on the name, cursing Sandhurst silently. "How may I help you, my lady?" This really was too much. He had to not only claim that idiotic surname but also act the servant, as if he were no better than a dog she might deign to pat on the head.
"I know that this might sound odd, m'sieur, but I would appreciate it if you could show me the painting your master brought from England. I have admired the portrait he is making of Madame Tevoulere, and am curious to see more of his work."
Odd indeed, thought Jeremy, especially at seven in the morning!
"Come in, madame. I hope that you'll excuse the chamber's appearance—and my own. I didn't expect—"
"It is I who owe you an apology, M'sieur Playfair!" Aimée declared. "It is very early, and I came on a whim, hoping that you would pardon my rudeness."
Jeremy began to like the lady. She wasn't condescending in the least, and they chatted easily as he unrolled the canvas of Cicely Weston and propped it on the table by the window.
Aimée blinked. "Parbleu!"
"Quite beautiful, isn't it?" Culpepper said proudly. He wanted to give credit to Lord Sandhurst, then claim him as a friend and equal, but instead he had to continue, "Master Selkirk is extremely talented. I couldn't believe it myself when I first saw this. It's as if Lady Cicely Weston were here, alive in this chamber."
"Cicely... Weston?" Aimée was staring at the portrait, her spirits sinking. This manservant was right. If it had been love that brought Selkirk's painting of Micheline to life, then he must love this child as well. Her personality was revealed on the canvas, or so it seemed. Miss Weston appeared intelligent and willful in a charming way, and though she couldn't have been more than a dozen years old, her eyes were also filled with adoration. Of course, they held none of the sensual overtones of Micheline's, but it was love all the same.
"Weston..." Aimée repeated absently. "That name sounds familiar."
"Lady Cicely is the sister of the Marquess of Sandhurst."
Never one to use devious means to gain information. Aimée decided to be frank with Selkirk's manservant. "M'sieur Playfair, are you aware that Micheline Tevoulere is betrothed to Lord Sandhurst?"
He wanted to laugh, but swallowed instead and replied, "Yes, I have heard about that, madame."
"The lady is my dearest friend, and as you might imagine, I've been rather concerned about the fact that she and the marquess have never met."
"Perfectly understandable." Jeremy nodded.
"I hope, then, that you'll understand my curiosity as well when I ask if you know Lord Sandhurst at all. I'm eager to discover what sort of man he is."
What would Andrew want him to say? Jeremy was naturally outspoken, and this lady inspired one's confidence. "The marquess is a very fine man," he said finally, deciding that honesty was the safest course. "He's blessed with extraordinary good looks and intelligence. I doubt that there's a lady in Britain of marriageable age who wouldn't gladly take Madame Tevoulere's place. Don't waste time worrying that your friend has chosen ill. I don't think that there's the slightest chance that she'll be unhappy in this marriage—or that she won't love her husband."
Aimée thanked him, stole a last glance at the portrait of Lady Cicely Weston, and left Andrew Selkirk's chambers. Alone in the corridor, she leaned against a paneled wall and sighed in frustration. What in the world was the answer to this dilemma? Perhaps this situation wasn't fair to Micheline. How could she choose between a man she'd never seen and Andrew Selkirk? If Playfair's words were true, Lord Sandhurst might be even more appealing than this impoverished painter! Was that possible?
* * *
Sunlight bright as melted butter poured through a gap in the bedhangings. Micheline awoke reluctantly, sensing that the hours out of time were at an end. Andrew lay facing her on his side, still sleeping, while she rested on her back, nestled close in his embrace. She gazed over at his face, tears stinging her eyes. Everything about him was excruciatingly dear to her. She adored his sleep-mussed hair, the laugh lines that crinkled around his eyes, the scar that set him apart from every other handsome man, and the fresh stubble of beard that glinted in the sunlight.
Andrew's hard-muscled right arm curved over her slim body, his fingertips resting lightly on the swell of Micheline's breast. She studied his fingers, which, though sturdier than one might expect of those of an artist, were