Laura stepped down from the Simpson town coach and hurried inside, determined to make her way to the parlor before anyone in the household could discover her presence.
On the one hand, she wanted to return to her avocation. Simply lose herself in the portrait and spend the remainder of the day painting. On the other, she thought to turn around, cross the street, and hide in the Wellingham’s townhouse for the rest of the day. Perhaps pen a letter to Lady Simpson with her regrets. Apologize profusely while she explained she could not continue the commission.
For a moment, she even considered going home. Her mother would be there with a shoulder to cry on, although Laura would probably have to share it with her baby brother. Lady Overby was quite insistent about seeing to her own children’s comfort, even if there was a nursemaid in the upstairs nursery.
In the end, Laura opted to paint. Her reputation was more important than a bruised heart. She could count on painting as a means of making her living for the rest of her life. Affairs of the heart were merely momentary distractions.
Her thoughts went to her parents. Two people who’d had a brief encounter years before they reconnected by chance to marry and live happy lives. Two people who loved each other and proved their devotion every day with how they behaved with one another, despite having five children.
That very behavior was why they had five children.
Her mother, the former Lily Harkins and illegitimate sister of the Earl of Trenton, could have married an aristocrat—she had whispered only the year before that the Marquess of Reading had proposed to her at one of Lord Weatherstone’s balls. The same year she had agreed instead to marry William Overby.
How different life would be with a marquess for a father! Especially since the marquess had fathered four bastard sons, two legitimate sons, and one illegitimate daughter.
I might not exist, Laura thought in dismay. I wouldn’t exist, she amended, loading a brush to continue her work on James’ face.
He had kind eyes, she thought. Perceptive eyes. Eyes that had seen it all but wished to see more. No wonder he was still so spry. He had to be older than eighty!
Absorbed in her work, she was unaware when she was no longer alone. Unaware of who had joined her. Of who had taken his place behind the chair that had held Lady Harrington earlier that day.
In fact, Laura might have continued to paint for another hour or two, except Henry drew attention to his presence when he murmured, “I am thinking it would be appropriate for you to add horns and a tail to your depiction of me.”
Laura froze, the paint brush less than an inch away from Henry’s face on the canvas.
She hadn’t even realized she had begun to paint him, his image still fresh in her mind’s eye. On the canvas, his eyes were filled with mirth and longing, his long cheeks shortened by the hint of a smile that lifted his lips and made him far more handsome than the man who currently regarded her with an expression that suggested he might be on the verge of tears.
“Mr. Simpson,” she whispered. “I... I didn’t hear you come in,” she stammered as she stepped away from the canvas.
“Your concentration on your work is remarkable,” he said as he moved from behind the chair and made his way toward her. “Which merely drives home my point about your need for protection.”
About to take a step back, Laura remembered she could not—there was a chair behind her, and she didn’t want to end up in it. Not with Henry advancing on her. Not with him displaying an expression she couldn’t discern. “Thank you,” she said as she dipped a curtsy. “And for your concern.”
He bowed and reached for her hand, which forced her to give up her hold on the brush.
“Did you walk all the way here?” she asked in a whisper, her eyes wide with worry.
Sighing, he gave his head a shake and said, “My sister gave me a ride in her coach,” he replied. “I just came from Harrington House. Surely you noticed how my ears are blistered from my sister’s well-deserved rebuke.”
Laura furrowed a brow. “Why ever would Lady Harrington scold you?”
Henry stepped closer, about to tell her why when his attention briefly darted to the painting before he did a double-take and stared at it. “Oh, my sweeting, you’ve captured my father perfectly,” he murmured in awe. His eyes squinted as he leaned in closer and stared at himself. “And rendered me far more handsome than I deserve,” he added on a sigh.
“Nonsense. I merely painted you as I remembered you in the...” Laura swallowed the rest of her comment, her head dipping as her cheeks flamed with color.
“Do you suppose being in love does that to a person? Makes them look younger? More handsome?” he amended.
Laura blinked, momentarily confused. Had she painted him in a manner more flattering because she had felt affection for him?
For she had felt affection for him. Still did.
How could she not? He had kissed her so sweetly. Held her so close and said things she had never hoped to hear from a man.
Or had she simply painted him how she remembered him from that morning, his enigmatic expression making it difficult to discern his mood?
His expression now certainly wasn’t enigmatic. He was gazing at her in a manner more like the one he had displayed in the park. A manner that suggested he had completely forgotten about the words that had separated them.
Even now, his expression had her insides melting. Her heart racing. Her breath held in anticipation of what he was about to say.
Then she remembered he had asked her a question, and he was waiting for her to respond.
“I really couldn’t say, sir,” she murmured, struggling to keep her gaze on anything but him.
“My sister reminded me I can be a fool sometimes—”
“Surely not.”
“Oh, most assuredly. Much like I was earlier today, in the park.”
Laura inhaled softly, her disappointment evident. “For having kissed me?”
Henry shook his head. “Not for that, surely,” he replied. “For... for what happened afterwards. For having made the comment that you would not be allowed to pursue your passion should we wed,” he explained. “I was an idiot.”
Laura dipped her head. “You only put words to what you believe, sir. What’s important to you,” she reasoned. “You cannot be faulted for having—”
“I can if it means I cannot have you,” he interrupted.
Swallowing, Laura raised her eyes to find his filled with regret. Or perhaps it was sorrow. The light from the east window was no longer very good, and she had a hard time seeing them clearly. When she blinked, she realized why.
Tears had formed in her eyes and had blurred her vision.
“Oh, please do not cry, my sweeting,” he whispered, his hand lifting so his thumb nearly touched her cheek. He held it there, suspended until one of the tears spilled from her lower lashes. His thumb wiped it away at the same moment his lips lowered to capture hers.
The kiss was not quick, nor was it long, but his other hand had lifted to cup her cheek as if he feared she would pull away. He used that hand now to lift her head so her gaze met his. “Please, forgive me,” he said.
“For what?” she managed to say before a hiccup sounded.
“For not being more... more open to what life can be like when one has decided to marry an artist,” he stammered. “For sending you away. For being... an idiot.”
Laura blinked twice in an effort to keep more tears from escaping her eyes. “You still wish to marry me?”
He nodded. “I do.”
“After only one day—?”
“It has been more than a fortnight, actually,” he said.
Her eyes widened. “I don’t recall—”
“My imagination may have filled in most of it, but our time together has most assuredly confirmed my hopes.”
“Hopes?”
Angling his head first to one side and then the other, he said, “Of finding a woman who would understand what it is like to live on
the fringes of Society. To be related to the ton but not a part of it—”
“Your promotion to head clerk ensures you will be part of the ton, sir,” she argued.
Henry blinked and then remembered he had mentioned his impending promotion while they were in the park. “Hmm,” he murmured, suddenly at a loss for words.
Laura took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Besides the matter of finding someone who understands our mutual situation, did you have other... requirements... for a wife?”
His eyes darting to one side, Henry struggled to remember the list he had at one time assembled. “Uh, amiable, which you are,” he replied. “Not too young, which you... aren’t?” he half-questioned.
“I’ll be one-and-twenty on my next birthday,” she stated, deciding he didn’t need to know that her twentieth had just occurred only the month before.
His eyes widened. “Although your beauty suggests you are younger, your manner belies your age. Huzzah!”
Laura furrowed a brow. “Thank you?”
He grinned, the first hint of humor he had displayed since arriving in the parlor. The expression youthened him considerably, and Laura felt the same sensations she had experienced when they were in the park.
Excitement. Adoration. Arousal.
“How old are you?” she asked.
“Six-and-thirty,” he replied. “The other clerks at the bank think I am at least fifty.”
Laura blinked before she thought he was teasing.
“I am not teasing,” he said, even though he was doing his damnedest to suppress the grin that widened his lips and made him appear younger by another decade. “Unfortunately,” he added on a sigh.
Laura grinned. “You have been a man without a wife for a very long time,” she said quietly.
His brows wrinkling so his younger appearance disappeared, Henry nodded. “It will take some time,” he said in a whisper. “I’ll require an occasional reminder that I must be... patient,” he added with a huff. Then his face seemed to fall further. “Oh, dear. I’m making a cake of this, aren’t I?”
“Perhaps,” she hedged, doing her best to hide her amusement. “Where would we live?”
Henry’s face brightened so quickly, Laura nearly took a step back. It was as if the sun had once again come directly into the parlor from the east window, casting him in a most flattering light.
“I own a townhouse,” he announced, apparently forgetting he had mentioned it earlier in the park. “I... a few doors up the street,” he said as he motioned towards the north.
“You live don’t there now, though.”
He shook his head. “Not... yet. It was part of my inheritance, and I’ve kept it up. There’s barely a housekeeper and a... well, let me take you there. So you can—”
“Are you bribing me, sir?” she asked as her manner sobered.
“Henrí,” he said, his accent abysmal.
Laura’s lips quirked. “Call me ma cherié and I might consider it,” she dared with an arched brow.
Henry blinked. “Ma cherié,” he said, his French accent much better.
“Lead the way.”
Offering his arm, Henry seemed to let out a breath as he escorted her down the stairs, out the front door, up the street and to the townhouse at 9 King Street. He paused a moment so she could stand before the stucco-clad brick townhouse and look up at its four stories.
Feeling a hint of pride at how the colormen had managed to make the stucco appear as if it were marble, Henry studied the black trim around all the windows and the bright blue door that stood before them. A brass door knocker in the shape of a mermaid gleamed despite the lack of direct sunlight. Two topiary trees trimmed into spirals flanked the door, and green wrought iron fencing separated the small front lawn from the pavement.
Laura tittered. Her free hand moved to cover her mouth when she giggled again.
“What is it?” he asked, his nervousness apparent.
“Now I know exactly how my mother felt when my father showed her the house he had purchased for them in Curzon Street,” she said as she turned to regard him. At his questioning glance, she added, “She was giddy with delight.”
Henry grinned as he pulled a key from his waistcoat pocket. “I rather like seeing you giddy. I shall have to sort what it is I must do to have you giddy on a regular basis.”
Laura slapped the arm she held. “So that will be how you manage me?” she asked as he unlocked the door and opened it.
She stepped in and then to the side, her breath held as Henry moved to stand next to her. “Oh, Henry,” she murmured, not bothering with the French version of his name.
Henry discovered he rather liked his name when she said it. All breathy and awestruck. He imagined her saying it as he pleasured her in the master bedchamber, and then, when he knew his manhood was imagining the same thing, he had to redirect his thinking to the townhouse lest his arousal make itself apparent in his rather tight trousers. Redirect his thoughts to what he intended to show her.
His future depended on it, for he knew at that moment he had to have her as his wife.
When had he ever felt so sure about a young woman before? When had he ever imagined an entire life with the same woman? A life with children? A lively home? A willing woman in his—or her—bed? A woman to whom he didn’t have to pay for the privilege of spending a night?
“Oh, Henry, this is lovely,” Laura whispered. Unlike the Simpson’s townhouse, this one had its callers entering directly into the great hall. A quick glance to the left revealed a cloak room, and to the right, a small salon. Directly ahead was a modest hall table devoid of decoration, and behind it, the marble stairs curved up to the first floor.
Several doors were visible down the halls on either side of the staircase, which had her thinking there was at least a study and perhaps a dining room on the ground floor.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Simpson,” a pleasant voice sounded from just beyond the stairs.
“And to you, Parker. Don’t mind us. I’m taking Miss Overby on a tour,” Henry said, at the same moment a housemaid appeared and dipped a curtsy.
The middle-aged woman’s face brightened. “Then you’ve picked the perfect time of the day, sir. I finished the dustin’. Would you like me to set a fire in the parlor... or your bedchamber?”
A flush of red colored Henry’s cheeks. “That won’t be necessary, Parker,” he replied.
Laura could barely contain her amusement, one hand lifting to cover her mouth.
He dared a glance in her direction. “I assure you, I have never brought another woman here. Other than my mother,” he amended.
“You don’t house your mistress here?,” Laura countered, her voice sounding light despite the nature of the query.
“Never,” he replied. “I... I don’t actually employ one,” he added, hoping the admission would help his cause.
Left speechless by the comment, Laura stared at him.
“I used to, but... I did not renew our contract, and I cannot believe you asked such a question,” he replied as his brows furrowed.
No wonder those at the bank thought he was fifty.
Dipping her head, Laura said, “I did not intend to embarrass you, sir. Truly.” When she noticed how his expression softened, she added, “But I will not tolerate you bedding another woman. If I’m to be your wife, you will be required to honor your vows as I will honor mine.”
Henry immediately nodded. “Of course,” he said, wondering if she had acquired the idea from her mother or had made the decision to marry someone honorable on her own.
“My parents have been devoted to one another since before their marriage,” she explained, as if she could read his mind. “I want a marriage like theirs.”
“Then you shall have it,” Henry agreed. “Are there other requirements I must meet to earn your hand in marriage?”
Laura inhaled softly. “I didn’t mean to sound so... demanding,” she murmured.
“Far better you do so now,” he repl
ied as he angled his head. “It’s only fair we know what it is we’re about to do.”
“What about you?” she asked. “What... what do you require?”
Henry inhaled and indicated they should head down the hall. “A happy wife,” he replied as he paused before a door and opened it. “Study,” he said as he allowed her to step in and look around.
“Very manly,” she intoned as she noted the ebony desk and bookshelves. “I take it your mother is a happy wife?”
Henry nodded. “She is. My father does his best to see to it she has everything she requires and most of what she wants,” he said, a twinkle sparking in one eye. “He’s terribly perceptive and always on the search for how to please her.”
“Oh, I should have liked to marry him,” Laura teased, a grin brightening her expression.
“I learned from the best,” Henry said, one brow arching as he moved to the next door and opened it. “Dining room” he said, as leaned in and glanced around. “I’ve not once eaten in here,” he added with a hint of disappointment.
“Well, we’ll have to host a dinner party for our families,” Laura replied as she let go of his arm and moved into the room. A dining table long enough to seat twelve stretched down the middle of the long room. There were buffets at both ends, both in need of decoration.
“I should like that very much,” he agreed. “Once there’s a suitable cook,” he added.
“Who cooks for Mrs. Parker?”
“She takes her meals at my parent’s townhouse with the servants there,” he replied. He reached out a hand. “Come. There’s much more to see.”
Laura took his hand and allowed him to lead her further down the hall. “The kitchens are at the back, of course,” he said as he pushed open the last door to reveal a kitchen that looked as if it had never had a meal prepared in it.
“I had this renovated to include all the latest in kitchen equipment,” Henry said before she could ask.
“You’ll be able to hire a cook from France,” Laura remarked in awe as her gaze swept the room.
“Will that make you happy?” he asked.
“I should think it would make you happy,” she countered. “And ensure you come home for dinner every night.”
The Bargain of a Baroness Page 20