The Wastrel. Margaret Moore

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СКАЧАТЬ attracts flies, especially in the summer months! I assure you, I thought I would go mad the last time I did such a painting. I much prefer portraits. So much more scope for expression!”

      “Do you have models?” he heard Hester ask timidly.

      “Of course I do,” Mrs. Wells replied. “Painting the human figure is not easy.”

      Paris shifted behind the vase, wanting to catch a glimpse of Clara Wells’ face for no reason he wished to acknowledge. He was rewarded for his efforts by encountering a type of expression that he had never seen before, but had often felt upon his own visage when his mother had been in one of her gayer moods: a sort of patient forbearance, embarrassment and defiance all rolled into one. His mother, much as he had loved her, had frequently scandalized a dinner party with her comments.

      “What of the classical scenes you do, such as your lovely fan,” Hester asked, “when your subjects are...that is, when they aren’t... ?”

      “When they’re nude?” Mrs. Wells demanded.

      Paris had to shove his hand in his mouth to avoid laughing out loud at poor Hester’s blushing yet avidly curious face—and he thought Clara Wells not incapable of plotting a murder, judging by the look in her eyes as she regarded her aunt and crossed her slender arms.

      Hester nodded once and looked around guiltily, causing Paris to move as far back into the alcove as possible. He had no idea that Hester would ever express curiosity on such a subject.

      “Nudes are all very well, but I can so rarely find a decent body.”

      “Aunt Aurora!” Miss Wells admonished helplessly.

      Paris’s heart went out to the blushing, appalled Miss Wells. He well remembered how easily upset a young person could be by a parent’s behavior.

      “It’s all right,” Hester said in her warm, friendly way. “I asked her about it. And I appreciate her honesty. It’s quite refreshing.”

      Clara Wells relaxed visibly, and smiled.

      She really wasn’t homely, with her frank hazel eyes, pointed elfin chin, perfect complexion and widow’s peak. Indeed, she seemed quite a different person altogether when she smiled, and one he would like to know better.

      “What would you consider a decent body?” Hester asked, a studious expression on her face.

      Mrs. Wells played with her absurdly delightful turban, which had slipped slightly askew. “Michelangelo’s David, for one. And I daresay that under Lord Mulholland’s clothing there’s a body worth painting.”

      “Or else he has a magician for a tailor,” Clara Wells said. The expression in her hazel eyes could only be called devilish.

      Paris was not exceptionally vain; however, he did not appreciate hearing that anyone would think he had need of special tailoring to render his form attractive.

      “Oh, that’s all natural,” Hester said, laughing softly.

      “Really?” Mrs. Wells demanded. “How do you know?”

      Paris waited for her answer with acute curiosity.

      “My sister Helena told me.”

      It took a great deal of self-control for Paris to remain where he was instead of demanding to know what the devil Helena knew about it. But Hester would never answer such a query if he were to ask it bluntly.

      Fortunately, Hester saw the almost equally curious expression on Clara Wells’ face. “She saw him without his shirt one day when she was walking past his bedroom,” Hester explained.

      Gad! Paris thought angrily. He would keep his door bolted from now on, especially given that the Pimbletts were due to visit his country home when the Season ended.

      “Well, then, I must do a portrait of him,” Mrs. Wells replied decisively. “I shall have to improve upon the acquaintance first, of course, and show him samples of my work. If only the Season were not nearly over! I shall have to wait until it resumes, I suppose.”

      “Yes,” Hester agreed. “He is leaving soon for his house in the country.” She gave Mrs. Wells a smile. “My family is to visit him there later.” She flushed a bright red. “I don’t know how I shall ever look him in the face now!”

      Mrs. Wells laughed genially and winked. “The man is so perfectly charming, I’m sure you’ll find a way.”

      “Oh, no! Not at all! I have no interest in him that way,” Hester protested sincerely, blushing again. “My sister...” Her words trailed off, but there could be no mistaking the significance of her look.

      Paris frowned. He had never given Helena much encouragement; she had never needed any. And he had supposed that if he had to marry, he could do worse. Helena was a beautiful and wealthy young woman from a fine, old family. She was also spoiled, vain and had a voice that could grate like a squeaking wheel, but he had thought he would have to make some compromises when he eventually married. Nevertheless, he did not enjoy having this match presented as a fait accompli, not even by the harmless Hester.

      “I envy you your invitation, Lady Hester,” Mrs. Wells said with a sigh. “Being poor and struggling artists,” she continued, not without a certain obvious pride in the virtuosity of her sacrifice, “we must remain in the dirt and congestion of the city.”

      When Paris heard that, he knew there was only one thing to do, and he did it.

      Chapter Three

      

      

      With the suddenness of an apparition, Lord Paris Mulholland appeared in the music room, a wry grin on his handsome face.

      Startled and embarrassed, Clara unfortunately said the first thing that entered her head. “What are you doing here?”

      Hester Pimblett gasped and Aunt Aurora gaped. Rightly so, Clara thought helplessly as the full realization of the rudeness of her demand came to her. She flushed hotly, thinking of all the times she had secretly condemned her aunt for doing the same thing.

      But where had he come from? How much had he heard? She surveyed the room, desperately seeking some avenue of escape. There wasn’t any, for his muscular body blocked the door.

      “The general answer is fulfilling a social obligation,” his lordship replied as if there were nothing untoward in her unorthodox greeting. His lack of affronted shock did not assuage Clara’s embarrassment, and she wished she had stayed in the drawing room. Being bored was infinitely better than her current state of flustered feelings.

      “As for my presence here,” he went on smoothly with a graceful wave of his aristocratic hand, “I am merely being decorative.”

      Coming from any other handsome man, such words might have been taken as outrageous vanity; in his case, there was enough evidence of self-mockery in his tone and his blue eyes to lead her to believe he was trying to be amusing.

      Clara told herself that she didn’t find his efforts charming, or his way of playing the droll comedian humorous. He was an intelligent man and, judging by his СКАЧАТЬ