.”
Claire flinched. “Well…” She drew her sketch pad close to her chest, putting it up as a barrier between them. “That was—”
“Claire,” he began, and she hated the remorse there even more than his hateful words, which had been so much worse because of how true they were. “I didn’t—”
“Good evening, Mr. Gray. If you’ll excuse me.” With that, Claire hurried for the door and left.
As she took flight, something more than humiliation and hurt fueled her steps. And that was determination to prove Caleb wrong.
