Page 50 of What a Lord Wants

She bit her bottom lip. “I’ve already lost friends over this.”

“Then they weren’t true friends. Your real friends will be back—if they ever leave you in the first place.”

She desperately wanted to believe that.

“A bunch of cruel people took the opportunity to laugh at you,” he explained as he retreated to his worktable. “At a woman who will never truly be one of them. You shine with more beauty and brilliance than they do, and your father possesses a larger fortune than all of them combined. Your very presence is an affront to them, so is your resilience, and it eats at them to see you live so successfully.” He reached for a jar of brushes. “So speaking as a peer of the realm who has to interact with these people on a daily basis”—he glanced at her over his shoulder—“please keep it up.”

Laughter spilled from her. Her hand darted to her mouth to stifle it, but she couldn’t help smiling at him through her fingers. Only Dom could make her feel better after everything that had happened this week.

When he turned back to fuss with his supplies, she snatched up the bundle of letters, then slipped them into the pocket of her robe.

She watched him in the flickering lamplight. So odd to see him dressed like this…all in white satin and kerseymere, with gold buttons shining on his waistcoat and black leather boots so highly polished that she could have used them for mirrors. She’d grown used to seeing him undressed in his rough, brown trousers, shirtsleeves, and stained workman’s shirt, the collar always open far enough to see the faint dusting of hair on his hard chest. His hair was constantly mussed from raking paint-stained fingers through his dark curls, and he seemed inexplicably to always have a three-day growth of beard darkening his face.

“You shouldn’t do that,” she called out. “You’ll get paint all over your fine clothes, and then how will you explain that to your valet?”

“Davies knows about my art. He’s one of the handful who do.” He sorted through a box of chalk, pausing to toss out the old, unwanted pieces. “My valet, my personal secretary, my butler—now you.” He frowned. “And Constance.”

The name sliced through her with a flash of jealousy she hadn’t expected, followed immediately by betrayal. “You told her?”

“I didnottell her.” He threw the chalk into the metal bucket he used as a trash bin, and it banged like pistol fire through the quiet studio. “She found out on her own.”

“From your reaction, I’m guessing she didn’t accidentally run into you at a society ball.”

A heartbeat’s pause, then he not-so-subtlety changed topics. “Is that why you’re in that robe?” He gestured at her with a piece of chalk. “Because you didn’t want to get paint on your dress?”

“Mariah caught me in the breeches and corset.” She grimaced. “I had to talk in double-time to explain why I was wearing them. If she happens to catch paint on my hem on the heels of Burton’s reading and your visit to the townhouse, she’ll most likely lock me in my room.”

“You crossed half of London by yourself in the dead of night to come here,” he muttered, his attention returning to the chalk. “I’d lock you away, too.”

“I wasn’t alone.”

He wheeled around in surprise.

“I paid our footman and his sister to escort me. They’re waiting with a hackney at the end of the alley to collect me when I’m ready to head home.” She waved her hand to indicate the neighborhood around the studio. “I’m adventurous, not foolhardy. Mary will vouch that I did nothing improper if anyone finds out, and Simon is a large man who knows how to use a knife and keep his silence.”

“Convenient,” he said in a sardonic drawl.

“I thought so. Besides,” she added somberly, her hand dropping to her lap, “tonight’s the last time I’ll ever come here.”

For a long moment, he stared at her, saying nothing. Her heart longed for him to reply. If only he would challenge her, deny it, and declare that he wanted her to return every day just as she’d done before—

Yet he said nothing. With every passing heartbeat, she grew more certain that he never would.

Instead, he asked, “Whydidyou come here tonight, Eve?”

Because here I feel protected, special...unafraid of the darkness.“Because I had to return your clothes.”

He slid his gaze sideways to the screen in the corner and to the breeches and stays flung over the top. His expression never changed as his eyes returned to her, but he knew she was lying. She could feel it in him, so well did she know him.

That was why he’d surprised her so much when she saw him arrive at the ball, looking so confident and powerful. A man born to society and completely in his element. She’d been staring at a stranger.

Now the man she recognized was standing in front of her again, and she simply didn’t know how to reconcile the two halves of him into a whole. Or what she meant to him. She’d once thought she knew, but now…

“And your companion at the ball?” She prayed that he couldn’t hear the jealousy in her voice. “Does she know that you’re Vincenzo?”

“No, although I doubt she would care.” Unconcerned for what it might do to his white trousers, he leaned back against the worktable and folded his arms over his chest. “Sabrina’s intentions are purely mercenary.”

“And your intentions for her?”