Page 59 of What a Lord Wants

Dom exchanged quick greetings with the rest of the group. Then he focused his attention back on her, and she lost the battle to keep from blushing.

“I’m glad you were able to attend the preview, Miss Winslow.” The intensity in his chocolate-brown eyes made her shiver. “Are you enjoying yourself?”

“Very much.” She smiled through her nervousness, aware of the curious looks from her friends and family. “Thank you for the invitation.”

“Of course.” Then a small pause, barely perceptible, but she noticed—heaven help her, she noticedeverythingabout this man. “Have you visited the Old Masters gallery yet?”

She knew exactly what he was asking, and it wasn’t at all about paintings. He wanted to speak with her alone. Although she sensed irritation at her still simmering inside him, there was none of the anger of their parting.Thank God.

“Not yet.” Then, unable to refuse the opportunity to be in his company again, no matter how fleeting, she admitted, “But I’d like to.”

“It would be my pleasure to show it to you.” He held out his gloved hand. “May I?”

With a nod, she let him place her hand on his arm and lead her away. With every step, she was aware of the stares that followed them, first from her family and friends, and then from the other patrons in the gallery. Just as she was aware of the tension inside Dom as he strolled slowly beside her.

“Christopher Carlisle,” he ground out, keeping his gaze straight ahead. “Are you and he…?”

“Friends? Yes.” She tilted her head coyly to slide him a long, sideways glance, as if she didn’t understand what he was asking. “Distant relations by marriage? Yes.” She was rewarded by a tightening of his jaw and lowered her voice, “Someone who paints me scandalously nude in his secret art studio? No.”

He halted, frozen for a beat mid-step.

Then he went on, not daring to glance down at her. The only other visible reaction to her barb was a faint twisting of his lips in chagrin.

He led her slowly through the long gallery that held the contemporary English artists, toward the two rooms in the rear where the old masters had been hung, with English artists in one room and Continental artists in the other.

“You’ve not returned to the studio,” he said in a low voice, careful not to let anyone overhear.

She’d been absent only a week, yet homesickness ached inside her for it. And for him. “I know I’m not wanted there.”

“Exactly the opposite, in fact,” he murmured. Before she could reply, he added, “And when I’ve tried to call on you at your home, you’ve refused to see me.”

“What good would it do?” She fought to keep her shoulders from sagging.

“It would let me know that you were all right.”

Despite herself, she couldn’t resist squeezing his forearm. The muscle flexed beneath her fingertips in reward, and a thrill raced shamelessly through her. “Concerned about me?”

“Of course.” Before she could counter that with a protest that she could take care of herself, he murmured, “I also wanted to apologize.”

She couldn’t stop the flutter in her belly. But she still had her pride, what little of it remained, so she flippantly challenged in a low voice, “You wanted to apologize for not deflowering me?”

His mouth hardened at that soft rebuke. “For letting it get that far in the first place.”

“That’s the difference between us.” She set her empty champagne flute onto the tray of a passing attendant and snatched up a fresh one, then avoided his gaze as she raised it to her lips. “I regret that we didn’t go further.”

He bit back a frustrated curse. “Eve, you know why—”

“Your Lordship!” An artist hurried up to them. Not noticing Dom’s irritated grimace at being interrupted, the man profusely thanked him for sponsoring the exhibit, and he humbly accepted the man’s gratitude, claiming he’d done nothing but loan out a few paintings.

“A few?” she pressed when he led her onward, grateful to change the topic of conversation to the exhibition. If she had to think any more about how he’d rejected her, she couldn’t have borne it.

“Well…most.” He stopped and gazed up at the paintings. “The walls of Mercer House are starkly bare.”

“And Vincenzo? Why are none of his works on display?”

“He wasn’t invited.” His eyes gleamed mischievously. “The members thought him too scandalous.”

“Butyouare a member.”