by Donna Hatch
Miss Marshall stepped out through a pair of French doors and gestured to him. “This way. It’s empty.”
Christian carried his burden inside and set her onto a nearby chair. As he straightened, he glanced at Miss Marshall, but her hat shielded her face. She sank down on her knees in front of Miss Widtsoe and began removing the half boot.
He took a step back. “I’ll leave you now. I hope your ankle mends quickly, Miss Widtsoe.”
She beamed at him. “I’m sure it will. Thank you so much for helping me. You are a true hero.”
At that, Miss Marshall turned her head towards him, a secretive smile curving her beautifully formed lips. He wanted to push back her bonnet and run a hand over her silky head and lower his mouth to hers…
He almost groaned out loud. There were so many reasons why that thought was wholly inappropriate.
“It was nothing.” He made a shallow bow and left.
He did not need a woman in his life right now. Caring for the earl and managing the estate consumed most of his waking hours, and a goodly number of hours he ought to be sleeping. His brothers would produce heirs to ensure the continuation of the Amesbury line, therefore, Christian had no duty to have heirs. Painting produced all the diversions he required. He would spend his life trying to atone for a host of failings and not drag some poor, undeserving lady into his world.
Chapter 7
Genevieve and Mrs. Widtsoe applied every kind of remedy upon Matilda’s ankle, but by the time she planned to meet Mr. Amesbury for her first sitting, her ankle had still swollen enough to discourage the wearing of all but the softest slippers, and the skin had darkened to purple.
Sorrowful, Genevieve glanced at Mrs. Widtsoe. “No dancing?”
The dear lady shook her head.
Matilda’s face crumpled, but her irrepressible spirit returned after only the briefest bout of tears. Of course, that rallying occurred the moment she received a note from Mr. Amesbury asking if she still wished to sit for her portrait today.
Genevieve almost shed a few tears herself. How could she help her friend? And how could she do it without allowing her jealousy to rule her?
As a maid arranged her hair, Matilda placed cool packets of lavender and chamomile over her face to help dispel signs of tears. “Never mind, Jenny. I will enjoy myself today at the sitting and tonight at the ball, regardless. And when you aren’t dancing, you’ll sit with me, won’t you?”
Genevieve gave her a stern look but of course Matilda couldn’t see it with lavender packets over her eyes. “Need you even ask?”
“No, I suppose not. I’m letting my insecurities show.” She removed the compresses from her eyes. “How do I look?”
Matilda looked exquisite wearing an elegant blue evening gown. With only the sides caught up, Matilda’s thick golden curls tumbled over one shoulder and down her back. Her skin was creamy as ever, and once more she smiling and bright-eyed. If she didn’t turn Christian Amesbury’s head, he wasn’t a man.
Truthfully, Genevieve said, “You look like an angel.”
Matilda rewarded her with a bright smile. “I hope he agrees.”
They used a wheeled chair a footman had found in the attic to convey her down the corridor, and two footmen carried her, chair and all, down the stairs to the drawing room.
All along the way, Genevieve reminded herself that her task was to give the right nudges for Mr. Amesbury to fall in love with Matilda. Once Genevieve ensured Matilda’s happiness, she’d give a thought to her own future. Perhaps she’d meet a fine gentleman later in the summer during their stay in Bath who would make her forget all about her improper fascination with Matilda’s true love.
When they arrived in the drawing room, Mr. Amesbury was already there with an easel and a palette of paints. He wore a large, paint-stained smock over his clothes. Focused on something only an artist would see, he held his lower lip between his teeth.
Mama sat with Mrs. Widtsoe in the corner of the room, chatting quietly as they sewed, their voices creating a soft murmur. After wheeling Matilda to the bench next to the pianoforte, Genevieve helped her get settled and arranged her skirts with precision. Then she turned her attention to Matilda’s hair, carefully placing her curls so they lay in the best possible arrangement.
She turned to find Mr. Amesbury looking at her. A soft smile curved his full mouth. His intensely focused gaze locked with hers as tangible as a caress. Her cheeks flushed and a place in her midsection quivered.
Gesturing to Matilda, she said, “Do you think she will do?”
As if remembering he’d agreed to paint her portrait, he glanced at Matilda, blinked, then focused. “The color suits her complexion and is an excellent contrast with the background.”
Matilda offered an uncertain smile and glanced hesitantly at Genevieve. Genevieve wanted to yell at him. Didn’t he see how much his opinion meant to Matilda?
He seemed to realize his error. “You look beautiful, Miss Widtsoe. Just right for a painting.” An appreciative smile curved his lips as he gazed at Matilda. At last, he’d noticed her loveliness!
Matilda’s signature smile blazed and all was well again. As Mr. Amesbury called out instructions to turn her knees slightly to the side, raise her chin and angle her head, Genevieve withdrew.
When she approached her mother sitting in the corner of the room with Matilda’s, Mama nodded her way. “Jenny, dear, the rest of the guests are about to begin a game of croquet. Do join them on the east lawn.”
“Very well.” Lawn games appealed more than being in the room with the beautiful Christian Amesbury while he gently wooed her friend. Just as she’d hoped he would. Hadn’t she?
She grabbed her gloves and tied her bonnet firmly underneath her chin, before hurrying to the east lawn. The guests were already pairing up. A slender young gentleman held his mallet in one hand and tossed his ball up in the air and caught it repeatedly. His action and his brown curls made him look like a mischievous boy. He stood off to the side alone, clearly in need of a partner.
As Genevieve approached, she threw out convention and called, “Sir Reginald, isn’t it?”
Instantly smiling, he bowed. “Yes, Miss Marshall.”
“Are you, by chance, in need of a partner?”
“I certainly am. Your arrival is most timely.” He fixed warm brown eyes on her as he handed her a mallet and matching ball.
The cheerful young man with the fashionable Cherubin hairstyle proved an enthusiastic, and even skilled partner. He teased her into smiling, making outrageously flirtatious statements and inquiries about the state of her dowry. One part shocked and two parts charmed, she shook off her melancholy. Before long, she and Sir Reginald were laughing like old friends.
Clouds flirted with the sun as the merry group played, calling out dares, wagers, and jeers. The only blight in the afternoon came from Lord Wickburgh who watched Genevieve too closely. He’d left his cane somewhere, which confirmed that he only carried it as a fashion statement. Despite the long looks he continued to rain on her, he remained at a distance. Genevieve soon forgot him and focused on her friendly partner who reminded her a great deal of the little brother she never had. Without Matilda nearby to absorb all of her attention, Genevieve enjoyed getting to know the other guests.
Sir Reginald nodded his chin towards a group ahead of them near a spreading oak. “Mr. Ashton keeps looking at you. I believe you have captured his interest.”
Genevieve glanced in that direction to catch the gaze of an attractive, dark-haired young gentleman she’d met previously but couldn’t recall his name until Sir Reginald reminded her.
Maintaining eye contact, the gentleman nodded.
She bent her knees in the tiniest of curtsies, and said to Sir Reginald, “I can’t imagine how. We’ve hardly spoken.”
Sir Reginald grinned. “Speaking isn’t requisite to admiring beauty.”
“No, I suppose not, and I thank you for the compliment.” She’d certainly admired Christian Amesbury before she’d exchanged a si
ngle word with him. With a sigh at what could never be, she focused on the game. They finished playing, not victors, but at least not last place.
Sir Reginald offered her a bow. “It was a pleasure to partner you this afternoon, Miss Marshall.”
“The pleasure was mine, sir.” She grinned at the guileless young man as if he were a dear friend.
As they put away their mallets and balls, a shadow fell over her. “Miss Marshall.”
With a start, she met Lord Wickburgh’s gaze. Quickly, she looked down to escape that oddly searching stare and curtsied. “Lord Wickburgh.”
“You seemed to enjoy the game.” Nothing in his tone sounded improper. Then why did he unnerve her so?
“Yes, I… I did, due to the company, I’m sure.”
Sir Reginald eyed her curiously and took a few hesitant steps away.
She held a hand out to her partner. “Pray, excuse me, my lord. I promised Sir Reginald I’d walk with him after the game.”
At her words, the young man squared his shoulders and offered her his arm. She curtsied to the viscount and took Sir Reginald’s arm gratefully.
Several paces away, she said under her breath, “Thank you.”
“Is he bothering you?”
“Not precisely, but he makes me nervous. Thank you for playing into my ruse.”
“Always a pleasure, Miss Marshall. I did notice him looking at you several times.” They fell silent as they strolled towards the house. “You and Miss Widtsoe are fast friends, I take it?”
“Yes, for years.”
He let out a sigh. “She’s the loveliest creature I’ve ever seen.”
Genevieve smiled. “She does turn heads.” At his smitten expression, she debated whether to discourage him. Perhaps it would be kinder to warn him that the way to Matilda’s heart was barred. “I am persuaded she will make a match very soon.”
His face fell. “With that Amesbury fellow.” It wasn’t a question.
She held her expression steady. “Perhaps. They have no formal understanding, mind you, but….” She let her voice trail off.
Another sigh. “I have only just reached my majority. I couldn’t court her with a purpose until then, but I’ve admired her for years. Then when we danced in London…” Another sigh. “Do you think I’m too late?”
She wanted to tell him he was not too late, that he had a chance. The temptation arose to even help him try to wrest Matilda’s interest away from Christian Amesbury. But that would be disloyal. And cruel to raise Sir Reginald’s hopes where hope might not exist.
“I don’t know if it’s too late, but she has a clear preference for him. Whether he returns her regard is anyone’s guess.” There. That was honest.
The young man’s mouth twisted to one side. “I see.” He brightened. “I don’t mind a little friendly competition. His father might be an earl, but my grandfather was the Duke of Suttenberg—not the present one, of course; he’s a cousin—but his grandfather. And don’t think I’m much younger than Amesbury, so my age shouldn’t be a deterrent. I have reached my majority, after all.” He paused. “Do you think she prefers blond over brown?”
Genevieve almost tousled his curls. “I can’t imagine your hair would dissuade any sensible young lady.”
He grinned. As his gaze fell on something off to the side, he pointed with his chin. “Look. I think the younger set have started a game of Blindman’s Bluff. Shall we join them?”
She looked back at Lord Wickburgh. He was mounting the steps leading up to the abbey, absorbed in conversation with a gentleman his own age. She wouldn’t have to worry about his disturbing presence if she stayed outside.
And Christian Amesbury remained inside with Matilda… where he should be. They should be together. And she should be happy for them. There was no compelling reason for her to enter the abbey at the moment.
“Yes, Blindman’s Bluff sounds delightfully diverting.” Anything to keep her away from temptation.
During the game, Genevieve laughed until her sides burned and her cheeks ached. Mr. Ashton continued to send her admiring glances, and Sir Reginald grinned conspiringly at her like an old friend.
When she found herself standing next to Sir Reginald, he winked. “I believe you have conquered Ashton.”
Genevieve certainly had no desire to conquer anyone, least of all a man who had failed to engage her in conversation. “Nonsense.”
“He can’t keep his eyes off you.”
“Perhaps he dislikes my bonnet and can’t believe I’d wear it in public,” she quipped.
“Have you looked in the mirror lately?”
The blindfolded person staggered towards them and they ducked to avoid the outstretched hands.
A footman announced tea, which dissolved the game. Guests moved in small groups and couples towards the abbey. With a meaningful glance at Mr. Ashton, Sir Reginald winked at Genevieve and started whistling as he quickened his pace to leave her behind. Shaking her head, Genevieve smiled. And people thought women were incorrigible matchmakers.
On the subject of matchmaking… had Mr. Amesbury finished the painting? Had he and Matilda enjoyed stimulating conversation? While Genevieve headed for the abbey at a sedate pace, footsteps rustled the grass beside her.
“Good afternoon, Miss Marshall.” Mr. Ashton bent his elbow and offered it to her. “May I escort you back?”
“Thank you.” She rested her hand lightly on his arm.
They walked in silence as Genevieve admired the rugged terrain, and the way the hills cast long shadows over the land. Wildflowers danced in the breeze and songbirds trilled as if all the world were a concert hall.
“Lovely weather, isn’t it?” he said.
She looked up at him in surprise. Really? The weather? “Er, yes.” Perhaps he was merely nervous, having never conversed beyond their brief introduction. “I confess, I have not played Blindman’s Bluff in years. I can see I missed out on a lark.”
“Yes, unexpectedly enjoyable.” He spoke evenly, without any discernable emotion.
“I don’t think I’ve laughed so hard in a long time.”
“A welcome diversion, to be sure.” He agreed in that same oddly monotone voice.
They walked on without speaking, and she tried to remember if she’d seen him smile or laugh during the game.
Genevieve fumbled to broach a topic with the solemn gentleman next to her. “Have you been here before? To the abbey, I mean.”
“Yes, I live nearby. My father is the vicar here.”
“I believe I did hear that.”
“He is grooming me to take his place very soon.”
“That must be a rewarding line of work.”
“It will be sufficient.” Did he speak in monotone because he didn’t find the thought appealing? Or was that his normal tone of voice?
They reached the abbey and continued to the sectioned off part of the drawing room where other guests enjoyed tea. A summer breeze blew through open terrace doors, carrying in the scent of wildflowers and sunshine. Several older people conversed together creating a low murmur.
Matilda sat in her wheeled chair amid a group of young ladies, bubbling over with enthusiasm. As they reached the others, Genevieve curtsied to Mr. Ashton. “Thank you for escorting me.”
“My pleasure,” came the monotone reply.
Christian Amesbury drew her gaze. In the midst of admiring his fine form and handsome face as he sat painting Matilda, a new awareness spread through her, a desire to ease his burdens, to ask him about his hopes and dreams, to ride pell-mell through the countryside, even to simply sit with him and read as he created a work of art. Or perhaps forgo the book and simply admire him.
If he and Matilda made a match, those privileges would belong to Matilda. The thought sent a dart of pain into her heart. That was silly. Really, she hardly knew him. Surely her interest stemmed from a passing fancy.
Chapter 8
Throughout the afternoon, Christian tuned out Matilda Widtsoe’s chatter and focu
sed on the animated expressions of her face, trying to capture the best one for her portrait. Though lovely and pleasant, she had a draining effect on him. Still, on the rare occasion she fell silent, he asked her another question to keep her talking for the sake of the portrait. By the end of the sitting, he’d created an expression that combined a subdued form of her usual enthusiasm while capturing the liveliness of her eyes. He’d also sketched other rough likenesses of her, the piano, and enough decorations to suggest Egyptian flavor without overwhelming the main subject of the portrait.
Other houseguests streamed in, probably in anticipation of tea. Christian sat back. Satisfied with the proportions, he rolled his shoulders to loosen the tension.
When Miss Widtsoe took a breath from her steady stream of prattle, he said, “That will do for today.”
Her mouth remained open as if she had stopped mid-sentence. Recovering, she closed her mouth and smiled. “This bench is getting hard anyway.” She stood, visibly keeping her weight on one foot. “Will you help me to a settee, please?”
He leaped to his feet. “Your wheeled chair is here.” No need to have more physical contact than necessary and give her another reason to mistake his intentions. He brought the wheeled contraption to her and held it steady while she settled herself in it, then he pushed her chair to the settee.
While he removed his smock and gathered up his painting supplies, she called, “May I see it?”
“It’s not finished.”
“I know, but—please?”
He tucked the easel under his arm and brought the canvas to her. “I’ll add color tomorrow.”
Her expression of expectation fell as she looked at the canvas, but she nodded and said with forced cheer, “I’m sure it will be lovely when you’re finished.”
She turned the full brightness of her smile on him but her praise was rather demoralizing, much like when as a child he showed his newest project to adults who patted him on the head and told him his art was fine when really they meant it was the pathetic scribblings of a beginner.
Genevieve Marshall sank down in an armchair next to Miss Widtsoe and leaned in to see the portrait. “Oh, my. The proportions are amazing, and you captured her lively spirit beautifully.”