into a trot and reached her side. She had to hold her hood in place as she looked up at him. On that enormous horse, he towered over her.
“How did you get here?”
His cool voice didn’t hold promise. For the last day—even knowing she was being blackmailed—she’d thought of him. Of that kiss.
“A hackney. It’s waiting for me. I came to find you—your butler admitted you were here.”
“If this is about your career—” he broke off. Smiled. “Don’t look so devastated, my dear. I would like to offer you a commission.”
Confused, Venetia asked softly, “For a book of erotica?” Drawing naughty pictures specifically for him? Her every nerve ignited at the thought.
Heat flared in his eyes but he shook his head. “No, for a portrait. A miniature. Of my nephew. He is but two weeks old, and his mother insists he changes with every moment. I wish a keepsake of him as he is now.”
There was no mistaking the tenderness in his voice, the wistful look in his eyes. “You wish me to paint you a portrait of your nephew?”
He was giving her a reason to stay in London. A reason to paint. A career. “But what of your sister’s family? Do they know who I am? The ton do not accept female artists.”
“I believe my sister, Lady Ravenwood, would be willing to give you the opportunity. She is very strident about rescuing women. As you said, if your father gambles again, what will you do?”
Strangely, she was almost happy her father would recover and be able to gamble again. But she was so astonished by the earl’s offer. How could his sister’s family accept her in their home and let her be in the presence of their child, knowing she painted scandalous art?
“Why would you—would they—do this for me knowing what I’ve done?”
“Lady Ravenwood believes you are an innocent woman forced to do what you must to survive.”
In that mad moment, she loved him. It was the kindest thing anyone had done. Noble, wonderful. She couldn’t imagine why he had even spared her another thought. Face aflame, she snapped herself to rights.
“Why would you do this for me?” What did she want him to say? That the kiss had entranced him as much as it had her? That she’d captured his fancy?
“Do you accept?” was all he said.
He was giving her everything she’d dreamed of—freedom, independence, her art, the excitement of London—but she couldn’t accept. Not until she could stop Mrs. Harcourt’s blackmail.
“Well?” he prompted. Her silence had offended.
She swallowed hard. She thought she’d known despair when Rodesson lost everything. But that had been nothing compared to having this presented to her when she must refuse it. “I came here, my lord, to ask you to take me to an orgy.”
The horse shied. She leaped back, almost tripping over her cloak. The beast reared, hooves flailing. Would it throw him? The earl pulled hard on the reins, forcing the horse down. The earth shook beneath her as the huge hooves pounded into the ground. He’d brought the horse down away from her, saving her life. He stroked the horse’s gleaming black neck, steadying the beast with soothing words and sheer dominant will.
With fluid elegance, he dismounted, swinging his long, powerful leg over the horse’s rump. She watched the beautiful play of his muscles beneath his breeches, the bulge of his calves in his polished boots. In a heartbeat, he was at her side, reins in hand.
Other men watched them with avid curiosity but none approached. Who did they think she was? His lover? The thought made her tremble.
Filled with concern, his turquoise eyes assessed her. “Are you hurt?”
She shook her head.
A sensual smile touched his mouth. “I’d give you another kiss to make certain, my dear, but this is not the place.”
Her heart thundered like the horses.
“Now the truth, my dear. Why have you searched me out to invite me to an orgy? I can assure you I have no intention of taking you, but you’ve piqued my curiosity.”
“I must go because you were correct. Someone else knows about me. I’m being blackmailed.”
“By whom?”
“A Mrs. Harcourt,” she whispered, “I must speak to her. Stop her. She is going to a scandalous orgy at Lord Chartrand’s. You are the only gentleman I know—”
“We cannot speak of this here,” he interrupted. “You must come to my home—you know where I live, of course.”
“So what does this Mrs. Harcourt want from you?” Lord Trent asked as he poured brandy into his glass.
Venetia cradled her enormous, delicate brandy balloon between her palms. Her mother had only taken spirits before noon when she mourned her broken heart—in the parlor, with the drapes closed. As Venetia nervously caressed the smooth glass, she realized, with shock, that the Earl of Trent was the only person she could confide her problems to.
At least she’d taken care to hide her face and hair as she’d walked back here. There had been only gentlemen about, no one had spared her a glance.
She took a sip of her drink. The spirit slid down her throat, igniting fire.
“Money,” she said. “Lydia Harcourt is a courtesan. My father was so foolish! She discovered that his hands are crippled and that he can’t paint. She learned about me. I don’t know if he told her everything or if she guessed, but she wants one thousand pounds to keep silent. I haven’t got one thousand pounds!”
She took another gulp of the brandy—it was easier now to take more than a sip. Courage blossomed in her heart.
“Does Rodesson know about this?
“Not until I told him yesterday afternoon.”
“It seems to me it is his dilemma to solve.”
With sarcasm, she said, “He creates the troubles that must be fixed. At first he assured me that her intention was to hurt him, not me. He insisted that she had no intention of revealing what she knew but that we should pay her. He decided to set off last night in her pursuit—or he would have done, but he had a mild attack of his heart.”
The earl’s brows shot up. “He survived, I gather?”
She nodded. “I was summoned by his footman and sent for a physician. The doctor looked dour and serious, and lectured, but he’s confident my father will recover. Still my father is in no condition to go to Mrs. Harcourt and I fear about what will happen to his health if he is trapped in bed and worrying.”
“And what does the orgy have to do with this, love?”
The earl smelled delicious from his ride—of leather from the saddle and his riding boots, heady sandalwood, his perspiration. Even his library was a delight for the senses. The room contained lavish color—rugs of crimson, indigo, ivory; a daybed heaped with silks and pillows of scarlet, sapphire-blue, deep green. Pillows were strewn on the floor, beside low tables, as though he sprawled there to read. Her book was there, on a table inlaid with jade.
“I went to Mrs. Harcourt’s house this morning and learned she has gone to Lord Chartrand’s orgy.”
“You went to her house?” The earl’s brows rose, then he strolled over to his desk. He picked up a card. Presented it to her. “Chartrand’s bacchanalia. Held in the Cottswolds. Near Moreton-in-Marsh.”
Venetia could barely breathe as she stared down at the printed card, tracing the gilt design with her thumb. It was not addressed to him in particular. With this in hand, she could easily attend.
“You aren’t going to attend an orgy.” He plucked the card from her fingers, tossed it back to his desk.