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right.
    She should have known better. Men thought women good for only a few things, and painting wasn’t one of them.
    “I don’t see how he could have believed I was like that with Cage,” she said aloud to Flory. A horrible thought occurred to her. “Good gracious, might other people think that too?”
    The maid frowned. “I don’t know, ma’am. Your friend Ruth did say once that folks wondered if you and Cage were secretly lovers.”
    “Well she didn’t mean that . She meant that people thought we secretly courted.” People usually meant that when they said “lovers,” after all.
    Again Flory said nothing.
    Genevieve felt sick. What if her father were to hear of this? But she supposed he wouldn’t. He was overseas, and even if he hadn’t been, Mr. Creighton was very clear about wanting to be discreet.
    Genevieve sunk a little lower into the tufted chair and pressed her fingers to her forehead. “How humiliating that I said yes to him. I simply had no idea what he was getting at. How could I have known?”
    He seemed so...perfect.
    But he was far from that. Perfect men didn’t take mistresses.
    She slumped, heavy with dejection. For years, she tried to put the shame of her brief, stupid affair behind her. She’d made painting her only passion, and lived as chastely as a cloistered nun. But it seemed she’d never be seen as anything but a fallen woman.
    “I’m going to write him a letter right now,” she told Flory, “and explain there’s been a misunderstanding.” But the idea of having the matter committed to paper, which might fall into anybody’s hands, disturbed her. “No, I won’t write—I shall just explain everything when he visits next Tuesday night. Won’t he be in for a rude awakening?”
    She stood, tossing her hair back over her shoulder. “What a dreadful business.”
    But a strange thought occurred to her: in a way, this was almost a compliment.
    Mr. Creighton was obviously a rich and—no sense denying it—very handsome man. He could have any beautiful mistress he chose. And he’d wanted her.
    A man seeing her in this light was something of a revelation. She didn’t make a study of attractiveness: as she tried neither to acquire a husband nor to keep one from straying, she’d no need to think about those things. She hadn’t thought of herself in terms of beauty or feminine charm—except as a subject in a painting—for a long time.
    But of course, it was not a compliment. He thought her only worthy of fulfilling his most basic needs.
    So how was it possible that she found the idea tempting? Not even the money mattered, though heaven knew she could use it.
    Mr. Creighton himself was the temptation.
    No one would have to know. And people seemed to already consider her that sort of woman. Her father’s favorite saying came to mind: As well hung for a sheep as for a lamb.
    Out of the question. Inconceivable. Genevieve was not a rich man’s plaything. What was it he said? He only wanted to have a little fun.
    An impression of him, as clear as life, came into her mind again. The dark eyes that spoke of a thousand secrets and even more pleasures. The powerful, elegant body...what did he look like, feel like, under those impeccably tailored clothes? All too easy to imagine his voice, that well-bred baritone, murmuring words for her ears alone.
    She had no doubt that being with him might be a little fun.
    Genevieve shook the wicked thoughts from her brain. The man had confused her, insulted her, addled her wits.
    She said aloud to Flory, “Good gracious. I could never think of doing such a thing!”

 
     
     
     
     
    Chapter Three
     
    “William!” Will’s mother hurried across his drawing room. “Oh, darling, it is so wonderful to see you.” She had to lean forward to hug him, because her green and black taffeta carriage dress had one of those enormous skirts that appeared to have become a fashion requirement.
    Then she stepped back a moment to look him over, and Will