The Theft (Thornton 2)

If Baricci were guilty, she reminded herself. Thus far, she had only Ashford's palpable distrust and her overactive imagination to condemn the man. That was far from enough to sentence him to Newgate.

But Ashford Thornton didn't strike her as a man whose instincts often failed him. In fact, she wondered if they failed him at all.

Just thinking about Ashford made Noelle's stomach knot and her mouth go dry.

Never had she felt such an immediate, overwhelming attraction to a man—an attraction that far transcended the physical and that had intensified rather than lessened as their hours together lingered on. And never had she so badly wanted to defy her father as she had when he refused to let Ashford call on her. Why on earth couldn't her coming-out be preceded by a few harmless visits? Why did she have to wait two long months to see Ashford again, to revel in his company, and to blurt out all her questions about Baricci?

The very thought of what she was missing—excitement in two equally enthralling realms—made her mind shout a protest.

Writing that wretched note refusing Ashford's visits had been sheer torture, when all she'd wanted to do was remind him how much she looked forward to receiving him, and how eager she was to further their acquaintance.

Still, her father had been adamant, something he seldom was with her. And that was without knowing anything other than her personal interest in Ashford. If he knew the rest—her curiosity over Baricci's activities… The prospect made Noelle shudder. As it was, he was impossible to convince. He wanted her properly brought out, suitably introduced to society, and carefully presented to an appropriate number of gentlemen who, if her father had his way, would boast far less celebrated reputations than did the Earl of Tremlett.

God, she hoped Ashford found a way to sway his feelings. Debut be damned. No number of lavish balls or attentive partners could be more enticing than spending another day in Ashford Thornton's company—even if it meant cutting through a long line of simpering females to do so.

A smug smile curved Noelle's lips as she pondered the earl's reputation. Even if he were every bit as popular as her father implied, it didn't deter her a whit. To the contrary, it piqued her interest all the more. She was acquainted with more than enough women to know she was quite different. They were, by and large, coy, flirtatious, careful with their words, demur in their manner.

Heaven only knew that didn't describe her. Nor, she suspected, did it describe the kind of women who would intrigue Lord Tremlett—at least not in any meaningful way. He was far too complex, too intelligent, too fascinated by a challenge. No, the woman who eventually won Ashford Thornton's elusive heart would have to be as strong-willed and dynamic as he, someone whose bold daring matched his own, whose principles and ethics were as deeply ingrained, whose character was as unconventional…

Noelle's daydreams were interrupted by a rush of activity at the sitting-room door.

"There's a gentleman here to see you!" Chloe burst in, her cheeks suffused with color.

"A gentleman?" Noelle jumped to her feet, smoothing down the skirts of her gown, trying to hear over the pounding of her heart. "Is he tall? Dark? Broad-shouldered? With mesmerizing eyes and a kind of leashed power?"

"It's not Lord Tremlett," Chloe replied with a grin. "I would have told you immediately if it were."

"Are you sure?"

"Noelle, you've described the man to me six times since yesterday. Yes, I'm sure." Chloe rubbed her palms together in excitement. "But this gentleman is sinfully handsome. And he's French. You should hear the way he pronounces your name; it rolls off his tongue as if he's savoring it."

Laughter bubbled up in Noelle's throat. "Chloe, you're such a romantic. I hate to disappoint you, but I don't know any such gentleman. Did you happen to hear his name?"

"André Sardo."

"The name is totally unfamiliar. Are you sure he's here to see me and not Papa?"

"Positive. Didn't you hear what I said? He specifically mentioned you when he announced himself to Bladewell." Chloe sighed. "Our butler, of course, was not nearly as impressed as I. He immediately went and summoned Papa."

"And?"

"Papa is speaking with Mister—pardon me, Monsieur Sardo—right now."

As if on cue, footsteps resounded from down the hall, drawing closer until Eric Bromleigh appeared in the sitting-room doorway. His brooding stare shifted from Chloe to Noelle. "I suspect you already know you have a visitor."

Her father's taut stance and distressed tone weren't lost on Noelle. She inclined her head, studying him quizzically. "Papa, what's wrong? Who is this André Sardo?"

"An artist." Her father didn't mince words. "Evident

ly he was commissioned to paint your portrait."

"Commissioned? By whom?"

"Franco Baricci."

Noelle sucked in her breath. "Baricci? But, I don't understand…" Her voice trailed off, realization dawning even as she spoke.

"I see you're beginning to put together the pieces. You told me that Baricci wanted to forge a relationship with you. Apparently this is his way of doing so."