by Heather Boyd
“How marvelous.” Whitney had tried to avoid Alice when she was with her future husband many times in the past month, without much success unfortunately. She exchanged a cordial greeting with Mr. and Mrs. Quartermane, and then curtsied deeply to the Dowager Marchioness of Taverham. The older woman’s eyes were keen with bright intelligence—like a hawk focused on its next luncheon of raw meat. “My lady.”
“Miss Crewe,” the woman replied stiffly.
Whitney faced the Marquess of Taverham next.
She knew the marquess well now. He had been a good friend of her cousin’s for many years. Whitney especially enjoyed teasing him lately—mostly because he seemed so unsure of how to react. At least at first.
Of course, she liked him better now that he was living with his wife again and had cut Lady Brighthurst completely from his life.
He looked well, and happy, too. The resumption of his marriage appeared to have done him no harm. Whitney stifled a laugh. Must be all the lovely sex he and Miranda are engaging in now.
“Hello Kit,” she said with a wide grin. “Thank you for inviting me to visit.”
His eyes narrowed but then he smiled. “Welcome to Twilit Hill, Trouble.”
They embraced briefly, a rare thing in polite circles.
The dowager frowned. “Trouble?”
“Yes, all my cousin’s friends end up calling me that, I’m afraid,” Whitney apologized as she glanced at the other gentleman present. His face, quite handsome too, wasn’t familiar, but since Miranda had said Thompson was Lord Acton’s friend, Whitney was immediately unsure about him.
“Mr. Thompson, I presume,” she asked, intent on introducing herself when no one spoke up.
“Yes, indeed.” He came closer, hand outstretched. “Mr. Alexander Thompson, at your service.”
Mr. Thompson had wide, clear blue eyes, dark hair cropped close to his skull, but the cut of his clothing wasn’t quite in the same league with Lord Acton’s. Whitney had always paid close attention to people, and always noticed when what they wore was at odds with what they said of their situation. Mr. Thompson had not mentioned his connections or where he lived, which made Whitney like him all the more. At a guess, Mr. Thompson might be a younger son of someone important, especially so if he could claim a place in Lord Acton’s tight circle of friends.
She let him take her hand and was not unduly surprised when he lifted it to his lips. Many men did, thinking the action would warm her heart to them. Being known to have funds had definite drawbacks, especially when a woman was not married or did not want to be.
Thompson’s lips grazed the back of her hand, and she felt…absolutely nothing for him. His eyes might reveal interest in her person, but Whitney was too wise. There was always a chance new acquaintances, men particularly, had more interest in the size of her bank account than in herself.
“A pleasure to make your acquaintance, sir.”
“The pleasure is all mine, I promise you.” His smile grew warmer as he held her hand a touch too long.
Oh, Thompson was interested, but Whitney was decidedly not.
She pulled her hand back and glanced around the large room, avoiding Alice’s questioning gaze, and cast her eye over the portraits hanging on the walls. She loved to study the work of better-known painters. And these were very good.
She dragged her attention back to the people who’d waited to greet her. “Forgive me for missing dinner, but I had the most eventful journey after being left behind.”
“Nothing serious, I trust,” Acton asked, finally finding his voice. It was so rare that he spoke to her, and that was by her choice. She worked very hard to forget such a man existed.
They had only danced together once after their proper introduction where names had been exchanged and connections revealed. They had danced a short and extremely awkward set the night his engagement to Alice had been announced. She had only accepted him because her new cousin Iris had dared her to, and offered a reward of new canvas for her art.
She believed she made Lord Acton very uncomfortable, too. Their first anonymous encounter had been an incredible memory…tarnished, of course, the moment she’d learned he was to marry, then ruined utterly once she’d discovered his identity.
She let everyone—her cousin and his wife, Miranda and Kit too—believe her dislike of him had begun when she’d learned of Lady Brighthurst’s scheming. That was terrible of course, but not the whole reason.
She arched her brow. “A chance encounter on the road brought about a very pleasurable interlude with a rather handsome gentleman,” she told him, smiling as his cheeks grew red with discomfort.
She did not finish her tale on purpose, a subtle dig only he would understand, and had no doubt he’d leapt to conclusions about the nature of that meeting, believing the worst of her.
After all, she had almost seduced Lord Acton at the Bachelors Ball, another stranger. Whenever he met her now, he frowned. Especially when she was enjoying herself. Whitney did not discriminate between duke or footman, but he clearly did. Everyone was interesting to Whitney. Even Lord Acton sometimes still. The wary way Acton watched her made her wonder if he considered her an immoral creature of insatiable appetites about to launch herself upon him again. The man grew so tense when they met, she kept waiting for him to split apart.
Miranda nudged her. “Tell them the nature of the encounter before they believe you were imposed upon by an unwanted admirer.”
Whitney laughed softly, breaking eye contact with Acton. “A commission for a marriage portrait in charcoal. The couple was so gloriously in love that I could not possibly refuse the fellow’s beautifully worded request that I capture the image of his blushing bride for posterity. The money was most happily spent by them, and most graciously received by me in the exchange.”
“Well, I never,” Mr. Quartermane began, glancing at his wife in obvious disapproval.
Silence fell, awkward and absolute. A lady engaged in trade, even the production of harmless little portraits, wasn’t considered very highly among members of the ton. But in the art world, simply giving away her work placed her at a distinct disadvantage. It was Whitney’s opinion that the prestige of having a portrait done by a lady painter must always be equal to that of a man. Money was merely a means of deciding popularity.
Whitney wanted to be popular for the only thing she could always control in her life—her art.
She cared little for approval outside of the art world. What she enjoyed was recording the people she met and places she went to. When coins were exchanged for the final piece, those funds always went toward Whitney’s next project.
“You are a most generous lady,” Miranda murmured, and to her surprise, the dowager nodded, too.
“You would have given the family a treasure for generations to come,” the older woman added.
“I do hope so,” Whitney said before meeting Miranda’s startled expression. The older woman and Miranda actually agreed on something. “They seemed such a lovely couple, and now I am looking forward to the projects you wish completed too, my lady.”
Miranda had requested a family portrait be completed during Whitney’s stay. She was looking forward to the challenge very much, far more than socializing with Miranda’s nearest neighbor.
“The space you requested has been cleared out as we discussed,” Taverham told her before he motioned for everyone to sit. “It is in that direction, at the end of the house. Ask Anders to show you the way in the morning. Just don’t keep our son up at all hours, if you don’t mind.”
Whitney sat opposite Lord Acton and his betrothed, set her paint box at her feet and grinned at her hosts. “I promise to chase Christopher back upstairs if he’s neglecting his other studies.”
“I wouldn’t advise running in the house,” Kit said, grinning in return. “My boy is disturbingly against recklessness of any kind.”
“I am not surprised at his caution,” she murmured, casting an accusing glance at Lord Acton. “Christopher will come
to understand soon enough that when I chase him, it is purely for the purpose of play, and holds no danger.”
Acton regarded her steadily, giving nothing of his feelings away. Did he feel some responsibility or guilt over what his sister had done in terrifying that poor boy? Christopher, calling himself Simon at the time, had run away to an orphanage, lost to his mother because the earl’s sister had discovered his existence and made an attempt on his life. Luckily, fate intervened and brought the family back together earlier this year.
Acton cleared his throat and crossed one leg over the other. “Will you teach him to paint field mice on this visit?”
Whitney smiled at Acton but without any warmth. Painting a mouse had been her own special project, a test of her skill at rendering in paint an object small and highly fidgety. She was annoyed anyone knew about that, and couldn’t account for how he could have known, unless her cousin had opened his mouth. Perhaps it wasn’t too late to strangle her cousin.
“Perhaps you’d like to offer up yourself as an alternative subject, my lord. I could paint you instead,” she said with a teasing laugh that brought an immediate scowl to his unfairly handsome face.
It was a harmless suggestion. Acton wouldn’t agree.
“Oh, yes,” Miss Quartermane cried out. “I should like to have a portrait done of dear Acton before we wed.”
The man’s cheeks grew flushed with color while Whitney struggled not to laugh at his misplaced modesty. The only men Whitney painted or sketched lately were nude, and since she had viewed all of Lord Acton before, she could probably paint him from memory if the unlikely mood every struck.
“If there is time,” she murmured without committing herself to fulfilling Alice’s request. Whitney would make sure she never found time to paint any portrait of Lord Acton. She would make sure her work for Miranda, lessons for Christopher, and her own work stretched out until the very last day of her visit, if need be. “Lady Taverham’s commission and young Christopher’s curiosity are the reasons I’ve come to Twilit Hill. As soon as the work is complete, I will be on my merry way.”
“Oh, I hope that is not too soon,” Alice fretted, glancing at her betrothed. “I so hoped you would be willing to extend your visit a while.”
Acton stilled, clearly discomforted by the suggestion.
Whitney tore her gaze away from him as Alice’s words sank in. “Have you finally set a date for the marriage to take place?” she asked, resisting the urge to look at Acton again for confirmation.
“We’re to be wed in the village chapel on a Sunday in three weeks’ time,” Alice gushed with a blushing smile for her betrothed, as if they were truly in love. “Acton has been very patient to let me enjoy the season before we marry.”
“How kind of him,” Whitney murmured as she hid a scowl. However, she was pleased the delay to marry was deliberate. Alice had to see and experience something of society before she gave up her freedom to such a scoundrel. “But I am afraid I will have to disappoint you.”
Whitney was glad to know when the wedding would be. She might have to push herself, stay up till all hours of the night to get her work done, but she would be gone before the wedding took place. As much as she might hate to disappoint someone she liked, her attendance at this ceremony was highly inappropriate, given how she felt about arranged marriages in general, and Lord Acton in particular.
“But why?”
“My engagements are such that I cannot remain in the countryside above ten days,” she advised. “I will be on my way at the end of this month.”
Acton sighed his relief quite loudly.
“The young are always flittering about. To where are you bound next?” The dowager asked, her eyes burning with disapproval.
“To the continent,” she said with considerable excitement. Whitney’s dream to study abroad was about to come true.
“What? Your cousin couldn’t possibly approve of this,” Miranda admonished, even as the marquess sputtered out a protest, too.
Whitney waved away their concerns. Martin would know when he received her next letter. She’d already drafted one to him and explained her decision was final. “My cousin has other matters on his mind at present.”
Such as doting on his new wife, and pacing the halls with his offspring. Whitney had long ago accepted that Martin would never make good on his promises to join her on this adventure—her own grand tour, of sorts. She understood he couldn’t and wouldn’t drag his wife from the comforts of home as soon as he’d proven himself deeply in love.
She couldn’t wait for her cousin’s life to settle down enough that he might escort her.
That was the trouble with love—it made dreams die a slow death. It was worse for women, of course. Women were expected to marry young, bear children quickly, and turn the cheek while their husbands did as they pleased.
Alice and Acton were about to begin a life together that was everything Whitney had never wanted.
“Why on earth are you leaving the country?” Acton asked in a voice full of shock and outrage. “It’s not safe.”
“I am assured it is.” She glanced at him and shrugged. “I am independent. I have sufficient funds at my disposal to make the trip on my own terms.”
He shook his head. “Yes, but why leave so suddenly?”
“It is not sudden,” she promised him. “I have wished for this all my life. I am going to Florence, and I cannot wait to begin.”
“I say, do you need someone to carry your bags?” Mr. Thompson enquired with a short laugh that sounded awfully like derision. “I could do that quite easily.”
Whitney stared at him. “That position is filled.”
“By whom?” Acton demanded.
She faced him slowly. “Why do you ask? Did you wish to come with me, my lord?”
The Marquess of Taverham roared with laughter. “Be careful, Acton, or she will convince you and your bride to spend your honeymoon traveling with her.”
“Oh, yes!” Alice exclaimed. “What fun a grand tour could be for all of us!”
Everyone else twittered, but Acton remained silent as he stared at her.
It wouldn’t be enjoyable at all for Whitney to have them come along. “Forgive me, Alice, but this adventure is not for newlyweds.”
Chapter Three
Everett took one last look at Whitney Crewe standing on the steps of the Twilit estate, and then entered the carriage with a shake of his head. He was glad to be going. Glad she was going away, too. Eccentric wasn’t a good enough description for the woman he’d almost made love to one mad evening.
He sat beside Mr. Thompson in the carriage as the women began to chatter amongst themselves.
“Did you ever hear of such nonsense,” Mrs. Quartermane burst out as soon as Lord Taverham’s home fell behind. “Traveling abroad at her age and jesting that she’d engaged a man to carry her bags when she should be engaged to marry instead. Mark my words, Miss Crewe will come to a bad end.”
“I’m sure Lord Louth will have taken steps to keep her out of trouble. Despite what she suggested tonight, he’ll insist on a proper chaperone or put a stop to it entirely. I’ve no doubt about that,” Everett promised, with the hope the discussion was over.
“It’s high time she married,” Mrs. Quartermane continued, receiving a nod of agreement from her rather quiet husband. “Good lord she’s almost thirty.”
“Five and twenty, mama,” Alice chided.
“Well that is even better,” Mrs. Quartermane claimed. “There must be some man we know who can bring her to heel.”
Her eyes fell on Thompson and lingered there, assessing him.
Everett shifted on the bench. Thompson did not deserve a woman like Whitney Crewe. It wasn’t that Thompson wasn’t good enough to marry her, but that Thompson surely didn’t need the aggravation. Whitney was trouble, and Thompson had more than enough of that in his life already. Disowned by his father, at odds with his siblings, too. Thompson was a good man who’d run afoul of propriety too many
times for his family to ever forgive him.
Since making Whitney Crewe’s proper acquaintance, Everett had been in a constant state of shock at the way she carried on in society. She had no intention of marrying anyone, or so her cousin had once complained within his hearing, and no consideration for moderation or decorum, either.
“Despite her age and disinclination to be courted, she’s never lacked for admirers in London,” Alice murmured. “She’s friends with everyone, even the Duke of Exeter asks her to dance.”
“Whitney charms every man she meets,” he said grimly, growing hot under the collar. He’d seen her laughing with the duke, a man twice her age but perhaps not quite twice as wealthy.
Learning he’d almost been seduced by an heiress had been another shock. Where had her cousin been the night of the Fairmont Ball? A chaperone? Whitney Crewe’s fortune was said to rival his betrothed’s dowry, and more besides. Whitney could easily become a target of unscrupulous fortune hunters if she was not wary—the very thing he’d been accused of being.
“Indeed, she does charm without trying,” Thompson murmured with a humorous smile his way. “I found her lack of affectation utterly delightful and her age is unimportant.”
“I’m very glad I met my Acton before Whitney had a chance to turn his head,” Alice exclaimed, laughing.
Everett nearly choked. His head had been turned, upside down and back to front and all in one wild night, and it was before he’d met Alice, too. It was only Whitney’s high principles that had prevented them from becoming lovers, for which he was now profoundly grateful. At the time, he’d been furious to be so teased and discarded. “Why do you imagine she could?”
“My daughter is merely teasing you,” Mrs. Quartermane said, but cast a warning look at her daughter before she spoke again. “We know your heart is pure, and Alice adores you for your gallantry in allowing her to enjoy the season. Besides, you’re much too distinguished to ever fall prey to an eccentric.”