Much Ado About Magic
Patricia Rice

Excerpt

From inside the cover:
      She had never been kissed.
      Startled by the heat and pressure of Trevelyan's mouth, Sinda fell into the pleasure of it without another thought. The odor of ale no longer assaulted her, but the male scent of his skin was new to her, an erotic aroma all its own. His whiskers burned, but his mouth...! The sensation was overpowering, and she jerked her hands free of his grip so she might clutch his arms to steady herself. With his strength to brace her, she could lift herself more fully into his kiss, and she shuddered as his tongue brushed along the seam of her lips.
      Trevelyan wanted more, she could taste it, but she wasn't ready to give up this unique experience yet. She felt his muscles bunch and tighten beneath the expensive fabric of his coat as she pressed closer and offered her mouth more fully. He was trying to be cautious with her, but desire melted them together into a new potion heady with promise.
      He wrapped his arms around her waist and tilted her completely against him. She ached with the need to touch more of him, but she couldn't release his mouth.  She drank in the flavor of her coffee as he nipped small kisses at the corners of her lips, and his embrace tightened.  She stood on tiptoe so they fit perfectly together, and he groaned as her hips pressed into him.
      He removed his mouth, and his dark gaze fastened hungrily on her. "Lucy. . ."
      The world stopped spinning, and she shoved him away.  He didn't know who she was. Panic fluttered in her breast. This had to stop.

London, September, 1755

Lady Lucinda Malcolm Pembroke pulled the hood of her gray mantle around her face and hurried down the nearly empty halls of the art gallery ahead of the morning crowd. She didn't halt until she reached a full-length portrait of a laughing gentleman on a galloping white stallion.

Not precisely a gentleman, she supposed, trying to be honest with herself. Romantic fantasies needn't be gentlemen. Looking up, she fell under the spell of the subject's mysterious dark eyes all over again. It was as if he looked just at her and that they shared a wonderful secret. She'd painted the portrait, so she knew the secret: the dashing gentleman didn't exist anywhere except in her imagination.

But that wasn't how rumor had it.

With a sigh, she admired the gentleman's exotically dark complexion, rakish smile, and unsettling eyes. She loved the contrast between his scarred, piratical features and his elegant clothes. She'd deliberately given him a romantic white stallion and painted the innocent background of a family fair to contrast with his aura of danger. Amazingly, the playful setting seemed to suit him.

The man didn't exist. If he had, she would never have embarrassed herself and the subject by entering the oil in the exhibition. She had even signed the painting with just her initials, to avoid any potential harm, except that there were enough people familiar with her style to set rumor rolling. She would never understand why people saw more in her art than she intended.

She couldn't imagine why the Earl of Lansdowne would want to ruin her triumph and this magnificent painting with his scandalous accusation. If he hadn't suffered an apoplexy immediately after seeing the portrait and making his furious allegations, she would demand an apology. She would never paint a murderer.

The sound of footsteps warned her that the first arrivals at the gallery were approaching the back hall more quickly than she'd expected, probably heading directly for the scandal of the moment rather than examining the better known works in the front hall. She had no intention of making a spectacle of herself by appearing in public with the portrait. Looking around, she located a small niche across the hall where she could sit, unobserved.

Her fingers itched for the sketchbook and pencil in her pocket. She'd like to have a drawing of the exhibition for posterity. After this episode, her father wasn't likely to let her enter another oil, and she couldn't blame him. She'd never meant to achieve notoriety. She'd only wanted others to admire the portrait into which she'd poured her heart and soul.

She peered around the corner of the niche as a tall man strode determinedly in her direction, the skirt of his elegant coat rippling about his legs with the strength of his stride. The coat was tailored to fit shoulders and chest wider than that of most gentlemen. The lapels and cut were of precisely this year's fashion, except that the coat was black. No gentleman wore black in London, not even for mourning. How very odd.

His neckcloth was a pristine white with just the right amount of starch for crispness without an inch of foppery. His breeches were of a tawny silk that matched the elaborate embroidery on the coat's lapels and pockets. His long vest matched his breeches and was embroidered with black in a simplicity that caused her to sigh in admiration. More gentlemen should accent their masculinity in this way instead of dressing as peacocks.

But when he was close enough for her to see his face, she gasped in horror and drew back as far into the niche as she could go.

Crossing his arms over his new, correctly tailored and damned expensive clothes, Sir Trevelyan Rochester studied the ridiculous portrait hanging in the Royal Art gallery for the entire world to see. Fury bubbled at the outrage perpetrated on a perfectly respectable piece of canvas that would have been better used in making sails. He dropped his gaze to the artist's signature, LMP, and his ire flared anew. The coward hid behind initials.

He'd spent twenty years working his way up from impressed sailor to owner of his own ship, and not one man in those twenty years had dared insult him in such a flagrant manner—not and lived to tell about it anyway. He'd defeated bloodthirsty pirates, captured French privateers, gained his own letter of marque from the King of England himself, only to be humiliated by an unknown artist on the other side of the world who could not possibly know more than rumors of his exploits.

Had it not been for his desire for peace and a home of his own rather than preparing for yet another senseless war with France over the colonies, he would never have walked the streets of London again. Had the artist counted on his not returning to England?

He would make the damned man walk the plank at sword point and dispense with the gossip-mongering, scandal- provoking scoundrel as a favor to society. It was the duty of any self-respecting privateer to rid the world of enemies to king and country.

Except he'd resigned his commission and wasn't a privateer any longer, and Mr. LMP had provoked only him and not king or country.

A deep scowl drew his eyebrows together as he studied the details. It was his likeness, all right, unless he had a twin somewhere he didn't know about. Given the propensities of his noble family, that was possible but not likely.

The painting depicted him—Sir Trevelyan Rochester, knighted by His Majesty for action beyond the call of duty—riding a prissy white horse adorned with red ribbons on a beach in the midst of what appeared to be a summer fair. Trev assumed Mr. LMP had intended to poke fun by decking out him, a feared privateer, in macaroni attire of fluffy lace jabot and useless cuffs that spilled lace past his fingers. The artist had given him boots instead of clocked stockings, but the boots were cuffed and shiny and foolish for riding.

The subject of the portrait was defiantly hatless and wigless. A deep blue riband tied his hair back, and one black strand blew loose to fall across his battle-scarred cheek. Trev had to admit the artist had captured his olive complexion and sharp features with painful accuracy. His mother's mixed Jamaican heritage could not be denied. Brushed with tar, his noble grandfather had called his coloring, just before he'd let the Navy take him to do with as they would.

Still, the painting was hopelessly silly. The man in it managed to look romantically dashing despite a touch of savagery behind his flashing dark eyes. Trev didn't mind that so much, but the contrast between the man and the frivolous white horse was laughable.

No wonder people were talking. Still, he did not see what had sent his cousin's widow into such fits when he'd arrived at her door. He'd spent all his adult years on the other side of the world, and she couldn't know him from Adam, but she had barely given him a minute to introduce himself before slamming the door in his face.

It was James, their old butler, who had sneaked out to explain about the portrait all London was talking about. The preposterous painting was so well known that word of it had spread even to the rural village in the south of England where his late cousin's family resided. James hadn't had time to explain why the portrait was so scandalous. Or perhaps he hadn't known.

Trev hated being the center of scandal before he'd even set foot in England. He'd come home hoping to turn his prize money into a respectable merchant fleet so he could live out his remaining years in the peace of England rather than the perpetual warfare over the West Indies. He wanted the solidity of land beneath his feet for a change. He'd foolishly hoped that his wealth would pave his way despite his mixed heritage and the earl's refusal to acknowledge his legitimacy. If he didn't know better, he'd think his grandfather had planned this humiliation.

He studied the portrait, trying to determine why he'd been slandered and shut out before he could do anything to deserve it.

The painting made him look a fop, he supposed, but he hadn't been in England to sit for it. He could see no reason for alarm, except for the smirch on his masculinity. That could cause difficulty in his search for a wife, but he doubted any sensible woman in his presence would question his virility.

He was about to spin around and stalk out when a whisper from the crowd gathering behind him caught his ear. During years of living by his wits, he'd learned to keep his senses tuned to all about him. He eavesdropped unabashedly.

"They say the earl had an apoplexy right on this spot." The whisper was distinctly feminine and horrified.

Trev crossed his arms and pretended to study the portrait.

"It's a Malcolm prediction, of a certainty," another voice said in awe. "See that boat sinking in the corner? It's the viscount's. The red is quite recognizable. They say he's been missing at sea for months."

Trev ground his molars and waited. Malcolm? The M in LMP stood for Malcolm? He would know the full name of the blackguard who'd put his face upon a wall without permission and made him a laughingstock.

"There could be other red yachts," a male voice said scornfully. "But the man certainly looks a pirate. No wonder the earl recognized him."

"But Rochester hasn't been in England since childhood," the first female voice protested. "How could the artist have painted him so accurately that the earl could recognize him, without having seen him?"

"They don't hold fairs on the shore in Sussex," a bored male voice drawled. "It's a hoax."

Trev couldn't agree more. The silly little boat in the painting was hardly noticeable. The grieving widow standing on the rocky shoreline was buried in veils and could be anyone. An artist's ploy, contrasting laughter with grief or some such flummery. His cousin had gone down at sea months ago, so to add his yacht to the background was the artist's deliberate scandal-mongering, not foretelling.

Now he understood why his cousin's widow had slammed the door in his face, though—the portrait showed him laughing as his cousin's yacht sank. He'd have to wring the artist's neck after all. Laurence had been a good, decent man, and his death was no laughing matter.

"The shire held a fair this year," a timid voice countered. "The new Duke of Sommersville sponsored one. That is when the yacht went down."

The crowd murmured more loudly as the conversation picked up in several places at once. "He looks dangerous enough to have murdered his cousin," someone said in response to a comment about his scar.

Trev snorted. No self-respecting murderer would wear that much lace, he wagered. It would get all bloody. Just try using a sword with lace wrapped around the fingers!

"Now that the viscount's gone, if the earl dies, Rochester could claim the title," said a female followed by a horrified, "The man should hang!"

Trev figured neither spectator knew what they were talking about since Laurence had left an infant son as heir and his grandfather had declared him illegitimate. Truth never fazed good gossip, though.

Both comments overrode the more sensible voice that said, "But the man says he just arrived in England, and the viscount died last summer."

"I know Lady Lucinda," a timid female interjected. "She always paints one of her kittens into the landscape. See the orange tabby in the tree? It died of old age in April. That oil was painted last winter, well before the viscount's yacht went down. I saw her working on it."

A gasp of awe escaped the fascinated crowd, and Trev gritted his teeth at this nonsensity.

"If The Prophetess painted it, then it must be true," said another woman. "She painted Pelham in his grave before he died."

"She painted my mother walking across Westminster Bridge before it was finished."

"Lady Roxbury fainted when she saw The Prophetess in the park— painting Roxbury with a woman that wasn't her and children that weren't theirs."

"You know his mistress is bearing his child," someone else murmured.

The whispers grew riper and louder, but Trev disregarded all the gossip except the relevant—a woman artist! Rocked by the enormity of such perfidiousness, he had only one thought in mind—to locate this attention-seeking Prophetess who had painted him as his cousin's murderer and throttle her until she admitted to all London that the painting was a hoax. Furious, he swirled around to cut a path through the crowd.

Confronted with the man in the portrait come to life before their eyes, the crowd recoiled in horror.

Feeling as murderous as they believed him, Trev stalked off without looking right or left.