Page 33 of Someone to Watch Over Me
“Arouse,” he suggested softly.
She lowered her hands and clenched them at her sides, still facing away from him. It seemed almost impossible that she could feel such humiliation…It scorched the very insides of her veins. “Take it down, or cover it,” she said desperately.
The amusement left his voice, and he sounded faintly puzzled as he replied. “I’ve seen it before, Vivien.”
It made no sense, but she couldn’t bear the painting hanging there before them both—it was like being naked in front of him in person. “I don’t like it,” she said sharply. “I can’t stay in this room with that hanging there. Do something with it,please.”
She stiffened as he approached her from behind, his hands closing over her narrow shoulders. “You’re trembling,” he murmured in surprise. “There’s no reason to be upset.”
“You wouldn’t say that if it were a nude painting ofyouhanging up there.”
He snickered suddenly. “I doubt there’s an artist alive who would agree to paint me in the nude, sweetheart. I’m not exactly the right material.”
An arguable point, she thought privately. From what she had seen of him, Morgan was as attractive as any masculine form ever committed to canvas…but she was hardly going to tell him that.
Gently he tried to turn her to face him. “Come, it’s not so bad. Take a deep breath.”
She resisted, stubbornly ducking her head and fixing her gaze on the floor. “I’m not going to move until you take away that painting.”
A brief, warm huff of laughter fanned her ear. “All right, blast you.” Releasing her, he crossed the room to the painting. A scraping noise, a faint creak of the heavy frame, and then Morgan’s dry voice cut the tense silence. “You can open your eyes now.”
Vivien turned to see that he had taken the painting down and propped it against the wall, back facing outward. “Thank you,” she said, heaving a sigh. “I want to have that dreadful object burned.”
“You may change your mind, once you recover your memory.”
“I don’t care what happens after my memory returns,” she retorted sharply. “As I’ve told you before, I won’t be a courtesan any longer.”
Morgan regarded her with a frank skepticism that annoyed her beyond reason. “We’ll see,” he muttered.
Another painting caught her eye, a small oil with a delicate gilded frame. It was hung on the wall next to the dressing table, as if she had wanted to look at it while applying perfumes and powders and brushing her hair. Moving closer, she stared at the painting with growing curiosity. It didn’t seem at all in keeping with the rest of the house. Obviously done by an amateur, the picture had been painted in bright, cheerful colors. The scene was of a little country cottage, timber-framed and painted white, with a carpet of lavender heather all around, and silver birch trees behind it. A profusion of rosebushes bearing dainty white blossoms covered the front of the cottage.
Vivien couldn’t seem to take her eyes from the painting. She felt certain it was a place she had once visited, a place where she had been happy. “How strange,” she murmured. “I think…I think this picture was given to me by someone who…” She stopped in confusion. “Oh, if only we knew where this cottage was!”
“It could be practically anyplace in England,” Grant said sardonically.
Vivien touched the signature in the corner of the canvas. “Devane,” she read aloud. “How familiar that sounds. Devane. I wonder if he is a friend or perhaps even a…”
“Lover?” Grant suggested quietly.
She drew her hand back and frowned. “I suppose he might be.” Memories strained behind the impenetrable wall in her mind. Frustrated, Vivien went to a massive breakfront wardrobe, fitted with huge pieces of silvered glass and flanked with cabinets of linen trays on either side. Opening one of the two sets of doors, she beheld a long row of gowns in every imaginable shade of silk, velvet, and satin, the skirts fluttering like butterfly wings. Many of the garments held a faint note of perfume, a combination of roses and spicy wood that mingled with sweet crispness in her nostrils.
“There seems to be a range of styles,” she remarked, conscious of Morgan’s gaze on her. “Everything from sedate to shocking. What effect are we hoping to achieve?”
“Vivien Duvall in all her glory,” he said.
She looked back over her shoulder at him. “What was I wearing when we first met?”
“A mermaid gown. Green silk with little gauze sleeves.”
Busily she combed through the collection until she found a gown that matched the description. “This one?” she asked, holding it up for his inspection.
He nodded, looking unaccountably grim.
Vivien held the gown up against her front and glanced down at it. The garment was beautifully made, shimmering green with little ruches of white satin at the neckline that reminded her of foam on the waves. A mermaid gown indeed. She had excellent taste in clothes, evidently…and why not? A courtesan’s primary concern would be the art of displaying herself to the best advantage.
“I could wear this one to the ball,” she said. “What do you think? Shall we give it another outing?”
“No.” A shadow flitted across his face, and he regarded the gown with obvious dislike.
