Alec Mackenzie's Art of Seduction (Mackenzies & McBrides #9)(11)

Celia was instantly on her guard. When Lady Flora gushed and pretended to be kind, it meant she was up to something.

When Celia didn’t answer, Lady Flora became icy once more. “Your mother wishes it,” she said. “Go.”

There was nothing for it. Celia gave her another curtsy and reached for her portfolio, but Lady Flora closed her eyes in despair and shook her head.

Celia gave up and moved quickly across the room. She turned back at the door and found Lady Flora’s glare hard on her. A basilisk had a stare like that.

Mr. Finn had turned away to replace the pencils in their box, his shirt clinging to his back. The sensation of his nearness when he’d sat close to her was still vivid.

He bent to the box, as though making sure each pencil rested precisely in its given slot. He did not look around, did not say goodbye. Mr. Finn was a drawing master and Celia was a duke’s daughter, and Lady Flora would hardly approve of any familiarity.

Why then, had Lady Flora said nothing when she’d marched in and found Mr. Finn sitting before Celia without his shirt?

So many puzzles to solve. Celia closed the door and walked to the landing, making certain her heels clicked loudly on the polished floor.

To Celia’s relief, Rivers, Lady Flora’s stern butler, was nowhere in sight. Celia paused at the top of the stairs, slid off her shoes, and hurried on quick tiptoes back to the studio door.

She pressed her skirts to silence and leaned to put her ear near the keyhole. Eavesdropping wasn’t genteel, but Celia had decided long ago that a young lady could learn much if she didn’t worry about gentility every single moment of her life.





Chapter 4





What were you thinking?” came Lady Flora’s voice, clear and ringing.

“I told her to draw my arm.” The Scottish accent Mr. Finn had been holding back flooded out. Celia liked his voice better like this, gruff and growling, holding the rawness of his native land. “I’m thinking she’s not an obedient lass.” He sounded approving, which made Celia flush, pleased.

“What if she’d showed this to her father?” Lady Flora snapped. “You are reckless—I should have known you would be. So much like your brother.”

“Her father has never met me,” Mr. Finn answered without heat. “And I dinnae look so much like Will. I only ever looked like—”

The words cut off abruptly, a sound like a cough ending his speech.

“I know.” Lady Flora’s voice softened, something Celia had never heard in her before. Even when Lady Flora’s daughter had died, she had been, if anything, colder and more brittle than ever.

“The lass shouldn’t come back here,” Mr. Finn said. “We’ll find another way.”

“Nonsense.” Lady Flora’s strident tones returned. “If you do everything exactly as I say, all will be well. Now—I should burn this.”

Celia couldn’t help her tiny gasp. The idea that Flora would stuff the drawing she’d just done into the fire cut off her breath.

When Mr. Finn’s eyes had gazed at Celia out of the page, her heart had squeezed into a point of pain. It was the best portrait she’d ever drawn, and she knew it. More than that, she didn’t want to lose the image of him, the essence she’d captured. If she was never allowed to see the man again, at least she’d have that.

“No.” Mr. Finn’s word was a command, quick and sharp. “I’ll take it. Best you be about your business, woman.”

Celia heard the sound of paper on flesh—presumably Lady Flora had slapped the scroll into his hand.

“Very well. And don’t call me ‘woman.’”

Mr. Finn’s laughter rang out. “It’s what ye are, underneath all that ice. By the way, I sacked the nursery maid.”

“I beg your pardon?” Lady Flora’s anger turned to bewilderment. “Why?”

“She was trying to poison my wee one with gin, that’s why. I told your under housemaid, Sally, t’ take over. She’s a bright girl, obviously has looked after children before. Do ye even talk to your servants before you take them on?”

“Of course I do. The nursery maid was a recommendation. Damn and blast.”

“Ye take care of the rest of your house. I’ll take care of me daughter.” Mr. Finn’s voice held a growl. “Agreed?”

“Yes, yes. Whatever you like.”

Celia blinked. She’d never heard Lady Flora capitulate about anything in her life. The atmosphere in the room had changed—Mr. Finn no longer sounded like a pitiable gentleman grateful for a job, but a man who didn’t fear telling Lady Flora exactly what to do. And Lady Flora was letting him, if grudgingly.

How very curious.

Mr. Finn’s footfalls approached the door, and Celia realized she’d dallied too long. Gathering her skirts, she scurried for the staircase and snatched up her shoes. She went down the stairs as quickly as she dared, clutching the railing to keep herself from tumbling headlong. Rivers materialized on the first-floor landing, looking up as Celia hurried down, his haughty brows rising.

The main staircase in Lady Flora’s mansion gave onto landings that wrapped around each floor. Chairs had been placed along these galleries in case Lady Flora’s houseguests grew weary climbing up to their bedchambers and had to pause and rest. The wide sweep of Celia’s gown caught on the leg of one of these graceful chairs and sent it tumbling.