Notorious Eliza. Barbara Monajem

thought of it as a protective gesture. Amanda had been alive then, and he’d only allowed himself enough of a glimpse to be sure it was indeed the self-portrait David had mentioned one day when in his cups. Patrick had put it in an attic and all but forgotten it until several months ago, when he’d begun planning for remarriage.

      He couldn’t burn it. Uncle Lionel’s opinion notwithstanding, Patrick knew a magnificent painting when he saw one.

      Nor could he sell it; David might be long dead, but Mrs. Dauntry was very much alive. Just because she made her living painting other men’s mistresses, it didn’t mean she should be subjected to the lewd gaze of the highest bidder.

      So he had kept it. He should take this opportunity to return it to her.

      Hell, no. Which meant, he supposed, that he was as bad as the rest, but at least he wouldn’t display it for hordes of dissolute friends to see. The very idea appalled him. He might look at the portrait—he had done so, several times since Amanda’s death—but that was different.

      Or was it? He conjured, in his mind’s eye, the Eliza Dauntry he’d met so long ago. If ever he’d been attracted to another man’s wife, it had been she. Back then, he’d dismissed the thought even as it surfaced. He would never betray his own wife or his friend.

      To be honest, he shouldn’t intrude upon Eliza’s privacy now. If she wouldn’t want him looking at her portrait, he shouldn’t.

      On the other hand, everything in him rebelled at the thought of asking her if she wanted it back.

      Uncle Lionel had put him in an impossible position.

      “Go have a look,” Lord Lansdowne said. “Use the secret room.”

      “Watch her through a peephole? By God, Uncle—”

      The old lord chuckled. “Don’t get all hot under the cravat. She doesn’t like people watching her working. Told me so, but what she doesn’t know won’t hurt her. Take a peek.” He laughed again. “I dare you.”

      The hair on the back of Eliza’s neck stood to attention. Old Lord Lansdowne was watching her again.

      Not that she really minded. Being watched didn’t bother her, but rather the lewd talk that generally went along with it. As it turned out, Lansdowne wasn’t a bad sort. He did nothing more than look at her with an appreciative glint in his eye, and he had agreed to every one of her terms.

      His steward wouldn’t be best pleased when he learned his daughter had become fast friends with the son of the infamous Mrs. Dauntry, but the man hadn’t returned yet, and her job, thank God, was almost done. James had grown accustomed to parrying insults, but that didn’t mean they didn’t hurt. He had lost playmates before and cheerfully gone out to find more. Street urchins, some of them, but as long as James didn’t take to thieving, she considered it just another form of education.

      The old lord’s servants must be getting better at helping him silently into that secret room. This time, Eliza hadn’t heard a thing. She just knew. She turned casually and flicked her eyes along the wall with the peepholes. Sure enough, the one behind Poseidon was open, making a slit darker than the billows of sea between one of the trident’s prongs.

      Why not give the old lord a little show? His fun was almost over. He was preparing for his own demise, poor man, covering up his beloved orgies because no one would want to live here otherwise. Eliza had come up with a good compromise. She hoped he lived long enough to enjoy it.

      Why shouldn’t she have a little fun, too?

      She pulled the ribbon from her hair—it needed retying anyway—and tossed it on the table. She ran her fingers through the tangles until the waves fell long and lush across her shoulders and down her back.

      She stretched, thrusting her bosom forward, arching her back and closing her eyes. This wasn’t quite as vulgar and gratuitous as it seemed, or so she told herself. After nigh-on a month painting in one awkward position and another, her muscles were giving her hell. She ran her hands slowly over her bosom and down across her belly, then let them linger caressingly on her thighs. He wouldn’t see much of her curves otherwise, given the shapelessness of her painting smock. It couldn’t be more harmless: she got the fun of titillating a man who posed no threat, and he got some enjoyment in return.

      She rolled her shoulders, infusing her movements with sensuous languor, and raised her arms over her head, stretching to one side and then the other, swaying slightly. What next? She turned her back to the peephole, spread her legs and took her time bending over. He wouldn’t see more than the curve of her bottom, but even if his equipment was worn-out, his imagination wouldn’t be…