Dangerous Loves Romantic Suspense Collection Read Online Free Page B

model. A paragon. Henrietta never hesitated to scold me till I feared my ears would bleed should I dare step over the line of propriety. Even when my father was willing to look the other way, my sister wouldn’t.”
    Baneshire closed his eyes and moaned.
    “For you to stand here and lie to me without a shiver of remorse, it chills my blood. It’s impossible for me to believe that you wouldn’t know the man’s name. He wouldn’t have been able to paint such a painting unless you’d willingly posed for him…like a bloody whore. Damnation, I can’t abide to be in the same room with you.”
    He marched toward the door and stopped just before his hand touched the knob, his shoulders cinching with tension. “Your husband,” he whispered. “Were the rumors about his perversions true?”
    “No,” she said. Not precisely a lie. Her husband’s rages were sadistic, much worse than what any of the gossipy members of the ton could ever imagine.
    “Then why, Elsbeth? Why did you do this?”
    To that she had no answer her uncle would be willing to believe. She had lied too well for too long to expect him to believe the truth now.
    * * * *
    Dionysus lit a solitary candle before turning the brass key in the cellar door’s heavy lock. He used his shoulder to jar the swollen door from the rotting jam and then raised the candle, shedding a flickering light into the cavernous space. Not enough light for someone unfamiliar with the uneven stairway. Yet he knew each stone step well. With a quick stride he nearly flew down the last steps. He’d come, not to paint, but to gaze on his latest work—his obsession—his madness.
    Her smiling lips, her haunting eyes, her golden hair were forever imprinted in his mind. Those delicate features, perfection in the form of womanhood.
    And still he didn’t know her name.
    She was the Earl of Baneshire’s niece. But Baneshire came from a rather large family, and so did his wife. She could be the daughter of any number of the respected families populating the ton .
    She’d been married and must have loved her husband dearly. The pain shadowed in those eyes could only be borne from great suffering. Terrible sadness.
    Dionysus knew such pain. If only she could peer into his eyes, she’d recognize a fellow, suffering creature. And perhaps, her soft, upstanding gaze could heal.
    He closed his eyes and drew a deep breath. The lovely image of her—the one he called Perfection—swirled into view.
    A flash of a memory.
    Nearly a decade ago he was a young man just completing his studies at Oxford, tall and lanky, still shy and uncertain of his own power. When the weather was pleasant, he would escape Merton College just as the sun rose and hide among the trees near the Iffley water mill, trying to capture in oil and canvas the elusive slant of light of the sun’s golden rays as they skidded off the mill pond’s glassy surface. With the wooded hills and lush pastures forming a gentle bucolic backdrop, he once believed he’d never find another subject that could keep his artistic attentions so enthralled.
    But that was before she walked into the scene.
    A young woman still dressed for the schoolroom, she’d gathered her wide skirts into her hands and dashed across the grassy field. Two matrons, one clearly a lady aunt or mother, chased after the child. The girl’s golden locks tumbled free from the pins and flowed freely in the gentle breeze.
    His breath caught in his throat. It took no great feat of artistic talent to recognize the budding woman, hovering oh so near to sweet ripeness, in the schoolgirl. Given a year or two, she would be married.
    He gulped at the thought and swung away with those uncomfortably long arms of his and crashed into his easel. His paints and brushes scattered onto the dew-moistened grass.
    “Damn and blast,” he muttered as he dipped to his knees and started gathering up his mess, all the while praying the women wouldn’t spot him, praying that if they did, they