by Diane Gaston
‘Because of the title, Miss Summerfield! You must think of the title. Some day Rossdale will be the Duke of Kessington. For five generations that title has been unstained by scandal. I will not allow you to tarnish it.’
Genna straightened her spine. ‘You insult me, Duchess.’
‘I speak the truth!’ the Duchess cried. ‘I assure you, I am prepared to do anything possible to ensure that this marriage does not take place.’
‘Does Ross know you have come to speak to me like this?’ He would not have sent her. There would have been no need. He knew they would never marry.
‘Ross is as foolish as you are,’ the Duchess said. ‘We thought he was coming to his senses and then he became betrothed to you. He needs a proper lady for a duchess, not the supposed daughter of an improvident baronet.’
Supposed daughter? How cruel to throw that particular rumour in her face.
‘If the scandals in my family do not concern Rossdale, I see no reason they should concern you. You have no say in his affairs.’
She lifted her nose. ‘I am the Duchess.’
‘But no relation to Ross.’ Genna stood. ‘I will hear no more of your insults, though, Your Grace. Please leave.’
The Duchess rose. ‘I have one more thing to say.’
Genna held the woman’s gaze and waited.
‘If you break your engagement to Ross, I will pay you handsomely for it.’
‘Pay me?’ Genna could not believe her ears.
‘I am prepared to pay very well. Very well.’
Genna glanced away.
Money would provide her security. It was not as if she didn’t intend to cry off anyway. The joke would be on the Duchess, then.
‘Do you not wish to know how much money I offer?’ the Duchess asked smugly.
Genna paused a moment before facing her. ‘I assure you, Duchess, no amount of money would induce me to break my engagement to Lord Rossdale.’
Because it was already broken.
Genna walked briskly to the door. ‘You must now have nothing more to say.’
The Duchess huffed and strode towards the door. ‘You will change your mind. I am certain of it. You will change your mind or suffer the scandal I can spread.’
Genna held the latch of the door, blocking the woman’s way. ‘That is an empty bluff. Any scandal you cause me will bring shame on the precious title. That is precisely what you profess to avoid.’
She opened the door and the Duchess swept out.
Genna sank into the nearest chair and put her head in her hands. She’d defended herself as if the betrothal were real, but it had never been. She and Ross had fooled everyone, but, in so doing, they’d affected everyone. They’d certainly put the Duchess in a panic.
But it had all been lies.
* * *
Ross pulled up to Tinmore’s town house and spied his father’s carriage pulling away from its door. Through the carriage window he glimpsed the Duchess.
That did not bode well.
He jumped down from his curricle and handed the ribbons to Jem.
Ross was admitted by a footman at the same moment Genna appeared in the hall.
‘You are here.’ Her voice was stiff—and sad.
He nodded, wanting to ask her about the Duchess, but not in front of the footman.
‘Are you ready?’ he asked.
‘I need to fetch my hat and shawl.’ She climbed the stairs and disappeared from view.
The footman spoke. ‘Would you care to wait in the drawing room, my lord?’
‘No. I’ll wait here,’ he responded.
When she returned, they walked out the door to the curricle. He helped her into the seat and climbed up beside her. His tiger jumped on the back and they started off.
He could finally speak. ‘I saw the Duchess driving away from the town house. What did she want?’
‘She wanted me to cry off,’ Genna said with little animation in her voice. ‘I am too scandalous, apparently, because I take painting lessons from Mr Vespery and am, at times, alone with him. That and merely being a Summerfield with uncertain paternity.’
His anger flared. ‘She said those things to you?’
‘Think if she knew how scandalous I truly am,’ she added sadly.
He did not know how to talk to her about that. ‘I am sorry you had to endure her venom.’
She shrugged. ‘Her threats were empty ones.’
He could not lay all blame for Genna’s bleak mood on the Duchess. He was at fault.
He’d been foolish not to realise what could happen, what could ruin her friendship with him.
Their destination was not far. A mere street north of Cavendish Square, but she did not tease him to tell her where they were going. When he pulled up in front of the town house at 47 Queen Anne Street, she still asked nothing.
He needed to prepare her, though. ‘This is the home of Mr Turner. He is an artist and also a lecturer at the Royal Academy. His work is quite renowned. It is said that Canova visited here last year and pronounced Turner a great genius.’
Canova was an Italian sculptor famous throughout Great Britain and the Continent.
‘Canova,’ she whispered, but without enthusiasm.
Ross knocked on the door. They were admitted by a housekeeper and joined Mr Turner in his sitting room.
‘It is an honour to meet you, sir,’ Ross said. ‘And a very great privilege to be shown your gallery.’ Ross introduced Genna. ‘Miss Summerfield is an artist herself, sir,’ he explained. ‘A student of Mr Vespery, but I wanted her to see your paintings. She has been living in the country and has not had an opportunity to see the works of artists such as yourself.’
Genna managed, ‘How do you do, sir.’
‘A pleasure to meet a fellow artist,’ Turner kindly said. ‘Let us go straight to the gallery, shall we?’ As he led the way, he asked, ‘What is your medium, Miss Summerfield?’
‘Watercolour, mostly, sir,’ she replied. ‘But I am lately a student of Mr Vespery, learning to paint in oils.’
‘I have done both.’ He chuckled. ‘I often do both at the same time.’
He opened the door to a room built on to the back of his house. The room was bright from a skylight in the roof.
Genna stepped inside and gasped.
‘Landscapes!’ she exclaimed.
Hung on all four walls, or sitting on the floor, everywhere she looked, were landscapes. Large ones. Beautiful landscapes unlike anything she’d seen before.
Ross had known. He’d known she loved painting landscapes most of all.
‘They are not all landscapes,’ Mr Turner said. ‘Some are history paintings.’ He took her arm and walked her over to one painting on another wall. ‘Like this one. This one is called Hannibal and His Army Crossing the Alps.’
History paintings depicted the people involved in some event in history, but in this painting, the landscape dominated and Genna had to strain to see the people. The painting depicted a huge black storm cloud, black paint that looked like it had been dabbed on by mistake, but, somehow, the canvas conveyed the feeling of the storm and of how inconsequential even a strong warrior like Hannibal was when faced with the forces of nature.
She walked over to a sea scene. There were several sea scenes. Ships or fishing boats or men fighting a stormy seas. Each conveyed the power of the ocean and its danger.
Turner painted how it felt, just as she had in that first fanciful painting Ross had seen that day overlooking Summerfield House. He’d remembered and brought her here.
Each of Turner’s paintings were emotional, each done in ways she’d never seen a landscape painted.
One pulled at her artistic soul.
‘This is Dewy Morning,’ Turner said.
&nbs
p; It was a lake scene, pretty ordinary in its composition, but, oh, the colour! The sky was orange and purple, its reflection in the water almost pink. It wasn’t real. Ross had found a renowned artist who painted landscapes that were not real, just as she had done.
And he’d wanted her to see. It made her want to weep, especially because she’d ruined everything with him.
* * *
After they bid Mr Turner good day and returned to the waiting curricle, Genna spoke, even though she could not yet look directly at Ross, ‘I know why you brought me here.’
Ross flicked the ribbons and the horses pulled away from the curb. ‘To see the landscapes,’ he said. ‘It is what you first painted. I thought you would like to meet an artist who made his name painting landscapes not unlike the first painting I saw of yours, the one with the purple sky and blue grass.’
Her heart lurched.
He knew—no matter how much she went on about portrait painting—somehow he knew what she loved most to paint. Who else knew her that well? Who else would have cared?
‘Shall I drive you to Vespery’s studio?’ he asked. ‘I will not be able to stay with you, though. I’m required to do an errand for my father.’
She suspected he no longer wanted to stay with her. She felt a pang of pain, like a sabre slashing into her chest.
What she really wanted to do was return to her bedchamber and weep into her pillows.
‘Take me to Vespery’s,’ she said instead. ‘I want to paint.’
She wanted to finish his portrait even though it felt like she’d already run out of time to do so.
* * *
Ross drove her to Vespery’s and escorted her inside, despite her protest that it was unnecessary. She did not wish to be in his presence at the place of her greatest pleasure and worst mistake, but he insisted and she endured it, watching his gaze wander to the couch in the drawing room and quickly look away.
‘Will you be all right here alone?’ he asked.
‘I am used to being alone,’ she replied, although, in truth, there were usually people around her.
He glanced around the room again. ‘I’ll pick you up at the usual time, then?’
‘Yes. Thank you, Ross.’ Her voice was tight.
He nodded. ‘Goodbye, then, Genna.’
‘Goodbye, Ross.’
He walked towards the door.
‘Ross?’
He turned back to her.
‘Thank you for taking me to call upon Mr Turner.’
He stared directly into her eyes. ‘It was my pleasure, Genna.’
When he left, she dropped her shawl on a chair and removed her gloves and hat. She donned her smock and uncovered the painting and palette. When she stood in front of the painting, it was like standing in front of him. Only the eyes in the painting did not look upon her with strain, but with something warmer.
Something she’d lost.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Ross finished his father’s errand and returned to pick up Genna at Vespery’s studio.
He found her ready to go, but as distant as she’d been with him the whole day. This chasm between them seemed impassable.
She spoke to him only if he spoke to her first and he struggled to think of things to say. Their trip back to Tinmore’s town house was a nearly silent one.
‘How fares the portrait?’ he asked her.
‘I’ve done all I can do,’ she answered. ‘I need Vespery’s opinion.’ Several streets passed before she spoke again. ‘So I do not need to go to the studio until he returns.’
Ross would have no reason to see her, then, unless he invited her to the opera or some other entertainment. If so, would she even attend with him?
He pulled up to the town house and helped her out of the curricle, holding her by the waist like he’d done before. He caught her gaze, fleetingly, and saw, not her usual sparkle, but pain and regret. It pierced him like a shaft to the heart.
He walked her to the door. ‘I will not see you tomorrow, then?’
Those pained eyes looked up at him. ‘There is no reason.’
Before Ross could knock at the door, it opened and the Tinmore butler stood in the doorway.
‘Goodbye, Ross,’ Genna said.
The butler stepped aside so she could enter. Ross turned to go, but the butler called him back. ‘Lord Tinmore wishes a moment with you, sir.’
Ross and Genna exchanged puzzled glances.
‘Certainly,’ Ross told the man. He called back to his tiger, ‘I’ll be a few minutes, Jem. Just walk the horses.’
Ross entered the house.
The butler said, ‘Follow me, sir.’ He led Ross to the library. ‘I’ll announce you.’
Tinmore dozed in a chair, but woke with a start when the butler spoke to him.
‘Show him in, show him in,’ Tinmore said.
Ross entered the room. The butler bowed and left.
‘You wished to see me, Lord Tinmore?’ Ross asked.
‘Indeed. Indeed.’ Tinmore gestured to a chair.
Ross sat.
‘This betrothal,’ Tinmore began. ‘It won’t do. Won’t do at all.’
First the Duchess, now Tinmore?
‘Sir?’ Ross said in a gruff tone.
Tinmore leaned forward. ‘The way the two of you are carrying on, you cannot afford a long engagement.’
Ross straightened. ‘Carrying on?’
‘Come now,’ the old man said. ‘The two of you meeting every day. At this rate the girl’s belly will be swollen with child by the time you say the vows.’
‘Lord Tinmore—’ Ross’s voice rose.
Tinmore went on as if Ross had not spoken. ‘I’ll not have it. I demand you marry the girl straight away. None of this waiting.’
‘Tinmore!’ he said more loudly. ‘Enough! I’ll not have you speak about Miss Summerfield in that manner.’
Tinmore pursed his lips.
‘We are waiting until autumn.’ But not to marry.
‘Not good. Not good at all.’ Tinmore coughed. ‘I want the matter settled now before everyone knows you are carrying on. I won’t have scandal. Won’t have it.’
Ross spoke through gritted teeth. ‘There is no carrying on. Miss Summerfield is taking painting lessons.’
Tinmore gave him a leering look. ‘Is that what you call it?’ He leaned towards Ross. ‘I do not want anything to spoil this marriage. I want it settled now. The longer you wait, the more I think you are not going to come up to the mark. You asked for her hand in marriage and, by God, you need to take it.’
‘Certainly not under pressure from you,’ Ross said.
‘I’ve already told your father that I will vote with him on every issue, every issue, if he makes you marry now. Get a special licence. You can be married within days.’
This man was mad. What a reason to make a vote.
Ross stood. ‘We wait until autumn, Tinmore.’
Tinmore smirked. ‘Then I will make the girl’s life a misery. No more painting lessons. No more parties or balls. I’ll banish her back to Lincolnshire. See how she likes that.’
Ross leaned close again. ‘If you make her suffer, your life will be a misery.’
He turned and strode out.
Genna waited outside the door. ‘What did he want?’
‘For us to marry by special licence now.’ He wouldn’t tell her the rest of it, the part about carrying on. Why upset her even more?
She walked with him. ‘What did you say?’
He wanted to say that he’d protected her dream, that she would be free to live the life she chose, that he wished more than life itself he could live it with her.
‘I said no.’
* * *
&nb
sp; Ross left her then. Again.
Genna hurried back to the library, but met Lorene along the way.
‘Was that Rossdale?’ her sister asked.
‘Yes,’ Genna replied. ‘He has just talked to Tinmore.’
Lorene made a frustrated sound. ‘I’d hoped to warn you. I could not convince Tinmore to leave you both alone.’
‘You tried?’ Genna was surprised.
‘Yes, of course,’ Lorene said. ‘He would only make things worse for you and Rossdale to interfere like that.’
‘I am going to speak with him,’ Genna told her. ‘You may come if you wish.’
She would stop this.
She entered the library without knocking. ‘I would speak with you, sir!’ she demanded.
‘Not now, girl, I am busy.’ He was seated in a chair, the same one, she suspected, where he’d sat with Ross. There were no papers or books around him.
‘I’ll not be put off,’ Genna persisted. She stood in front of his chair. ‘I want you to know where your attempts at manipulation and control have led me.’
‘Now, see here—’ he sputtered.
She did not stop. ‘I am not going to marry Rossdale. Do you hear? I am going to cry off. Rossdale and I will not suit.’
‘Cry off?’ His brows shot up. ‘Oh, no, you are not. He will be a duke. You will marry him now, without delay.’
‘I tell you we will not suit.’ The previous day had showed her how unsuitable she was. ‘And I will not marry a man if we do not suit.’
‘Genna! Do not be hasty,’ her sister cried. ‘Anyone can tell he loves you and you love him.’
He’d done so many loving things for her, but she’d ruined it. Now, at least, she could do something for him—get him out of this foolish plan they’d made.
She turned to Lorene. ‘We will not suit, Ross and me,’ she said. ‘I am everything the Duchess and your husband think of me. Too inconsequential to be the wife of a duke’s heir. Too scandalous.’
Tinmore rose from his chair and waved his cane at her. ‘Now you listen to me, girl. You will marry that man. I do not give a fig whether he loves you or you love him. It is a better match than you deserve. If you cry off there will be no dowry. You will not get another chance.’