Earl's Well That Ends Well (The Way to a Lord's Heart #5) - Jane Ashford Page 0,9

but Tom’s cheerful expression was irresistible. Teresa smiled back and then turned to discover that Macklin was smiling as well. Unguarded, Teresa met that smile head-on and was shaken by an inner tremor. The man was handsome at all times, but when he smiled, the effect was multiplied tenfold. More, something in his eyes seemed so benign, as if he was the soul of honor. No doubt he knew this and used the appearance to his advantage.

He and young Tom made quite the contrast, Teresa thought. Tom was a good boy, but he looked what he was, an inexperienced stripling whose lanky frame was as yet…untenanted. Despite his adventurous life, he had yet to accumulate the experiences that would define him. Macklin, on the other hand, looked thoroughly inhabited. His blue-gray eyes promised histories to recount and depths to plumb. Not to mention the prowess of his athletic body. He was unquestionably attractive. Teresa found herself wondering about his…not earl-ess, which would be an ugly word in any case. Countess… That was it, though why the English called them that when they had no counts she couldn’t imagine.

She pulled herself sharply back. Macklin was a snare, a deceit, designed to beguile before he struck. She did not need to learn that lesson again. Teresa rose. “I must go back to my work.”

“You haven’t finished your tart,” said Tom.

His tone suggested that he was teasing her, though she didn’t understand exactly how. She sometimes missed a nuance in her second, or really third, language. Teresa gathered all her dignity and rose. “I will take it with me.”

“You don’t want to get paint on it,” the lad said. “I reckon that’d be bad for you.”

“I will take care.” Teresa made it a mild reproach. Of course she wouldn’t sully her food. One of the other painters sometimes held a brush between his teeth. She never would. She picked up her pastry and walked away with a sense of making a lucky escape, and also of eyes fixed on her back as she moved.

Arthur followed her progress with an appreciative gaze. He supposed she was past thirty, but that only meant she had the lushness of maturity along with the lithe grace of youth. He couldn’t remember when he’d encountered a more intriguing woman.

“I’ll take another of those if you don’t want ’em,” Tom said.

Arthur turned back to find the lad indicating the tarts. He waved permission.

Tom ate half a pastry in one bite. “Señora Alvarez is a fine lady,” he said when he’d swallowed.

“She is indeed. Though not much inclined to talk about herself.”

“No.” He finished the confection in another bite.

The lad would understand about such reluctance, with the life he’d led. And he would keep any confidences he’d received, as he should. Arthur could wish that he was more forthcoming, however.

When Tom had consumed another tart, he said, “Shall I show you how we make thunder on the stage?”

This had been the excuse for Arthur’s visit. And in fact he was interested. But he also hoped for further conversation with Tom’s beguiling friend.

He never got that. Señora Alvarez had departed when they reentered the workshop. Arthur did discover that the noise of thunder was created by casting wooden balls down a wooden trough, the “thunder run.” The sound was surprisingly convincing. He took care to give Tom the attention and interest he expected, even as he plotted ways to learn more about the lovely señora.

And thus it was that on the following day, Arthur paid a call on his friend Mrs. Thorpe at the lavish town house of her banker husband. He was greeted with that lady’s customary aplomb—no sign of surprise despite the fact that he rarely made a personal visit. As always, Mrs. Thorpe’s black hair was immaculately dressed. Her rose-silk gown was a marvel of fashion, her face a model of classic beauty. Her blue eyes gleamed with sharp intelligence.

She sat in one armchair before the drawing room fireplace and directed Arthur to another. He noted again that seeing her felt rather like an audience with the queen. She certainly was a monarch of the theatrical world. When they had exchanged pleasantries, she waited with the poise of one of the greatest actresses of her generation. Arthur, on the other hand, was not entirely sure how to begin.

“Is it something about Tom?” the lady asked finally.

“No, no. He seems to be thriving.”

“He’s well liked at the theater.”

“As he seems to be everywhere.”

“Indeed. It is his gift.”

Arthur nodded. That

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