House of Cads (Ladies of Scandal Book 2)
Page 28
“I do,” he said, quickly pressing an answering kiss to her temple before returning to the work. “This morning I made one to match your eyes when you are tired and another to match them when they look at Rebecca.”
“They are always the same blue, my mad artiste.”
“They’re not. This one will be the blue of you looking at Aurélien, which has more gold in it, like his hair. And these,” he pointed at the other pigments he’d already made up, “are your happy blue eyes, and then angry, and this is how they looked in England. The light’s different there, you know.”
“Pazzo,” she replied. She had developed a deep affection for the Italian language and, despite this assertion that he was crazy, fortunately still had affection for him too, even after four years, two countries, and a set of exhausting twins. “Will you ever finish this portrait? Francesca says there is another who thinks to commission you, if you have the time.”
“I plan to finish very soon, but I don’t think I’m interested in that commission.” He finished with the pigment at hand, made a mental note to buy more linseed oil, and prepared to have what he hoped would eventually be a very happy conversation. Right now, though, his wife was scowling.
“But you have not even heard who it is! You remember Francesca worked for that merchant’s wife, to take care of her baby?” Francesca was the indispensable nursemaid who made their life with a pair of two-year-olds bearable. “Now the baby is grown and they would like her to be painted. It is perfect!”
“I found something better,” he assured her.
“Better! What is better? She is still so young, she will not be like these others who always demand more and more because they do not have eyes in their heads to see how perfect you paint them.”
He laughed at that. She still loved his sketches best, because they were always truest to what he saw. At least, the first set of sketches were truest, until he showed them to the subject who inevitably wanted to look more noble or intelligent or delicate as a flower. For him, it was the best of both worlds – he got to make what he saw as well as what someone else saw. And he kept the sketches.
“What if I told you I had a letter from Stephen?”
She looked sharply at him. “Hélène’s Stephen? Summerdale?”
“That’s the one.” He wound an arm around her waist and pulled her into his lap. Thankfully she wore the dress of many stains, as he had named it – or as she called it, her most avante-garde gown, custom designed – and another smear was never amiss.
“Why would he write to you?”
She seemed more concerned than anything else, though he could not imagine what there was to be concerned about. It had proven a miraculous advantage, to have someone like the Earl of Summerdale as his ally. He had made sure all of London knew the fabulously wealthy American businessman in their midst had quietly sold his company to an undisclosed buyer, and deflected any curious questions with suggestions of other, more promising business ventures. If that weren’t enough, he’d introduced Mason to his first art teacher, and his first art dealer, and his first paid commission. And now this.
“Summerdale wants a family portrait done, and he’d like to hire me to do it.”
“But – they are not coming here, Hélène would have written to me. They cannot, she will have the new baby in a few months!”
“Yes, and it must be a boy so that Rebecca can marry him,” he recited, having heard this little dream of hers many times. “Just like our little Aurélien will marry their Margaret. And they’ll all be best friends, no matter how unlikely I think it is that I could have children who’ll marry lords and ladies. I know.”
She narrowed her eyes at him. “If you do not tell me how you will paint them when they are in England and you are in Italy, I will refuse to kiss you for an entire hour.”
That would not do at all.
“We’ll move back to England,” he said promptly, and kissed her. He could feel all the energy bubble up in her, all the questions, how half of her wanted to pull away and demand answers. But being Marie-Anne, she never passed up the opportunity to kiss him, and she only opened her mouth wider and pulled herself even closer in a fervent embrace.
When she finally let him breathe, he explained Summerdale’s proposal. It had been long enough that very few people were likely even to remember Mason, but if they did, they would simply be told the truth: yes, he had used to be a businessman but now he was an artist. Aristocrats and foreigners were allowed these little eccentricities, Stephen had explained. Helen would happily give them the use of the large dower house she had inherited, which had a room that would serve perfectly as a studio, and was only a few miles from the Summerdale country estate in Herefordshire.
“Oh!” gasped Marie-Anne in delight. “But it is just outside of Bartle! I can eat Mr. Higgins’ bread every day again, and little Agnes Turner will want to steal the red curls right off our babies’ heads.”
“I kept her from stealing mine, I think we can stop her from doing any damage.” They had visited Bartle in the months before leaving England, and he understood why Marie-Anne had stayed there so long. It was a very peaceful place, full of people who clearly cared for her. Now she put her excitement at the idea aside and began to fret. Didn’t he want to stay in Italy to learn more, was he sure he wanted to go back to England, what about when the commission was done and he must find new work?
But he wasn’t worried about any of it. Italy was wonderful, but so was England. So was anywhere that she was. There would be more than just one commission in England – there had been a showing in London that included his work, and already he was becoming more well-known. And he could always teach, as audacious and improbable as it seemed that he not only had an actual skill, but knowledge that people might pay for.
They would make it work, he told her. They had made it work these past several years, after all, and it had been far easier than he’d ever thought it could be. As Marie-Anne was fond of reminding him, everything was easier when you let yourself be who you’re meant to be. Besides, he reminded her, didn’t she also want to take all these thrilling fashions and fabrics back to England? She’d have her own commissions soon enough. She’d already had him make dozens of sketches of dresses and jackets and hats to her specifications, only to have the dressmakers of Milan turn green with envy.
“I will make the villagers look very smart,” she giggled. “And I will put a cravat on John Turner’s goat, who is very handsome. He will eat it immediately, of course, but this will amuse the children.”
“Then it’s settled.” He kissed her nose and picked her up as he stood. “Now when will the little monsters wake up so we can tell them?”
“We have time for you to ravage me first, I think. You see how I am very clever, I keep track of time much better than you do.”
“I think you mean ravish, but I won’t quibble over words.”
She was kissing his neck as he carried her, saying something about how it sounded too much like radishes and she wondered what the Italian word for it was. He paused and set her down as he passed the room where the twins were sleeping, sprawled on the bed and snoring. Rebecca’s long red curls tangled with her brother’s strawberry blond hair.
“Are you sure?” Marie-Anne whispered to him as they both gazed at the children. “If we go now, you will make your career in England, and a whole life. They will grow up there. You are sure you want to make it your home?”
He took her hand and tucked a stray lock of her hair behind her ear. He watched her toes curl against the floor. She loved to go barefoot in the house and watch the Italian nurse suck in her breath and scold her for exposing herself to dangerous draughts. Marie-Anne teased that it was one of the few shocking things left to her, and laughed at every scold.
His wife. His thrilling, beautiful, perfect, priceless wife. It still seemed like a dream, every day, that he’d wound up here, with her.
“I already have a home,” he told her. “It’s wherever you are, and
they are.”
She looked at him and smiled. “Well, if one day you do not like it there, we will leave. Our home is you, too, my Mason.” She leaned against him and wrapped her arms around him, and added, “My true home with my true Mason. It is a very great wealth, like you said. An embarrassment of riches.”
THE END
Did you enjoy House of Cads? Please consider letting other readers know your thoughts by leaving a review on Amazon or Goodreads. Readers may also be interested to know that Helen and Stephen’s story is the subject of A Fallen Lady
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Works by Elizabeth Kingston:
Welsh Blades Series
#1: The King’s Man
#2: Fair, Bright, and Terrible
Ladies of Scandal Series
#1: A Fallen Lady
#2: House of Cads
In collaboration with Susanna Malcolm
The Misadventures of a Titian-Haired Goddess and an Outrageous Hellion
Acknowledgements
Do you always read my acknowledgements, dear readers? If so, you already know who I’m going to mention: Susanna Malcolm, the best reader ever (beta, alpha, omega, you name it – she gets it at every stage) and believe it or not, an even better friend. In keeping with this book’s refrain about an embarrassment of riches, I must also thank Laura Kinsale from the bottom of my heart for being as good a reader as Susanna. Who the heck gets TWO amazing critique partners/editors/dear friends? I might have made some Faustian bargain years ago and totally forgotten, because I truly don’t deserve that much awesomeness. And if that weren’t enough, I also have to thank Candy Tan (and also Canby Tan, forever buying flowers) for her timely, generous, and invaluable input. All three of these incredibly smart, thoughtful, patient women pushed me to make this a better book and, in turn, to make me a better writer. I can’t thank you enough, and am very glad you accept payment in donuts.
And even though it’s maybe cheesy or seems like pandering or whatever to include My Readers in the acknowledgements, the truth is you guys are so great and you’ve kept me writing. If you ever sent a note or a tweet, or even just liked a Facebook post or mentioned my books to another human being: seriously, I cannot thank you enough. You guys never fail to give me a second – and third and fourth and fiftieth – wind in the midst of the marathon that is novel-writing. Thank you so much, please treat yourself to the baked good of your choice, I will arrange it with the cosmos so that it has no calories whatsoever.