by Dayna Quince
Georgie met her gaze in the mirror, skeptical as usual. “Those things could happen for you but not me. The truth is… It is likely I won’t ever marry. I’m too unconventional. I’m not like you and the others. I’ve had to be the brother and the father in the family and take on those duties. Most men won’t see past that.”
“You never know, Georgie.” Jeanie tried to reassure her, but what she needed was reassurance. The one man here who dazzled her had already shot her down. London seemed more of a fanciful dream than ever before.
“Go back downstairs. I’m going to bed.” Georgie stood and began to undress.
Jeanie pushed to her feet. “I wish you would try a bit harder.”
I wish I could try a bit harder too. But I don’t know how.
“A bird cannot try to be a butterfly.”
Jeanie snorted. “We are the same species, Georgie. Don’t overcomplicate things just because you’re afraid. I’m scared too,” she confessed. “I don’t know what these gentlemen see when they look at me. A plain girl, a poor country mouse, a social climber.”
“We are not social climbers,” Georgie retorted.
Jeanie twisted her lips. Is that what Luckfeld meant by saying he would marry an heiress? Was it not about money at all but instead about marrying someone of equal standing?
“But I try anyway,” she said. Because somehow, a little spark of hope still lived in her. She was not ready to quit dreaming. “I will smile and dance and laugh because one day the man who is meant to be my husband will see me and ignore all those other things.”
If I put myself in front of him, he can’t ignore me. And maybe he will change his mind.
“Keep trying, Jeanie,” Georgie said as if she’d heard her thoughts. “Go downstairs and show those men the lovely, sweet woman you are. They all would be lucky to have you.”
Jeanie exhaled. She felt like she was about to leap from a great distance and wasn’t sure she would make it. She hugged Georgie, hoping a bit of her bravery might rub off on her and then she left.
Entering the hall, she turned toward the main stairs to head back to the drawing room but paused. She had an indescribable urge to check the tower as if he might be there. She hurried in the opposite direction, reaching the steps of the tower and halting to catch her breath. It was dark. There was no sign of anyone near or in the tower.
Her heart pounding, she climbed the steps, but when she reached the top, the door was closed and no light shined from under it. Everything told her that he would not be there on the other side but she opened the door anyway. Her heart in her throat, she expected to see an empty room, all trace of him, of their argument, and their kiss gone—not that there had been physical traces of that. She sighed with relief. The chaise, the stool, candelabra… It was all there. Even the trunk.
She dare not step near it this time. Anything more she wanted to discover would come directly from him.
Hope bubbled inside her once again.
It wasn’t too late to rekindle the magic of what she felt before. Though she didn’t know how she would get closer to him, she was determined to do it. She was going to be brave, to be like the woman in those pictures. He said that was his fantasy. Well, she was going to make it real, so real he’d have no choice but to fall in love with her.
Chapter 12
The following day, Luc entered the drawing room and froze.
He could smell the charcoal instantly, and on a table in the center of the room, a small round table bore the weight of a stack of sketchbooks and a cup of pencils.
He blinked, his eyes gritty after a night of fruitless sleep and too much whisky. He’d skipped breakfast for a cold bath and coffee in his room to sober himself up, but now he’d wished he claimed an illness.
His fingers twitched to reach for a pencil. He hadn’t touched his own since yesterday afternoon, which wouldn’t bother anyone else, but he’d come to realize he kept a paper and pencil at hand at all times: in his room, in his carriage, in the front parlor, or at Luckfeld terrace, hidden in a table drawer but close at hand from his favorite chair, and in his study. He had those supplies at the ready for whenever the mood struck him.
But he hadn’t realized how strange that was until now or just how blind he’d become to his own habit.
He’d also never drawn in front of anyone, not his brother and sister, not even his old trusted valet. He snapped his gaze away from the pile and went to grab a drink, a cold sweat breaking out on the back of his neck.
While he poured a large draught from the decanter, ignoring Selhorst’s raised brow of judgment, Lady Selbourne entered and announced the reason for the table of supplies.
“Whether you consider yourself a terrible artist—”
Luc nearly choked when she said the word artist, as if she’d said the most lewd word in the English language here in a room of mixed company, rakehells, and innocent women. Yet no one reacted.
He forced his muscles to swallow, his eyes watering and his throat burning.
“This little excursion is more about enjoying nature. We haven’t a supreme garden like Kirkland Manor has next door, but I thought it would be just as lovely to venture to the forest and enjoy the uninterrupted beauty of Northumberland. The gentlemen may ride, but we’ll also make use of the carriage and carts. We’ll leave in a quarter hour if you’d like to change your attire.”
There was a flurry of excitement as guests strolled around the table, collecting books and pencils. Luc tuned his back to it and stared at the engraving on the mantle until his vision blurred.
“You’re looking rather dog-eared,” Selhorst nudged him. He had a sketchbook in hand and flipped the pages, the scent rising to Luc’s nose and stirring him. He closed his eyes.
“I drank too much last evening,” he said. It wasn’t a lie. He couldn’t bring himself to enter the tower where he’d kissed Jeanette again and ruined any chance of finishing her portrait. The wound was raw. It didn’t need salting.
So instead he drank. And he drank until he couldn’t tell his feet from his boots and fell into his bed still dressed, only to be tortured all night with chaotic dreams of her.
“You could be falling ill, like Roderick.”
Luc gulped. “I think this is a different illness.”
Selhorst leaned closer. “The poison of lust, is it? Here? Are you mad? Or have you fallen into the parson’s mouse trap? I haven’t seen you use your usual tricks on anyone here.”
“Bite your tongue,” Luc growled.
“Here.” Selhorst pushed a sketchbook at Luc’s chest. “Draw sticks if need be, but do come out with us and lie in the sun and fresh air. It will do you good.”
Selhorst sauntered away and Luc looked after him with a snarl, but then Jeanette entered his field of vision and all he saw was her. She held a book against her breast and chewed her lip as she met his gaze, a gentle blush filling her cheeks and turning her skin from cream to roses and milk. Suddenly he clung to his own book, his breathing tight.
She approached him slowly.
“Good morning, my lord.”
His throat worked. “Good morning, Miss Jeanette.”
She swallowed, clearly nervous. “Will you…draw me today?” She tucked a curl behind her ear. “In an appropriate fashion, of course,” she whispered, her lips hinting at a smile.
He wanted to drop to his knees and hug her skirts. He banked his relief to savor in private and schooled his expression to something less resembling a lunatic. What was the meaning of this about face? He knew he should question his good fortune, but he was so exhausted he chose not to. He could worry about it tomorrow.
For today, he’d get to draw her in person. Was this a trap? He was too tired to care at the moment.
Hallelujah.
“I’d be honored.” He presented his arm, praying his hand wouldn’t shake. She accepted it and they joined the others.
Luc couldn’t find his usual charm, lost as he was in a wild swing between sheer joy and panic. So he rem
ained silent, as did she, while the rest of their party gathered their items, and the group piled into carriages and carts for their sketching excursion.
If he wasn’t acting like himself, no one made a comment.
He’d chosen the cart, handing Miss Jeanette up to sit on the bench and sitting beside her. The sun did do him some good. The crisp wind soothed his roiling stomach, and the sun warmed him with its rays.
Their legs bumped and she did not draw away. The barest touch sent his head reeling, hot desire flooding his veins. He tempted fate, resting his arm along the wood siding of the cart, and though she sat straight, not resting against it, it was almost an embrace. He wasn’t going to move his arm. Lightning could strike him. Her sisters and the other gentlemen, Selhorst, and Densmore, filled the air with conversation. But Luc was content with silence, and it seemed so was she. His body did enough communicating of its own with hers so close.
With the position of her bonnet, he could only see the bottom half of her face, the curve of her cheek still shaded with pink, and the corner of her mouth as she smiled at the commentary of the other passengers.
Luc tipped his face up to the sun and closed his eyes, inhaling deeply. The sun and scents of the outdoors filled his head, but there was something sweeter there too. He suspected it was her perfume or soap. He wanted to bury his face in her hair and breathe deep.
The rays of the sun penetrated his walls, banishing the last of his dark mood from the day before. He still felt the lingering malaise from his heavy drinking, but he felt better, lighter.
“Was I right?” Selhorst asked.
Luc opened his eyes and nodded. “My thanks,” he replied.
Selhorst shrugged. “Happy to help.”
“Help with what?” Miss Josette asked. She sat between Selhorst and Densmore, a book in her lap.
“I told him the sun would improve his mood.”
“What is wrong with your mood?”
Luc bit back a weary smile. “Nothing now.”
“But there was something,” Josie pushed.
“Josie, don’t be a pest,” Jeanie scolded.
Josie opened her book and held it to her face. Luc chuckled. He saw Selhorst lean close to Josie and whisper something in her ear.
Luc glanced away, locking gazes with Jeanette. Had she been watching them too? Or just him? He hoped just him. He was selfish like that.
He didn’t pull his gaze away, which would be the polite thing to do. He studied her face, drinking in her colors, her textures. He was starved for her, he realized, and now that she knew what he was, what he’d been doing with her likeness, he didn’t have the burden of hiding it, not from her.
She’d asked him to draw her.
Giddiness filled him. He’d never felt like this before, like he could be himself.
She studied him too, her gaze moving over his face, a ghost of a touch that explored him. He let her study him and didn’t try to mask anything in his eyes, in his expression. He was open to her, should she care to look inside him.
But not too deep. There were things she would not like.
But for today, with the sun shining and the breeze ruffling the edge of her pink bonnet, she was his, and he would draw her face to face.
All he needed was an area away from the others. Private but not so private as to compromise her. Where they could be seen and not heard, and no one would have a chance to look over his shoulder and see he was not a novice, only drawing for pleasure.
He was an artist. And today, he didn’t have to be ashamed of that because she’d asked him to draw her.
He still couldn’t believe it.
She may as well have asked him to make love to her. He was that excited.
Every beat of his heart, the heavy pulse of his blood, was new and vigorous. His excitement heightened as the cart pulled off the main rode and followed a rutted path into the hills, the brush growing thick with trees filling in more land than grass. The air grew warmer, away from the coast and nestled between hills. The cart pulled alongside a meadow, sheltered from the sea breeze by a wall of trees.
The guests climbed down from the cart, Luc helping her down. He had to remind himself to let go of her hand.
Did she know what she was getting into? He had to rein in his fervor. He wanted to tug her into the secluded forest and find a soft bit of grass to lay her down—no, that’s not what he was here to do. He needed a somewhat secluded spot, but he also needed light and perhaps some wildflowers to chain together to make a crown for her to wear.
The duchess descended from the coach and they gathered around her.
“Feel free to disperse. We’ll set up a picnic in the meadow here in say…” She looked to Weirick. “An hour and a half?” she asked him.
He shrugged. “Sounds fine to me.”
“Good. Everyone enjoy yourselves but behave,” she warned.
Luc presented his arm, biting back a wicked grin. “Let’s go this way.”
The meadow was damp and sweet smelling. Luc took a blanket held by a waiting footman and led Jeanette toward a little cove of brush and young trees with a carpeting of grass and flowers. But what drew him to the spot was the way a few rays of sunlight broke through the clouds directly on it, as if to say, please, sit here.
Miss Jeanette held their supplies while Luc spread the blanket out.
“Do you by chance know how to chain flowers?” he asked her.
“I can try. I haven’t done it since I was a little girl.” She smiled at him as he handed her down. Her smiles were like a tonic, and he may as well have been floating in a sea of it. She’d gone straight to his head, soothing his scrapes and cuts.
She gathered a mix of flowers and laid them before her.
“Do you know the names?” he asked. He wanted her to be thinking, distracted with a task so her expressions were more natural.
“Thistle, cranesbill, and yellow rattle are what I mostly see,” she said. She picked up a stalk of purple flowers. “This is wood cranesbill. When the petals drop off, it looks like a crane.”
“Interesting.” He sat on the edge of the blanket and opened a sketchbook, the crackle of the new glue binding music to his ears. He picked up a pencil, rubbing the back of his hand over the pristine paper.
This might be the best morning of my life.
“What should I do?” she asked.
“Pretend I’m not even here,” he said. “And just enjoy the afternoon.”
She chewed the corner of her lip. He set the tip of the pencil to the paper and stared at her. She seemed uncomfortable, but she soon picked up the cranesbill and wove two of them together. As he waited, her unease ebbed, her facial muscles relaxing, all her focus on the flowers in her hands. He’d begun drawing before he’d even noticed, sketching an outline of her head. But her bonnet was a nuisance, casting a shadow over her face.
“Would you mind removing your bonnet?”
She peered up. “I beg your pardon?”
“It’s shading your face. I’d like to see you in the full light.”
She took a deep breath, her color high as she tugged the strings and set the hat aside.
She tucked loose curls behind her ear and resumed fidgeting with the flowers in her hands. But she was tense again.
Luc tore out the page and restarted, this time with the knot of curls on her head, wondering if they were hot iron curls or natural. He swiftly completed a light outline and returned to her head to add detail to her hair. He imagined the colors he would blend to create the variant of dark shades, the gold of the sunshine reflecting off her hair. He made a note on the side of the page and returned to the sketch, his focus flicking back and forth between her and the page.
She picked up more flowers, tilting her head to the side as she worked. Her lips curved into a soft smile and his hand froze.
He stared intently, mesmerized by her, the sun’s rays baking his back but at this moment he wouldn’t have traded places with anyone. Acute need pierced him. He wanted to swe
ep her into his lap and lay her down on the fragrant grass, just as he’d done in one of his sketches. He’d trail a soft thistle flower down her face and lower, over the swells of her breasts and just marvel at her loveliness, how perfectly she fit here among the wild beauty.
But he could see her fitting in anywhere she chose to go. She had a quiet exquisiteness about her that he could see among London ballrooms, or walking Bond street dressed in the height of fashion. An effortless attractiveness that women strived for. She had it, and she probably didn’t even realize it.
She didn’t have to wear a façade.
Unlike him.
His body throbbed for her, hungry to taste and touch.
As he watched, she sat up and lifted her arms over her head, stretching. He bit back a groan, hot blood rushing to his groin.
“I’m getting rather stiff,” she said.
Me, too.
“I need to stretch my legs a bit.”
“Of course,” he replied, his voice gravelly. He cleared his throat. “I do believe it is time for the picnic lunch.”
He closed the book and set it aside. He helped her to her feet and joined the others that had gathered around the table where a feast of cold sandwiches was spread out with footmen standing by to swat away any curious insects.
Luc held her plate and selected an assortment of light foods before they returned to their little world comprised of their blanket.
They were now sitting closer together, and she’d put her bonnet back on.
He thought about topics of conversation, but everything he would normally say seemed superficial. After yesterday, he wanted to be truthful. He didn’t want to hide from her or make her think any worse of him. For some reason, she’d decided to give him a second chance, and he wouldn’t waste it.
“I’d like to apologize for yesterday,” he began.
She took a bite of a grape, caught off guard. She finished chewing and set her plate down. “I owe you an apology as well.”