Lady Dearing's Masquerade Read Online Free PDF Page B

decided a minute later, ruefully surveying the canvas. Since her schoolgirl days she’d been able to execute a creditable watercolor, but oil painting was a new departure. Perhaps lessons would help. In the meantime, she would scrape the mess off the canvas and try again.
    She cocked her head at the picture once more, and laughed. Perhaps she should just frame it and send it to Adolphus and Sophronia as a present! But no, it really was no fun unless they actually felt obliged to display the awful thing. At least imagining them doing so put her in a better frame of mind. Adolphus was just a nuisance; a useful reminder of Walter and the life she’d left behind three years ago, which made her present bliss all the sweeter.
    She glanced at the clock. Nearly time for her ramble with the children. Quickly, she began to set her brushes to soak, but dropped the last one as a voice rang out from the direction of the entrance hall.
    “I must see Lady Dearing,” the masculine voice said, in tones that were rich and urgent.
    An unforgettable voice: a low, mellow baritone that resonated within her somehow.
    Dizziness overcame her. How she’d longed to hear that voice, after that malicious article had mistakenly coupled her name with that of Lord Arlingdale, as doors had closed to her, as renewed friendships had faded and gentlemen of every description had tested their chances with the debauched widow who’d come to London seeking a lover. And he’d stayed away, whether from indifference or cowardice, she never knew.
    He’d seemed so . . . kind.
    Now he was here, rolling back months of pain and years of adjustment, tipping her world edgeways.
    Why now?
    She stole out of the room, quietly heading toward the entrance. Thurlow’s voice sounded, too low for her to quite make out the words though she guessed he was trying to repel her visitor.
    “No, I am not here to impose on her!” the stranger insisted.
    The vehemence in his voice caused her to stumble. She missed his next words. Did it matter? Perhaps he’d been confused by the rumors about her and Lord Arlingdale. Perhaps he’d just discovered what had truly happened. Perhaps . . .
    She reached the hall at a run, then stopped, breathless, to lock eyes with the man standing beside her butler.
    Dear God, it was he! As tall as she remembered, his shoulders as broad. The folds of his greatcoat were flung back, revealing a sober black coat, a gray waistcoat buttoned over a flat stomach, dove-colored riding breeches molded over muscular legs. His hair was dark, a bit long, curling over a broad forehead. His chin firm, with the hint of a cleft, his lips as firm, as beautifully curved as she remembered. And his eyes—oh, those eyes! Framed by thick lashes, they were huge and dark. Focused, melting her with their intensity.
    And completely lacking even the slightest glimmer of recognition.

Chapter 3
     
    Livvy’s cheeks burned. Heavens, she’d all but flung herself into the arms of a man who was now regarding her as a complete stranger!
    “My apologies, Lady Dearing,” he said. “It seems I have come at an inconvenient time, but my business is important.”
    His face had darkened, as if he too was conscious of having locked gazes for a shockingly long interval. Still there was no hint that he recognized her. On the other hand, she was more certain than ever. There was no mistaking those eyes, that chin, those lips. Or that deep, rippling voice that instantly transported her back three years.
    Apprehension pierced her reawakened yearning for him. If he did not remember her, why was he here?
    Before she could say anything, Thurlow coughed.
    “I did tell him you were not at home to visitors, my lady,” he said apologetically.
    “It is no matter. I had finished painting for the day,” she replied, trying not to stare at her visitor.
    “I am Sir Jeremy Fairhill,” he said, handing her the card he’d been holding in his hand. “I am one of the Governors of the Foundling