Notorious Eliza

Notorious Eliza
Barbara Monajem

Eliza Dauntry was infamous.Most people assumed she was a wanton because she supported herself and her son by painting portraits of courtesans. Yet Eliza hadn't been tempted by a man since her husband's death. . . until she met Patrick Felham. An old friend of her husband and a one-time rake, Patrick awakened a yearning in Eliza that demanded to be satisfied at once. . . .Patrick was looking for an upright woman to become his wife and stepmother to his daughter, not a siren like Eliza Dauntry! But Eliza had aroused his desire ever since he saved her scandalous self-portrait from the auction house.The chance of an affair with the alluring widow was irresistible, but this notorious woman could also turn out to be his perfect bride. . .

Notorious Eliza

Barbara Monajem

www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk/)

Eliza Dauntry was infamous. Most people assumed she was a wanton because she supported herself and her son by painting portraits of courtesans. Yet Eliza hadn’t been tempted by a man since her husband’s death…until she met Patrick Felham. An old friend of her husband and a one-time rake, Patrick awakened a yearning in Eliza that demanded to be satisfied at once…

Patrick was looking for an upright woman to become his wife and stepmother to his daughter, not a siren like Eliza Dauntry! But Eliza had aroused his desire ever since he saved her scandalous self-portrait from the auction house. The chance of an affair with the alluring widow was irresistible, but this notorious woman could also turn out to be his perfect bride…

To Clio, muse of history, and Erato, muse of love-poetry, This offering is humbly dedicated.

It isn’t history (it’s definitely fiction), And it isn’t love-poetry (because it’s prose), But hopefully you won’t mind.

I’d wanted to write a Regency for years, And I’d dabbled without much success, But when Harlequin asked for new authors for Undone! I thought, I must do this! You came down from Olympus, perched on my shoulders, and showed me how. So although in this earthly realm I’m obliged to take the credit, You and I both know where it really belongs.

Thank you!

London, March 1800

Eliza Dauntry frowned at the portrait on the easel, then at the naked woman sprawled on the sofa. Something was amiss with the pink tints underlying the skin on her breasts and belly. Eliza hated not getting her portraits exactly right. On the other hand, she had come to loathe painting nudes. She didn’t think a not-quite-perfect pink would matter to the rake who had commissioned the portrait of his mistress. Most likely, he wouldn’t notice the difference.

She flicked a glance at the rake, who had insisted on watching while Eliza worked. He wasn’t looking at the portrait, nor at his voluptuous mistress.

Instead his gaze was fixed on Eliza in an all too familiar way.

The rake dismissed his mistress with a flick of the hand. “That’s enough for now, love. Mrs. Dauntry and I wish to talk.”

Oh, no. Not another one. Eliza Dauntry braced herself to deal with the rake. The trollop, justly annoyed, snatched her wrapper from the sofa but flounced away without covering her nakedness. The rake couldn’t help watching the bounce of his mistress’s breasts and the jiggle of her thighs, but Eliza knew his desire was now directed at herself.

Damn! Neither frumpy clothing, nor hair going any which way, nor smudges of paint on her nose made any difference at all. According to these indiscriminate lechers, a woman who painted one’s mistress in the nude—lavishly, wantonly nude—must be partial to being naked herself.

In a sense, they were correct, but Eliza had been a widow for five years, and although she missed sprawling naked with David, there had never been anyone else and likely never would be.

Definitely not this one.

Perhaps she should accept the commission proposed by Lord Lansdowne in a letter received that morning. A month spent at his country estate would put the cap on her ruined reputation, but he had offered her a small fortune, enough to send James, her son, to a good school for years. More important, Lansdowne was old as Methuselah. Too ancient to bed her, and he didn’t hold orgies anymore.

Meanwhile, the rake approached, a predatory gleam in his eye.

Eliza checked that her palate knife was handy, took a deep breath and prepared to defend her honor. Again.

London, several weeks later

Patrick Felham adjusted his cravat before the pierglass. Why was he so damned nervous? He had been married once before, and apart from the death of his wife, everything had gone well. He had every reason to believe Miss Wilbanks would accept his offer.

Judging by the well-appointed saloon to which he had been conducted, the butler thought so, too. Patrick’s character and appearance were generally considered more than acceptable. Although he had no title, he was heir to his great-uncle Lord Lansdowne’s lands and fortune.

The door opened. It would not do to show embarrassment at being caught preening, so he brushed an imaginary speck from his sleeve before turning to make his bow.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Felham, but Miss Wilbanks is indisposed.” The butler seemed…uneasy. There was a distinctly undignified fidget in his stance, and was that sweat on his balding pate?

“She would be most happy to receive you another day, sir.” The butler held the door wide, evidently intending to conduct Patrick speedily outdoors.

Patrick let out a breath. He’d wanted to get the thing over and done with. “I’m sorry to hear that.” He preceded the butler toward the entrance hall. “Please convey my—”

An unearthly shriek came from the storey above. “Dismiss the bitch! I’ll not have her touch me again. Not my hair, not my clothing, not my jewels—”

“Quick, sir, please!” The butler pushed Patrick through the hall to the front door. Out on the steps, his rheumy old eyes met Patrick’s. “Please excuse the liberty, sir, but she’ll have the hide out of me if she knows you heard her having a tantrum.”

Patrick ran his fingers under his cravat. Sweet, lovely Miss Wilbanks, a perfect, conformable lady and ideal stepmother for Lucy, his only daughter, was not so sweet after all.

Another narrow escape. “Damnation.”

“Indeed, sir.” The butler’s gaze was sympathetic. “Find someone else to marry.”

“I’ll do that.” Hah. What was this, his third seriously flawed prospect? Fourth? Were there no true ladies left alive?

Lucy was already eight years old. His housekeeper did her best, but Lucy needed a lady’s tutelage to prepare her for Polite Society. He must find her a mother.

Patrick put a guinea in the butler’s palm. No, the old fellow deserved more compensation for putting up with such a mistress. He scooped all the remaining coins from his pocket and thrust them at the man, then strode hurriedly down the street.

Time to resume the search for a wife. Again.

But not quite yet. He left London the following day, and the late spring evening was closing in when he reached the sleepy Sussex village where he acted as steward of the Lansdowne estate. He left his horse at the Anchor and walked down the street to the substantial brick house at the far end.

“Papa!” Lucy flew down the corridor and into his arms.

He hugged his daughter tight and followed her to the kitchen, where Mrs. Higgins, the housekeeper, had just set out Lucy’s supper. “I’ll eat in here with Lucy,” he said.

He ate a simple meal of bread and cheese and listened somewhat absently to Lucy’s chatter, at least half his mind on the daunting wife-hunt, when he noticed the extraordinary number of times she mentioned someone called James.

“Who,” he asked, “is James?”

“I told you,” Lucy said. “He showed me how to play marbles, and I taught him to fish. We made swords and shields, and I got to be a knight. James has his very own watercolors. May I have watercolors, too? Mrs. Dent and the Uncharitables don’t like James, but you will, Papa.”

“Will I?” He raised his brows at Mrs. Higgins, who evaded his eyes and put the kettle on the hob. How strange. Mrs. Higgins usually took pride in disagreeing with prosy, proper Mrs. Dent, who taught pianoforte and set far too high a value on herself. Moreover, she didn’t even chide Lucy for using Patrick’s pet name for the Ladies’ Charitable Sewing Circle.

“Some days James doesn’t care to be a knight, so he is a troubadour instead. He won’t let me be a troubadour because I can’t sing,” Lucy said.

“I take it James can sing.” Patrick cast another glance at Mrs. Higgins. She twisted her fingers in her apron and continued to avoid his eyes. Damn it all, what now?

“Yes, but the cat at the Anchor doesn’t make a good fair maiden. When James sings to her, she puts her nose in the air and stalks away.”

So far, Patrick hadn’t suffered that sort of rejection, but judging by recent experience, it would be all for the best.