A Groom of Her Own (Scandalous Affairs Book 1) Read online

  “The latter,” he said flatly and with such a rapidity that Claire gritted her teeth.

  This was a mistake. She’d known it the moment the idea had come to her that it was a terrible one. They despised each other with a like intensity. They didn’t get along. They didn’t understand one another’s humor. Though, in actuality, he didn’t have a sense of humor. Not in any sense. But he was best of friends with Poppy. And as such, there had to be something redeeming about him. From what Claire had worked out, that one thing was his artistic ability. And that was the only reason she was here. She had witnessed Poppy’s growth as an artist under his tutelage. For that, Claire could swallow her pride.

  Getting back to the entire reason she had come in search of him, she made herself smile, keeping the expression in place even as he gave no outward reaction to her attempt at a truce.

  “The reason I’ve been searching you out is because, since the last time you examined my work, I feel there’s been growth in it.” Reaching into the bag on her shoulder, Claire withdrew her sketch pad and held it out. “And I thought you might welcome the opportunity of working with me.” This time.

  “No.”

  She frowned. That was it? No? When it became clear that he had no intention of taking the book from her hand, she fumbled with her bag, shoving it back into place on her shoulder as she turned her sketch pad around so that the pages faced him. “I’m sure if you see—”

  “Don’t need to see it, Your Majesty. I bet this time you got some dogs on those pages. Maybe Poppy’s?”

  That was neither, here, nor…

  “A sunset, maybe over that place you people call a park.”

  Hyde Park. Yes, well—

  Her cheeks warmed once more as she drew the sketch pad slowly back toward her chest and hugged the beloved book.

  Caleb smirked. “So I’m right, then.”

  “I didn’t say that,” she said through her teeth.

  He reached for her sketch pad and waggled his paint-stained, coarse, and callus fingertips. “Well?”

  Claire held it all the tighter and edged away from him, her back colliding with the wall and her shoulder brushing the frame of that fiery rendering he’d created.

  He laughed, and the speed with which he let his arms fall to his sides confirmed that he never really had any intentions of looking at her sketch pad. He’d merely been toying with her. Taunting her.

  That should have been reason enough to justify not saying one more word to this man and marching out with the little pride she had left. “I can pay you.” She didn’t have much. Following her family’s fall from grace, and their loss of fortune, she had even less. What she did have, she could offer him. “Twenty pounds.”

  He snorted.

  “It’s all I have.” Even as she said it, her toes curled sharply into the arches of her feet.

  “I’m not looking to clean a lady out of her money. Even if you had twenty thousand pounds, it wouldn’t be enough for me to give you lessons. Don’t worry, Majesty.” Caleb cuffed her lightly under the chin, the way he might a favored sister, dulling the sting… somewhat. Oddly, that familiar gesture grated for reasons she’d no wish to explore. “It’s not just you,” he said. “I don’t give lessons.”

  Except, that wasn’t true. He’d taught Poppy.

  “Poppy had a natural talent,” he said, matter-of-fact once more and following the path of her thoughts with frustrating accuracy.

  Unlike Claire. His meaning couldn’t have been clearer had he spoken it aloud.

  “Why are you so rude?” To me.

  “You’re confusing directness with rudeness, sweetheart,” he said bluntly. “I found out some time ago, you’ve got nothing I want to see.”

  And hateful. He was that, too. She’d be damned, however, if she let him land a blow with that. “Oh, please,” she scoffed. “You decided before you even looked at my work today that you’d not work with me,” she said, jutting her chin up and meeting his gaze as best as she was able at her seven inches past five feet.

  “I already told you, I don’t waste my time with anything but truths.” He gave her a once-over, swiping a more than condescending gaze up and down her person. “And you don’t want that. That’s the other reason I won’t have anything to do with you.” With that, he started for the back door he’d entered through.

  He thought he knew her so well? She stormed over and placed herself in front of him so that their toes touched. “Don’t presume to tell me what I want. I didn’t come to you for false platitudes or to be patted on the head for mediocre work.” She genuinely wanted to learn. Just as she had since Poppy had moved in, and she’d witnessed her sister-in-law’s great talents.

  Caleb narrowed his eyes on her. “You want the truth?”

  Claire was already nodding at him. “I do.”

  “All right. You’ve got no promise because you have no creativity and because you don’t sketch with emotion. I can’t help you because you can’t even help yourself. Everything you create is on the surface level because there’s not much more to you than that. You can’t even look deep because you are incapable of it,” he said.

  The usual condescension was not layered within his words. This time, the absolute absence of mockery and meanness made what he said all the worse.

  Claire inhaled slowly and deeply. “I… see.”

  She wasn’t going to cry. She wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction. Not even after that impressively brutal, vicious, and—worse—accurate takedown of her. And yet, her lower lip trembled, and she bit it hard enough so that the pain dulled the pain he’d inflicted.

  “Well, then, I shan’t take up more of your time, Mr. Gray.” All the while, Claire struggled to get her sketch pad back into her bag. The book, however, proved uncooperative, continuing to snag on the edges of the sack that she used as an improvised art bag.

  “You’re going to cry,” he said flatly, and a real gentleman would have sounded remorseful. Perhaps regretful. Caleb Gray? He was incapable of any such sentiments.

  “I’m not,” she said, and damn if a single drop didn’t wind up halfway down her cheek, making an absolute liar of her. Claire shrugged, wiping away as discreetly as she was able the evidence of her tears.

  “Like I said, not only do you dislike people speaking the truth, you aren’t capable of giving it either. You’re clearly crying,” he called over to her.

  Claire snapped. “Yes,” she hissed. “I am crying. There. Are you happy? Is that what you want me to admit? Do you have a desire to shred all of my pride?”

  “Artists don’t have pride. Consider that your first, last, and only lesson for me. Maybe if you actually listen to it, you can do something with it and make something out of your work.” With that, he started off once more.

  Good. Let him go. She’d been foolish. Foolish to come here. Foolish enough to work these past months, attempting to elevate her craft so that she might garner enough of his approval to merit his taking her on, as he had Poppy. “You’re a hypocrite,” she shouted when he disappeared behind that door without another look.

  After several beats of silence, the panel opened once more, and he stepped out. His dark eyebrows crept up a fraction. “Me?”

  “You,” she shot back, reveling in his tangible outrage. Good. Mr. I Only Like The Truth And Won’t Tolerate Anything Less should be offended. “You talk about appreciating honesty, and you give critique freely. But the moment someone questions your masterpieces, your back goes up.”

  His hard lips formed another of his customary smirks. “Questions my masterpieces? Well, if that doesn’t sound contradictory, Your Majesty.”

  She scoffed, “And the ego on you. You well know everybody admires your work. The minute I pointed out the very gloominess of this exhibit, you become defensive. You like to critique other people, but you don’t”—her words and voice faltered as he started back toward her—“a-accept any of that criticism for yourself.”

  The moment he reached her side, he stu
ck his face close to hers, and the tips of their noses touched. “Now tell me this, if you think I’m in need of a critique, why should you come to me?”

  “Just because you create twelve masterpieces doesn’t mean all your work is flawless, undeserving of criticism.” Her chest heaved. And she despised the threadbare quality to her rebuttal.

  His harsh gaze fell to her mouth, and she found herself staring with a like raptness at his handsome lips, when she hadn’t known lips could be handsome. His were. Masculine and hard, and…

  They curled up like sin in a smile, before coming down hard on hers.

  Claire froze. She’d never been kissed… That was, before now. And now, she found herself kissed by the unlikeliest of men.

  As he slanted his mouth over hers, there was nothing hard about lips that were usually curled in a taunt. There wasn’t any mockery in this, the most primal of kisses. Or insult. There wasn’t a hint of the fact he didn’t like her. Nay, just the opposite. He kissed her like he was a man hungry, and she the only meal he wanted, and she wanted to taste of him in that same way. Her bag slipped from fingers, and she raised her hands, curling them in the harsh fabric of his cotton shirt. Under her palms, she felt only heat and muscle and raw vitality that sent an unfamiliar and new stabbing between her legs. A sensation that bordered on bliss and pain and robbed her of the simple-until-now ability to stand. Her legs weakened under her.

  But Caleb caught her.

  “Open for me,” he ordered, kissing the side of her mouth, and she let her lips part in a happy acquiescence.

  He thrust his tongue inside.

  They danced with danger, with the risk of anyone walking by that window and seeing them as they were. In the throes of passion. The possibility should have sobered her. It certainly should have stopped her. It should not, however, have been responsible for adding to the dampness between her legs.

  She whimpered, overwhelmed by every glide of that hot flesh against her own. Claire undulated and twisted, wanting to wrap her arms about him. To hold him. To feel the bulges of his biceps. To trail her fingers over the ridges of his triceps. And in this, he taunted her in a different way, mercilessly withholding from her the ability to feel him in all the ways she wanted to. Hungered to.

  Claire let her head fall back against the wall and surrendered her mouth to his mastery in conquering.

  He tasted of sin and wickedness, and she was lost, wrapped in that heady web of desire he now wove. And she found herself relying on a man who hated her to soothe whatever ache this was.

  Of their own volition, her hips begin to move. Through it, there were no words exchanged. Just raspy, little grunts and moans between them that caused a greater, keening ache between her legs.

  And then, as quick as the inferno had been set ablaze, it ended.

  He released her arms, and her lifeless limbs collapsed to her sides, her entire body sagging as he removed his mouth from hers. He placed it close to her temple. His breath, hot and tinged with coffee, stirred the damp tendrils that had tugged free of her chignon.

  “Paint your passion, Your Majesty.”

  It took a moment to register over the pounding of her heart the hoarse words whispered against her ear.

  Paint… your passion?

  “Release me.” She gritted the command, which emerged with no impressive hint of strength behind it.

  He gestured with his arms, indicating that she was already free, that he no longer held her.

  Claire gave him her back, and with shaking hands, she attempted to set to rights the curls that had come loose of her hair combs.

  What had she done? What had they done? Why, they didn’t even like each other. As was evidenced by his coolly derisive words following their embrace. It had been a lesson. Well, it would be one that she remembered. If she could get the haze out of her head.

  Alas, she had been spun around. Her head clouded. She stood there, dazed and befuddled, from the aftereffects of his kiss.

  He pointed to the door. “That way.”

  “You smug, overbearing, boorish, insolent, repulsive—”

  “Wasn’t so repulsive when you were kissing me.”

  “—monster,” she continued over his mocking interruption and grabbing up her bag, she marched headlong for the doorway. She ground her feet to a halt. And squeezing her eyes shut, she let her mouth move in a silent curse before making herself turn once more. “I don’t suppose you’d sell the dreary fiery one.” Only complete love and loyalty to Faye brought her to ask that question.

  “Nope.”

  “That’s not even a word,” Claire muttered as she headed for the door, and this time, she didn’t stop, but pressed the handle and let herself quickly out.

  His laughter followed her.

  She firmed her jaw. She’d swallowed her pride enough where Caleb Gray was concerned.

  This would be the last she ever sought him out for anything.

  Ever.

  Chapter 2

  God, he’d thought he was done with Claire Poplar.

  She was relentless, ruthless, singularly focused on attaining that which she wanted at all costs, so he’d known from the start just one thing—a person best be wary about her.

  No, it hadn’t really been from the start. Upon their first meeting, he’d been more bemused by her than anything else. With a resilience and determination he’d not seen from a man in either the British, French, or American Navy, she’d doggedly petitioned him for lessons. She’d entered Lady Bolingbroke’s art room and asked him for art lessons on behalf of her and her sisters, with such a confidence and determination he’d been hard-pressed to reject her. In fact, the only reason he had—aside from the fact that he despised instructing art students—was because he’d been committed to Lady Bolingbroke’s lessons.

  All possibility of helping Claire Poplar with her craft had faded the moment she’d questioned his motives toward her sister-in-law and interfered in them, as well.

  Just then, as he shoved the door open into the back room of the museum, he found his only other friend already organizing the materials to pack up the canvases.

  “You know, you can’t really afford to throw out all opportunities to make money,” fellow American and assistant Wade Harrison drawled as Caleb entered the workspace.

  “You heard that?”

  “You throwing away the sale of a painting?” Wade snorted. “Yeah, I heard that.”

  So Wade hadn’t heard what transpired just before that.

  The other man looked up from his task and smiled. “I heard that… and more.”

  Caleb felt his neck burn hot. “Get finished on the damned packing,” he muttered, heading back for the door to begin taking down his paintings. “Or should I say start?”

  “You can say whatever you want,” Wade called after him. “When I tried to start, you seemed otherwise engaged with your guest.”

  Caleb didn’t take the bait. It would take more to rile him than mention of Claire Poplar. Even if she could kiss impressively enough to make a man forget that she was… Well, who she was. The almost-friendship they’d enjoyed at first meeting had proven short-lived. They’d always butted heads, of course. Caleb, however, had been almost able to completely forget the way she’d all but ordered him, with an arrogant smile, to look at her work. As if it was her due. No, when she’d less than subtly inquired about his relationship with her sister-in-law… that had been a line too far.

  After that, he’d not held back; he took great relish in needling the lady. No, Caleb didn’t find himself blameless for their coming to heads at every meeting. In fact, it wasn’t even that he didn’t enjoy being with her. That was the whole befuddling thing of it all. He found a good time in baiting her. And now, it would seem, kissing her, too. The last thing he needed, however, in his life was a proper English lady with a heightened sense of privilege and entitlement.

  Caleb reached the framed painting he’d had her pinned beside. The same one she’d offered to purchase… and he froze, his
eyes locked on the scene of destruction and despair. He’d painted this one so many times. Over and over. The crimson was never quite red enough. The waves not quite turbulent enough. It was a scene so real still and so vivid in his mind, and yet, he couldn’t bring himself to ever accurately re-create the moment that had seen him captured, torn from his brothers-in-arms, and, for two years, ripped from his family. And… the woman who’d loved him.

  “You should’ve sold it to her,” Wade said from behind him, startling Caleb from the unwanted memories. “The painting,” his friend clarified as he moved to take another one of the frames down. “You don’t even like that one.”

  Caleb grunted. “I like her even less.” That hadn’t always been the case.

  “Yeah, well, you know what both of us don’t like?” the other man shot back, easily hefting the painting from the wall. “Empty bellies. And that’s what you’re going to get both of us if you don’t swallow your pride and do something to make yourself the money you can.” With the painting in hand, Wade headed back toward the workroom.

  Actually, Caleb was well aware of that. He knew how fast his earnings were dwindling. After all, a man couldn’t simply travel and create without taking on some work to sustain those passions. And yet… “I get to say no and yes to whatever I want.” And as miserable as he was suffering through exhibits with patrons… “I don’t do students.” And certainly not self-entitled, self-absorbed, self-centered English misses.

  Wade sighed. “All right, well, it’s that time again.”

  He blanched. “It was just that time two weeks ago.”

  “It’s actually been three months since we last had the finance talk.”

  The finance talk meant it was that time when he relied on Wade to sort out just what obligations Caleb had to agree to in order to fund his ability to craft and create.

  Fuck.

  “Now, if you were interested in taking on students,” the other man began as Caleb carefully filed his masterpiece, as Claire had called it, into a crate.