All but one, that is.
That one he had to keep to himself and his family.
“That went well,” his mother said as he entered the drawing room. She was already seated at a desk tucked in the corner, shuffling through papers. “Though I was surprised you decided on her so quickly and without consulting with me. I support your choice either way, but I would have liked to state my opinion first.”
“I apologize, Mum. I suppose I already had it in my head that she was the one, even before she came for the interview.” Geoffrey flopped onto the couch, already restless with his visit home and anxious to get back to his studio. Despite the negative reviews of his exhibit, his hands itched to mold, carve, and create again. He needed to get back to it.
“It’s all right, dear. I knew she’d be perfect when we had to drag her away from the manuscript page. And you made the right choice rejecting her suggestion that your sculpture be shown, though I’m sure that was difficult,” Lady Ashburn said nonchalantly, keeping her attention on the papers in front of her.
“Not difficult at all, Mum. It wouldn’t help my art or my reputation if people discovered I’m not only G, but that I’m also using my family’s famed art collection to showcase my own. Our decision to juxtapose medieval art with contemporary art would look like it had been made to promote me rather than the idea that art is timeless and tells the story of human evolution. I’d be even more of a laughingstock.”
“I’d hardly say you’re a laughingstock. Your art is very good.” She held up the card she’d been writing and examined it.
“Thanks, Mum,” Geoffrey muttered. Perhaps he should have been more enthusiastic at her comment. It was one of her more effusive compliments.
“I’m sure Alice will be able to find something that will work just as well.” Lady Ashburn waved the card to dry the ink. She was very particular about handwriting all of her thank yous, even before she’d had to let her assistant go. Expressing gratitude was not a job she would outsource.
“She’ll have to. She obviously can’t use Re-Collecting or any of my other sculptures,” Geoffrey responded with an air of regret.
Alice was right. His art would blend perfectly with the collection. After all, it was the collection that had partially inspired his work. How could the artwork not inspire him when he’d spent so many years studying it? And Alice had seen the connection even before seeing the pieces themselves. He was still stunned that she’d spotted the medieval influences in his very contemporary work.
“Clarissa will be coming for dinner tonight.” Lady Ashburn stuck her card in its envelope and sealed it shut with the same wax stamp her mother and grandmothers had used before her.
“Clarissa? I thought we were having a family dinner.” Geoffrey ran his hand over his face. The presence of the woman he’d been trying to break up with for years would certainly make dinner even more uncomfortable.
“If she’s going to be family, I thought it only right that we should invite her. I know she’s anxious to see you after six months.”
The last of her words was a pointed remark meant to prick him with guilt for having told everyone, Clarissa included, they weren’t to visit while he was in Los Angeles. His six-month sabbatical was a chance for him to be completely focused on his art. It was supposed to be his opportunity to make it in the art world.
“There’s no guarantee she’s going to be part of the family. I haven’t proposed, and she hasn’t accepted.” He took a deep breath, fighting back the urge to tell his mother he no longer loved Clarissa Barclay. A very unfortunate circumstance, considering that her family’s bank held the mortgage on Binchley Hall and had been very generous in not foreclosing on them.
“You make a wonderful match, Geoffrey. You’re perfectly suited.”
“I don’t know if I love her,” he blurted, unable to hold back any longer. “That seems like a pretty good reason not to marry her.”
His mother set down her pen and slowly turned to him. “Being equally matched and having affection for one another is more important than being in love.”
“How did that work out for you and Dad?”
Lady Ashburn went still before lasering in on Geoffrey. “Love is a fairy tale.”
A heavy silence fell between them. He knew she didn’t believe that. Circumstances of the last few years made her say it. But even though she blinked, she didn’t back down other than to soften her tone when she next spoke.
“I know you don’t care for this house or the grounds that surround it, but you do care for the art that is housed here.” She walked to him, placing a tender hand on his head, combing his hair with her fingers. “Clarissa cares for you, and she’s inherited enough money that, were you to marry her, you wouldn’t lose what you truly do love.”
She let her hand fall to his shoulder, and he leaned his cheek to her palm. “I know, Mum,” he whispered. “I’m trying.”
“I know, dear.” She pulled her hand away. “Now go dress for dinner.”
Geoffrey nodded and pushed himself up from the sofa, schooling his face to hide any disappointment. He’d had years of practice pretending not to care when his father’s promises fell through, but the concern written on his mother’s face told him he still couldn’t fool her. She forced a smile as he passed her and raised her hand like she wanted to touch him, then lowered it.
He meant to go to his bedroom, but he found his way to the kitchen instead. He felt far more at home helping Gertrude prepare supper than he did putting on the suit he knew his mother had asked to be laid out for him.
“What are you doing down here, love?” Gertrude asked before slapping his hand away from the trifle he was about to dip his finger into.
“I came to help.” He sat down on the barstool she kept nearby for when her feet gave out.
“How’re you going to help me while sitting on your arse?”
Geoffrey broke into laughter, feeling completely at home for the first time since he’d walked through the doors of Binchley Hall. “I’m going to be your taste tester. That’s the only thing I’ve ever been truly good at.”
“If that ain’t God’s truth,” Gertrude said just gruffly enough for Geoffrey to know she thought the opposite, then passed him one of the warm buns she’d taken from the oven.
“You feeling the sting of those reviews?” she asked after he’d put butter and jam on the bread.
The comfort the bun brought him gave him the courage to nod.
“What about the praise of the good ones? Are you letting yourself feel those?”
“I hadn’t noticed there were any good ones.”
“Course you didn’t. But I did, so you’ll just have to take my word for it. They said exactly what I’ve been saying all these years. You’ve got a gift. Only they said it better. You’re just letting the bad ones take up more space than the good ones.” Gertrude went about preparing dinner while she talked, only partially conscious of what she was doing for Geoffrey. Her encouragement meant more to him than she knew.
He listened as Gertrude quoted the American reviewer who’d called his work “genius” and “groundbreaking,” before scolding him for focusing on the negative. “Time to pick yourself up and get back to doing the thing you love. Not everyone has that opportunity.”
Geoffrey put the last bit of bread in his mouth, still enjoying the taste, but more aware that what he’d really needed was the emotional nourishment Gertrude offered.
“I’m afraid I might have to marry Clarissa Barclay in order to keep sculpting and painting.” He eyed her carefully, not sure how much she knew about his family’s financial predicament.
“Pshh. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want; you just have to learn to live without all the things you think you need.”
Geoffrey considered what she’d said then stood to leave. “Wise words indeed, Gertrude.” He threw an arm around her shoulders and kissed the top of her head, then stole another bun before she could swat his hand away.
Feeling
rejuvenated, he quickly made his way to his room where the expected suit was waiting for him. His mother did have good taste, and he did like Clarissa. It would be nice to see her in person after so many months apart, communicating mostly by email and text. The time difference had definitely taken a toll on their relationship. Or perhaps, if their relationship couldn’t survive six months and an eight-hour time difference, it hadn’t been that strong to begin with.
Clarissa had been very supportive about his decision to pursue his art more seriously in LA, but he had the sense that what she really felt she was supporting was Geoffrey having a last hurrah before settling down to marriage, family, and a real career. When the reviews of his work had come in after his first big show, he thought she was probably right. It was time to move on. In fact, he’d been thinking that more and more.
Right up until the moment of Alice’s presentation.
She liked his art. She understood it. She believed in him. Not him, him, per se, but in the artist he wanted to be. Even though he’d had to tell her no when it came to showing his work, her admiration of it had renewed his confidence. Between Alice and Gertrude, Geoffrey felt he could go on. After all, how many artists were never appreciated during their lifetimes? William Blake, Van Gogh, Vermeer. If he never got the recognition he wanted, he’d be in good company.
Geoffrey dressed in his suit feeling more ready to face Clarissa than he’d felt five minutes before. They did make a great looking couple, and there was so much to admire about her. He could certainly give their relationship another try.
And he’d quit thinking about Alice. She was an interesting distraction, but with Clarissa, he had history.
He straightened his tie, trying again to push Alice out of his head, but even the long walk to the dining room didn’t take long enough for him to forget how her eyes shone when she’d talked about his art.
When Geoffrey reached the dining room, Clarissa was already seated next to his mother chatting. She rose when she saw him—but not with the excitement he’d expected from a woman he hadn’t seen in six months—walking to him with a careful smile.
“Hello, Clarissa.”
“Hello, darling.” She took his hands and kissed each of his cheeks, not quite touching him with her lips. He missed America. He could go a few days without seeing someone, and they still wouldn’t hesitate to give him a hug when they met next.
Clarissa slipped her arm through his and led him to the table, sitting him next to her. She smelled nice, and the long, slender fingers she laid on his leg were beautifully manicured. There was nothing not to love about her. But he liked art that was unique and original. Art that didn’t look like everything else around it.
The same could be said about what kind of woman he was attracted to.
Which brought him back to thoughts of Alice. He couldn’t think of another woman who had ever stood her ground with him the way Alice had. He couldn’t think of another woman who had captured his interest as quickly as she had. And his interest wasn’t driven by curiosity, but by a hunger he hadn’t realized he had. A hunger he hadn’t experienced before.
Basically, he couldn’t think of another woman besides Alice, even as Clarissa talked to him.
Conversation swirled around him, sometimes sweeping him in, but for the most part he stayed on the edges, only dipping his toes in when he absolutely had to. Most of the time, Clarissa had to drag him in, and with each time she had to redirect his attention from the serviette he was folding over and over, she grew more cross, until finally she snapped.
“Are we not as entertaining as your American friends?” She gently squeezed his hand until he dropped the serviette. Her tight smile that followed was more warning than warm.
“I’m sorry. I’m afraid I’m a bit jet-lagged.” He stood and excused himself from the table, then laid a gentle kiss on the top of Clarissa’s head. It was a bit like licking a can of hair lacquer, and the moment he got back to his room he brushed his teeth to wash the taste away. While brushing, he checked his voicemail and saw there was a message from Alice.
He spat out the toothpaste, glad to be rid of the taste of Clarissa’s hair, then listened to the message from Alice.
“Hi, Lord Bell—Geoffrey . . . Geoff. I’m sorry, I still don’t know what to call you.”
“Geoff,” he said aloud, even though he wasn’t talking to her. But he liked the way it sounded when she said it.
“At the risk of losing my dream job, I have to say again how perfect I think Re-Collecting would be. I’ll keep looking for something else, but I can’t imagine finding anything that’s as perfect as that piece. I swear I’m trying, but, in the meantime . . . could you think about reconsidering? Okay. Bye . . . oh, and thanks again for the job.”
Geoffrey looked at his phone, then pressed play again, smiling as he listened to her voice. He wouldn’t let her talk him into using the piece she wanted, but he did love listening to her try. And he loved that she’d had the courage to ask again. He trusted people more when they challenged him rather than acquiescing because he was Earl of Bellingham.
After listening to the message again and having to stop himself from pressing play a third time, he realized how stupid he was being.
Why should he listen to a voice message over and over when she’d given him the perfect reason to call and talk to her in person?
Chapter Six
Alice climbed into the most comfortable-looking bed she’d ever seen at the most expensive hotel she’d ever stayed in, exhausted from the red-eye flight and the time change, but still wired from the excitement of having landed the Grey job. She had just closed her eyes when her phone buzzed. Her first instinct was to cover her head with a pillow and ignore the call, but the most likely person calling was her mom, and Alice couldn’t ignore a call from her. Even if she hadn’t figured out how to break the news about her new job.
She grabbed the phone from her bedside table, more than a little surprised to see Geoffrey’s number on her screen rather than her mother’s. She blinked, but when she opened her eyes and saw the name still there, she answered.
“Hello?” she said tentatively.
“Alice?” It was definitely Geoffrey’s voice. She’d recognize the music of it anywhere: the high-born British lilt combined with a warm openness that reminded her of California springs when the desert bloomed with wildflowers. “I hope I didn’t wake you.”
“No, not at all,” she answered quickly, then had to wait long seconds for him to speak.
“How is the hotel? Are you comfortable?”
“It’s beautiful. Thank you so much for making the arrangements.” She sat up straighter and rearranged the pillows behind her back. If it were up to her, she’d never leave.
There was a pause, and she wondered if they’d been disconnected, but then he spoke again. “I got your voicemail.”
“Yes, that,” she said to fill the space his silence left behind. She knew she was right about showing Re-Collecting, but she questioned whether she’d been right to tell him that over voicemail. Was he calling to fire her? “I probably shouldn’t have called. I just feel so passionately that your collection needs that piece. I know I’m putting myself at risk pushing so hard for this, but—”
“I love your passion.”
Alice stopped. He loved her passion? She didn’t know how to respond to that. Certainly not in a way that would give away the fact that if his voice had called her pulse to the starting block, his words were the starter’s gun that had set it racing.
“I hope you don’t mind my saying so.” He cleared his throat. “Perhaps I shouldn’t let on how happy I am to have you on our team. Maybe I should keep you on your toes,” he joked.
“No, no, that’s okay. I appreciate the compliment and won’t let it go to my head.” She settled into her pillows, clutching the phone to her ear and smiling.
“Where does that passion come from?”
His question made her smile more. This wasn’t a work call. “I don’t k
now. I suppose my mom always found a way for me to pour myself into anything I loved. She worked all the time, so she pointed me toward something I could do while home alone, then found a way to get whatever I needed to throw myself into it.” Alice stopped. There were more words she wanted to say about only being stopped by money and opportunity, but a man like Geoffrey wouldn’t understand that. He didn’t know what it was to want something so badly, to have it within reach but not have the means to grab it.
“The only part of California I’ve been to is Los Angeles. Is Bakersfield near there?”
“It’s a couple hundred miles and another planet away from LA It’s more about farming than movies.” People outside of California never realized how much of the state was devoted to agriculture, even if they loved the oranges, strawberries, almonds, and dozens of other foods that were grown there.
“Tell me what it’s like being a child in Bakersfield. What did you do while home alone?”
She pictured him in an overstuffed armchair—something very comfortable and very expensive—with his feet up on an ottoman and a fire burning in the fireplace. He was smoking a pipe—she wiped that image from her mind. The idea that Geoffrey smoked a pipe wasn’t any more accurate than the picture of her childhood being idyllic.
“I spent a lot of time painting, actually. That was my passion as a teenager.” She left out the part about cleaning houses and chicken coops and anything else she could find in order to buy her oil paints. Bob Ross was her teacher, but only when the Wi-Fi worked.
“Is that right?” He sounded genuinely interested. “I’ve dabbled in art a little myself.”
“You mean beyond studying one of the greatest collections I’ve ever seen, which happens to be housed in your own home?”
Always You: A Sweet Romantic Comedy (ABCs of Love Collection Books 5-8) Page 39