To Love a Lord by Christi Caldwell Page A

the darkest days, after his brother and sisters had been battered by the birch rod, Gabriel had gleefully plotted all the ways he might kill the bastard. On other days, he’d scheme up ways in which to destroy the marquess’ legacy—having those murals painted over had been one promise he’d made to himself. And yet he’d never gotten around to it.
    Seeing the wide-eyed awe stamped upon the heart-shaped planes of her face, he was glad he did not. For then he’d never have witnessed Jane, riveted in silent wonder. What manner of madness possessed him? He kicked dirt upon his fanciful musings. “Jane,” he greeted with an icy calm.
    She shrieked. Her slippered feet slid out from under her and she flailed her arms.
    Gabriel closed the distance between them in three long strides and slid his arms under her slender frame and caught her. He braced for a stiff, polite “thank you”.
    She blinked up at him. “Hullo,” she said her voice a breathless whisper that carried up to his ears. In the four days he’d known Jane Munroe, he should have learned she never did what was predicted.
    With a forced nonchalance he inclined his head. “Jane.” But then, he made the mistake of looking down and his gaze snagged upon her bow-shaped lips once more. And the sight held him as transfixed as the sight of her moments ago, head tilted back in awe. Gabriel hurriedly set her upright on her feet. He cast a desperate glance about for Chloe.
    “I was admiring your paintings,” Jane continued. Did she know the effect she had on his senses? Where in blazes was his sister? He didn’t need to be alone with Jane Munroe. The unpredictable minx was dangerous to his senses, threatening calm, order, and logic. The folly of agreeing to this outing reared its head with a renewed vigor. “It is lovely.”
    You’ll know the goddamn difference between a painting and a mural… “Mural.” The black memory long buried slipped in as they occasionally did at the most random moments.
    Jane looked to him perplexed. Some of the light dimmed in her eyes. He balled his hands. She thought he corrected her. Gabriel gestured to the ceiling. “My father,” he squared his jaw, those two words like vitriol upon his tongue. “Took great pleasure in instructing me as to the difference.”
    She eyed him a moment. He wagered the lady’s curiosity warred with pride. In the end, her need to know won out. “What is the difference?”
    No different than that moth lured by flame, he shifted closer, so close she was forced to tip her head back to meet his stare. Honey and lavender filled his senses until he was nearly drunk on the fragrance of summer and innocence. Ah, God help him. What hold did she have over him? Why, he didn’t even like her. She was mouthy and insolent and defied his orders. And… Gabriel pointed up at the emerald green pastures captured by the artist. “You see, the architectural elements are harmoniously incorporated into the work.” Jane craned her neck once more and followed his point, skyward. By the parting of her lips and the softening of her eyes, it was as though she were seeing the angelic tableau painted upon the ceiling for the first time.
    In the honesty of her reaction, there was an innocence, a softness, he’d not imagined her capable of. A golden strand pulled free of her tight chignon and involuntarily he reached to brush it back, when her words froze him.
    “It reminds me of my childhood.” It also harkened him back to the days of his own youth.
    He let his hand fall to his side. There was a wistful, far-off quality to her words that gave him pause. A hint of sadness, nostalgia, but also the faintest trace of happiness. What was Jane’s story? “Does it?” His quiet question called her attention from the mural.
    Color bloomed on her cheeks. Was it her body’s awareness of him? Embarrassment to be caught not once, but now twice awestruck over the pastel oils upon the ceiling? Unable to resist the lure, he captured