Page 75 of What a Lord Wants

“Marriage won’t save him from giving me what I’ve asked for. I want what I am due.”

Eve knew the threats Constance had made to Dom, the demands for money and property. Just as she knew that Dom would never capitulate. “He has no need of a mistress.”

“Because he’s married?” She laughed loudly, drawing the attention of the small group of children and nannies nearby. “A wife makes no difference whatsoever for that. But then, you’re still a shiny, new toy. He’ll grow bored of you soon and then look elsewhere for his pleasures. A man like Dom always does.”

Oh, how much Eve wanted to walk away! But she couldn’t. Shewouldn’tlet this woman see that she’d upset her. To speak of her husband like that, directly to her face, was completely beyond the pale—worse, it was also a reminder that Dom hadn’t made love to her in over a fortnight and had recently spent more nights alone than with her.

A smile curved at Constance’s mouth, as if she knew the tension already blossoming in their marriage. “Perhaps I should drop by the studio, for old times’ sake. It would be lovely to pose for him again.”

Over Eve’s dead body. “Stay away from my husband.”

“Or what?” All amusement vanished from Constance’s face. “What couldyoupossibly do to stop me?”

Helplessness surged through her, and her hand flew unconsciously to her belly. Eve wanted to claw the woman’s eyes out!

Then Constance said quietly but with so much confidence that Eve shivered, “Dom might have you warming his bed now, but eventually, he’ll return to me. He always has.”

The breath ripped from Eve’s lungs. Stunned at the woman’s audacity, she couldn’t find her voice.

“After all, unless he wants his secret identity to be found out, he’ll be keeping me in all the luxuries a gentleman provides his mistress. He’ll surely feel entitled to partake. When that day arrives, why would I stop him from coming to me?” With a laugh, Constance strolled away, calling back over her shoulder, “You’ll be sure to tell him that I asked about him—and that one way or another, Iwillhave what he owes me.”

Eve watched her go, her hands clenched into frustrated fists so tight that her nails dug into her palms. Oh, what an evil woman!

Constance wanted to upset her, that’s what this was. That’s what made her approach her and threaten those horrible things, with no other purpose than to hurt her as much as possible.

Especially her comments about Elena.

Whowasshe? Dom had never spoken of the woman before, not even in passing. Yet he’d put her before his art. Constance hadn’t lied about that. She’d said it with such bitterness and resentment that Eve didn’t doubt its veracity.

He’d loved another woman…Her throat tightened as she swallowed down a sob.

No, it was so much worse than that! Not that he was incapable of loving a woman as much as he loved his art, not that he wasn’t willing to relegate his painting to second place in his life—he simply wasn’t willing to do it forher.

That realization burned like fire in her lungs. Nothing had come from months of trying to make him love her except that she occupied an ever-shrinking place in his life. He was still as distant as ever, with no intention of letting her inside his heart.

Pressing her fist to her chest to physically push down the anguish, she hurried back to Park Lane. Instead of turning toward Mercer House, she waved down a hackney.

“Chelsea,” she ordered hoarsely past the knot in her throat, then stepped into the carriage.

Chapter 21

Constance paused inside the doorway of the dark art studio to let her eyes adjust.

How on earth did Turnstable paint in here without proper lighting? No wonder he had to make his living primarily as a forger if this was how he practiced his technique. Dear God, the countless hours she’d spent bored to tears from simply waiting around in Dom’s studio for the sun to emerge from behind a cloud, for the hour to grow late enough that the sunlight cast whatever special glow he’d wanted—madness.But she’d tolerated it because he’d made her look beautiful, then made her feel beautiful when he finally took her to his bed.

Now he would make her rich, or she would end him.

“Can I help you?” A middle-aged man in paint-splattered clothing approached from the shadows in the rear of the room, wiping his hands on a filthy towel. An assessing glance told her that the artist was just as squalid as the studio. Not that it mattered, as long as his finished canvas was good enough.

“I’m looking for Turnstable.” Constance smiled flirtatiously, knowing to use her charms on him even though she would never allow him to lay a finger on her. “I was told this was his studio.”

“It is.” He flung the towel over his shoulder and put his hands on his hips in a posture that was part casual, part confrontational, and all paunchy gut. He raked a gaze over her from head to toe, his mouth drawing down as he discovered that she wasn’t at all his usual customer. “You looking to buy a painting?”

“To have one painted, actually.”

“I’ve got other commissions in front of you.” He shook his head. “I couldn’t get to you until the spring.”

“No. I need the painting to be finished by mid-January.”