The Bargain of a Baroness

by Sande, Linda Rae

  Henry gave a start. “But Mother—“

  “I don’t wish to hear it,” Sophia stated as she held up a staying hand. Despite her age, she was up from her chair in a smooth move. “Come along. The light will be best for only another hour, and I don’t wish to leave our artist waiting.”

  “Yes, Mother,” Hannah and Henry said in unison as they stood, their moods somber.

  The four made their way to the first floor parlor in silence.

  Chapter 23

  An Artist’s Perspective

  A few minutes earlier

  Satisfied with the workspace she had created in the first floor parlor, Laura glanced about in search of a footman. Mr. Simpson had said to simply let someone know when she was ready for the family to join her, and her ladyship would ensure everyone would arrive in time for their first sitting.

  Laura supposed a footman would inform the butler, although no such servant had let her into the Simpson townhouse that morning.

  Mr. Simpson had been the one to do so.

  Dressed in what appeared to be his very finest evening clothes, he had greeted her as if she were to the manor born, bowing and inviting her in with a hearty, “Good morning, Miss Overby.”

  She had never felt so welcome.

  “I’ll see to it your canvas is taken up to the parlor,” he had added before offering to take her mantle and seeing to the valise containing paints and brushes. The faintest odor of turpentine followed its movement.

  “That’s very kind of you, sir.”

  Then he had stared at her as if she might have grown horns. “Oh, where are my manners?” he asked rhetorically. “I am James Simpson, at your service,” he added as he favored her with another bow. “I have the honor of being married to Lady Simpson.”

  Laura couldn’t help the grin that had lifted the edges of her lips. “Of course, sir. She has spoken of you most favorably,” she replied, her eyes twinkling at how he beamed in delight. “Why, I do believe she likes you.” This last was said with a wink, which had the older gentleman amused.

  “Best feeling in the world, it is. To wake up every day with your arms around the one you love.” James continued to grin as he led her up the stairs to the parlor. “She is my first and only love.”

  Laura was struck at hearing his declaration. At hearing such intimate details of the Simpson’s life. But the words had been said with such conviction, such devotion, with not the barest hint of avarice or falseness, Laura experienced the pang of jealousy she usually felt at seeing a young couple walking arm in arm in Hyde Park.

  At just over twenty years of age and given her avocation, she had begun to believe the opportunity for a marriage based on love would pass her by. That if she had any hope of finding a husband, he would have to be older. Widowed, perhaps. Not as old as Mr. Simpson, of course, but someone who had put off marriage so long that he would not necessarily welcome the change to his lifestyle.

  The addition of a wife to a life spent in bachelorhood might mean she would share him with a long-time mistress. That he might have illegitimate children. That he was so accustomed to spending evenings at his club, he would not change his habits just because he had a wife at home.

  Children.

  Lady Simpson had mentioned how old she had been upon the birth of her twins. Laura winced at the thought of waiting so long to have a baby or two. At least her ladyship had an older son—the heir to her late husband’s fortune, who now had a wife and ten children of his own.

  “They’re as in love with one another as my James and I are,” Lady Simpson had said during one of the days they had enjoyed tea in the afternoon.

  How was it two people could still be so in love after such long marriages? Had they been in love from the start? Or had they grown to love one another over the decades of a life spent together?

  Had raising their twins brought the Simpsons closer together? Had they ever experienced a time when they were not in love?

  Given Mr. Simpson’s age and what Laura knew of Lady Simpson’s first marriage to a man long dead, Laura decided they had to have been together a very long time.

  The twins were six-and-thirty!

  “Lady Simpson said you oversaw the reconstruction of this townhouse,” Laura said to her escort as they reached the first floor landing, her gaze darting about to take in the tasteful display of furnishings. Although she had grown up in a beautifully decorated townhouse much like this one, it was half the width of the Simpson home.

  “I did,” James replied. “I practiced by seeing to the renovation of the other houses on our street first,” he explained. “So I was ready for this one when it came time to create larger quarters. This used to be two townhouses, you see, but neither had a breakfast parlor, and her ladyship had always wanted one,” he explained, his face once again lighting up at the mention of his wife. “I wanted to be sure there was a nursery, of course, and an enlarged parlor, and, well, it’s probably in need of another renovation, but I shall let my son see to it as this house will be part of his inheritance.”

  Laura had wondered at his words. She had expected the older gentleman to exhibit airs, to behave in a stoic manner. But he was as free with his information as if she were family.

  Once they were in the parlor and James was assured she had what she needed, he had taken his leave. “I expect a servant will find the entire family in the breakfast parlor when you’re ready for us.”

  Despite the brief interruption when Mr. Simpson’s son had appeared in the parlor, Laura had been left alone to complete her preparations.

  She might have finished even sooner if she hadn’t been so dumbstruck by what had happened with Henry Simpson. For the long moment he had held onto her hand, she was quite sure he stared at her. Not with recognition, exactly, but with an awareness that had her entire body responding with excitement.

  Anticipation.

  Longing.

  Here was a man—an older man—who seemed to actually see her.

  Desire her.

  Want her.

  For a moment, she thought the lips that had finally kissed her knuckles were instead destined to make contact with her own.

  She would have welcomed their touch.

  She would have gladly returned his kiss with the same level of fervor he displayed. From the slight scent of shaving cream that lingered long after he left and the smooth planes of his face, she knew he had just shaved. Or been shaved. Probably by a valet who was an expert at seeing to his perfectly tailored clothes and custom shoes.

  Had he pulled her into his arms, she would have gladly allowed him the intimacy. Her entire body had tingled at the thought of being held in his arms. Against the front of a body that displayed the very latest in men’s fashion to good effect, which meant that body was trim and fit, but not too lean. His hands hadn’t been as bony as his father’s, and neither had his cheeks begun to hollow.

  His fair hair was still thick and possessed of a smooth wave that left one forelock barely hanging onto his forehead. It would prove a challenge to capture in paint, but she already had a clear idea of how she would accomplish it.

  The easiest feature to paint would be his eyes, for their irises were of a blue that was darker than the sky but not quite sapphire, and at that moment he had been regarding her with awe, she thought they held a hint of mischief.

  She could imagine those same eyes in their son, a fair-haired tot who would delight in mischief but make her pine for another even as she struggled to paint his likeness in this very room. Why, her easel could be permanently placed exactly where it was, so she could continue her portraitures on the days Henry was at the bank.

  She would ensure dinner was served not long after he returned home, so that they could spend an hour or so together in quiet conversation before heading for bed.

  His father’s words had come back to her in a flash.

  Best feeling in the world, it is. To wake up every day with your arms around the one you love.

  When they had finall
y decided to forgo the need to wait for someone to provide a formal introduction, all the delightful scenarios she had imagined for a life with Henry Simpson poofed out of existence at his mention of the earl’s charity.

  Did everyone believe her family’s largesse was due solely to the Earl of Trenton? Did they not know that her father was a valued employee of Wellingham Imports? That he had earned a fortune during his forty years with the firm? That he had instilled in her and her brothers and sisters—well, her youngest brother was still a babe—the importance of hard work and dedication to a goal?

  Apparently not.

  Laura fought back a tear and cleared her throat as she looked for a footman, finally deciding she would simply deliver the message that she was ready for the family in person.

  Finding the breakfast parlor was easy.

  Overhearing the last of a conversation that obviously included her had her pausing well before she reached the opened door.

  She hadn’t intended to eavesdrop. She hadn’t intended to lean closer but remain clear of their line of sight. But she couldn’t help herself.

  Henry Simpson had seen Graham Wellingham climb into her family’s town coach directly after she had. That had been Saturday, when she had offered him the ride to Woodscastle.

  There was certainly nothing untoward about doing so—the man was her second cousin!

  But Henry’s sister must have assumed something entirely different. For the look she had directed to Laura upon her announcement that she was ready for them had been one of hurt coupled with something far more sinister.

  Jealousy.

  Chapter 24

  Posing is Hard, Pretending is Harder

  In the parlor at the Simpson townhouse

  Laura regarded her subjects with a practiced eye, heartened to see that two of them had obviously done this before and knew exactly how to stand and sit.

  Lady and Mr. Simpson easily moved into place, her ladyship seated in one chair while her husband moved to stand behind and to the side of her. He placed a protective hand on one of her satin-clad shoulders at the same moment she lifted one of her own to cover it. Then she angled her head and displayed a pleasant expression that made her appear far younger than her eighty years.

  Meanwhile, Lady Harrington—Laura hadn’t yet been introduced but was sure her ladyship would do the honors in a moment—took the other chair while she batted a gloved hand at her brother, attempting to coax him into place while quietly scolding him.

  Laura cleared her throat and gave a curtsy. Although she wanted to avoid glancing at Henry, she couldn’t help but make the occasional eye contact as she said, “Good morning. I am Miss Overby, and I have the honor of painting your family portrait.”

  “Good morning, Miss Overby,” Sophia replied. “Do be sure the other two are positioned correctly. They were far too young the last time we did this.”

  “Yes, my lady,” Laura said as she stepped forward and regarded the younger subjects. Addressing Hannah, she said, “My lady, you’ll want to spread your gown a bit wider—”

  “Of course. Where should I place my hands?” Hannah asked, her voice sounding frosty. Or perhaps Laura merely imagined it.

  “Your gloves are very beautiful, so perhaps it’s best to place your hands like this...” Rather than touching Hannah’s hands, she held her own out in demonstration. She nodded when Hannah followed suit. “Are there any rings you wish to wear? You don’t need them today, of course, but in a few days.”

  Hannah inhaled softly. “I’ll think about it,” she replied, her manner less cold.

  Laura turned her attention to Henry. “Your posture is perfect, sir,” she remarked, her attempt to avoid his gaze failing when he leaned forward and whispered, “I wish to apologize for my earlier comment. I meant no offense as I am well aware of your father’s success at Wellingham Imports,” he murmured.

  Blinking, Laura stared at him, just then remembering her father’s accounts were with the Bank of England. If Henry didn’t know exactly how much were in those accounts, he would discover their value when he was next at the bank, she was sure.

  At the same time, she noted how his sister, who had obviously overheard his words, furrowed her blonde brows. “Thank you, sir. Although I have always known of his position, it wasn’t until this Saturday past, when I had the occasion of sharing my coach with my cousin, that I learned just how valuable he is to Wellingham Imports.” She reached out a hand and placed it at his elbow, intending for him to bend it slightly as he rested his right hand on his sister’s shoulder.

  Three events occurred simultaneously.

  “Cousin?” Hannah asked, her head lifting to regard the painter.

  A jolt shot through Henry’s arm at her touch, and he inhaled sharply.

  Laura let go of his arm and stepped back, sure the frisson that had passed through her body was evident to everyone in the parlor.

  Embarrassed, she directed her gaze onto Hannah. “Cousin, yes. I was but a babe when he was last in London,” she said.

  “Not your husband?” Henry asked, his other hand absently moving to the elbow she had touched, as if he was testing it for feeling.

  Furrowing a brow, Laura shook her head. “I am not married, sir, nor am I betrothed.” She said this last before she could think twice. For some reason, possibly because of the frissons she had experienced whilst in his company, she felt compelled to admit she wasn’t affianced.

  “And your cousin?” Hannah asked, her expression conveying a sort of desperation Laura hadn’t seen before on such a beautiful woman.

  “He is not, either. He’s only just returned to British shores a day or so ago.” She paused, wondering if she should admit what Graham had told her while they were on their way to Woodscastle. Although he hadn’t mentioned Hannah by name, his description of the woman he intended to make his wife exactly matched the woman who sat before her.

  No wonder she had directed such a look of disdain in Laura’s direction earlier that morning!

  She settled her gaze on Henry and once again stepped forward. “I shouldn’t wish to keep you all waiting as I compose you,” she said loudly enough for everyone to hear. “But if you could just place your hand on Lady Harrington’s shoulder like this...” She took his hand in hers and moved it onto Hannah’s silk-clad shoulder. “... I believe we have the perfect composition.”

  The frisson once again shot though her body, and for that moment when her eyes locked with his, Laura was quite certain he had experienced a similar sensation.

  Standing so close, she could see the evidence of his arousal in how his trousers tightened.

  Afraid the silhouette of her erect nipples had become visible despite her stays, Laura turned and moved to stand behind the blank canvas.

  With the light from the parlor windows illuminating the canvas, she picked up a thin charcoal from a nearby table. She began sketching in her four subjects, finally allowing a satisfied grin when she saw how all of them displayed expressions of happiness or contentment. “Remember your positions and your thoughts of this very moment, for this is how you shall pose every morning for the next week or so,” she announced happily.

  Although she missed Hannah’s quick glance in her mother’s direction, she didn’t miss Henry’s wink. Acknowledging it with a quirked brow, Laura concentrated on her work and was soon lost in creating a work of art.

  An hour later

  Aware her subjects had begun to sag after an hour of holding their poses, Laura stepped from behind the canvas and said, “Thank you for your patience. That is all for today. I will see you tomorrow morning.”

  Not paying any attention to those who allowed sighs of relief or groans of pain at having to stand still for so long, Laura resumed her work, deciding she would take the opportunity to paint James’ face as she had the clearest image in her mind’s eye of his expression. When she could no long paint him from memory, she would work on his clothing and perhaps some background elements.

  It might have been a
few minutes or fews hours later when she was suddenly aware she wasn’t alone. “Mr. Simpson,” she said as she dipped a curtsy.

  Henry gave a bow from where he stood very near where he had been posing earlier that morning. “Miss Overby,” he said as he reached for the hand that wasn’t holding a paint brush. He bestowed a kiss on the back of her knuckles, his lips lingering far too long.

  “You can look if you’d like,” Laura said, thinking he wanted to assess her progress. Her gaze flicked to the back of her hand, noting how his long fingers still held it as if it were a fragile glass artifact. For a fleeting moment, she had a thought he was making love to it the way his lips first touched and then finally pursed to suckle the smooth skin.

  “I wondered if you might wish to... to take some air. Step away and join me for a ride to the park? Maybe go for a walk to the Serpentine? I’ve ordered the coach be brought ’round.”

  Laura lifted the brush from the area of the canvas where she had been painting his father’s aged features. “Now?”

  Henry blinked and was about to respond when she gave her head a shake. “Of course, now. You no doubt have things to do. Places to be,” she murmured as she dropped the paintbrush into a jar of turpentine. She moved her hands to undo the ties at the back of her neck that held her apron in place.

  He didn’t, really—he had just returned from his day at the bank—but Henry wasn’t about to disagree with her. Not when she had apparently made up her mind to join him. “Allow me,” Henry said as he stepped behind her and made quick work of releasing the apron ties.