The Education of Mrs. Brimley Read Online Free PDF Page A

she stepped back, escaping from his touch. “Sir, you did not hire me.”
    His brows rose nearly to the defiant lock of black hair curled on his forehead. “Are you not the woman who agreed to model for my painting?”
    “No,” she answered, first shocked, then insulted by the absurd notion. “I’ve come to speak to you about a book.”
    “Rubbish.” He stalked toward the hall, and she noticed, for the first time, that he leaned on a walking stick that moved in tandem with his left leg. “I haven’t the time or inclination to discuss a book with you, Mrs. . . . Mrs. . . .” He stopped and turned, his brow furled. “Who are you?”
    He’d forgotten their brief meeting in the carriage. She wasn’t surprised. She rarely made a memorable impression on people. He had been well in his cups last night. Still she had hoped . . .
    “I am Mrs. Brimley, sir. I’m a new teacher at the Pettibone School for Young Ladies.” Now that he knew she was a fellow intellectual, surely he would listen. She followed him down the corridor. “I need to talk to you about—”
    “Thomas, I need you,” he bellowed toward the high ceilings before turning to address her in a more refined manner. “Thomas will show you out.” He spun on his heel and disappeared into another room.
    Stunned, she stopped in place, staring at the empty hallway. Disappointment stabbed deep. Even if her unanticipated appearance hadn’t intrigued him, he shouldn’t have dismissed her so rudely. The long cold walk back to Pettibone loomed, with nothing to justify her risk of coming.
    He mustn’t ignore me. He is my only hope. Resolve buoyed her. He must be made to listen.
    “Wait!” She lifted her skirts and ran down the hall. “At least hear me out.” She followed him into the room, closed the door behind her, then leaned against it to deny him exit.
    Her gaze swept the room in astonishment.
    It was as if the sun had been harnessed and made to shine exclusively in this magical place. Strategically placed mirrors in ornate, gilded frames reflected light from both the fireplace and numerous lamps. Riotous colored cloths and canvases, some painted, some not, lay scattered throughout. So much color and discord made her head swim. “What is this place?” she whispered in awe.
    “You are trespassing in my studio.”
    In the midst of the color and confusion stood Lord Nicholas Chambers, rolling up the sleeves of his linen shirt like a circus ringmaster preparing to bring order from chaos. As a refined woman, she should have been shocked to observe such an intimate gesture, but the sight of his bared forearms caused her pulse to race. Tensed muscles gleamed with a fine sheen of black hair, rough yet alluring. An ache spread through her. How would it feel to be captured within those arms? She stroked the dowdy black bombazine sleeve that concealed her own forearm, silently wishing he’d roll the cloth back one more fold, expose one more inch.
    A pounding ensued on the door at her back, breaking the spell and reminding her of her desperate need. She raised her voice to a near shout.
    “I have risked both my reputation and my employment coming here. The least you can do is listen to my plea.”
    “Plea, Mrs. Brimley?” One dark brow lifted in question. “As you are new to this area, I should warn you. Women in dire circumstances rarely come to me for assistance.”
    Another reference to his terrible reputation, though from his lips, the words sounded more like an invitation than a warning. Although she’d asked for his full attention, now that she had it, she wished it otherwise. His masculine virility was like a physical force, attacking her senses, and now he concentrated it fully on her. She could barely breathe. She crushed her bustle into the door, needing its support.
    “It’s all right, Thomas,” he shouted, as the pounding continued behind her. “I’ll call if I need you.”
    The pounding stopped, although her insides continued to