He walked quickly from the building, down the street to where the hackney awaited him. With a quick nod to the driver, he entered the carriage, placed the covered painting on the seat across from him, leaned his head back, closed his eyes, and took a deep breath.
He’d done it. Diana’s reputation had been salvaged. But he had a feeling the torture for him had just begun.
It was a quick ride home and, after paying and dismissing the hackney driver
, he made his way around the back of his house and entered through the servants’ door. He’d dismissed his valet for the night before he’d left, and with the picture fisted in his hands, he hurried up the stairs to his bedchamber.
A low fire burned in the fireplace, keeping the dampness from the room. Hunt carried the painting to the hearth and set it down with the linen still covering it. He removed his clothes while his conscience fought diligently with his lust.
Sadly, his conscience lost.
Slowly he lifted the linen and gazed at the scandalous portrait in much better light than the studio had provided. Since he knew Diana herself had not posed for it in the nude, he convinced himself he wasn’t a voyeur. However, he couldn’t help but wonder how accurate Mallory’s depiction of her body actually was.
She sat on a solid rose-colored lounge with her arm relaxing on the wooden armrest. Her knees were bent and her legs rested on the seat of the lounge. Her head was tilted down and to the side so her visage wasn’t very visible.
Even clothed, the sitting was a bit provocative for a gently-bred young woman. He shook his head. Most likely the influence of her grandmother allowed her to agree to the pose.
Based on her pose, which Diana said Mallory had suggested, Hunt’s suspicions grew that the man had planned to duplicate the portrait from the beginning. He apparently had not counted on her leaving the country and held onto the altered version for a year.
He groaned and flipped the linen back down. He stood and paced the room, talking to himself. He was supposed to burn it. He said he would. However, he consoled himself with the fact that he hadn’t promised.
But did that truly matter? He sat on the edge of his bed and slumped down, his forearms resting on his thighs, his hands dangling between his spread legs.
He was tired. It was late. He would not decide now. This was not the best time to burn it anyway. The smell could possibly awaken the entire household.
Since the painting was covered so his valet wouldn’t see it in the morning, he turned it to face the wall and would leave it there and make a decision after a few hours of sleep. Despite the painting being burned into his brain, he soon fell into a deep sleep.
With very vivid, very erotic dreams.
About Lady Trouble.
* * *
Diana paced her drawing room, wringing her hands and wishing the time would pass faster. Hunt had sent around a note that he would call on her at two o’clock. It was now four minutes to two.
She assumed he had at least gone to Mallory’s gallery to retrieve the painting. Wasn’t that the reason for him visiting?
Her mind flooded with questions. Suppose the portrait wasn’t there? Perhaps he moved it somewhere out of his studio. Or, horrors, maybe he already sold it!
Her heart sped up at the sound of the front door knocker.
She took a deep breath and sat on the settee, her ice-cold hands in her lap as murmurs from Briggs and Hunt reached her ears. Soon footsteps sounded and Diana turned to her chaperone, Mrs. Strickland.
“Will you please go to the kitchen and ask Cook to send tea and leave Lord Huntington and me alone for a few minutes?”
She hurried on when Mrs. Strickland frowned and opened her mouth as if to argue. “You may leave the door open, but there is something we must discuss that is private.”
“I don’t believe that is proper, my lady.”
Diana gritted her teeth. “It is fine. No one will know we are alone for merely the short time it will take you to retire to the kitchen and request tea. I assure you, I will not get into any trouble.”
She swore she heard Mrs. Strickland snort, but ignored it when the woman left just as Hunt entered the room. She really needed to take that woman in hand.
“Well?” She stood, not waiting for the niceties. Her stomach was in knots, and her hands shook.
He stared at her with a strange look on his face. “I recovered the painting.”
She let out a deep breath but stopped and looked at him. “But what? You look odd.”