***
Once the door closed behind her, William let loose a low growl of frustration. One hour a day! That was all he was permitted to spend with her. He would see her again at dinner, and then afterwards, once the men had rejoined the women. But that time was filled with constraints, and other guests, and the pretense that they had little interest in each other.
Why must they pretend? His aunt would not find his behavior shocking, though she would likely chide him severely for not paying attention to the horde of debutantes she had assembled. But he could not be certain that the Dowager would approve of Mrs. Beaumont's behavior. He would not take the risk that she would be summarily dismissed, especially if it were because of his growing interest in her.
He heaved a sigh. He would have to content himself with the time they could spend alone, as paltry as it was. He had no inkling what the future held for either of them. He only knew for certain he was excited to see what the morrow would bring.
He grinned. He knew Mrs. Beaumont suspected he had let her win, but in truth, he had only assisted a slight bit in that regard. She was more skillful than she realized, and it had only taken an occasional missed shot to help her become the victor. He enjoyed her competitive nature, along with her unbridled pleasure in winning. Her demure façade had faded away as the game progressed. He almost hated to see its return right before she left.
Yes, it was wisest to start with a drawing lesson, rather than having her sit for him. He was more than willing to bring her joy, and he knew from their previous encounters she was enthralled with learning more about a talent he nearly took for granted.
Who knew? He tilted his head back and gave a satisfied laugh. Maybe she would ask him to be her model one day.
Chapter 18
William watched as the door to the billiards room opened. This time it was not done tentatively, nor did she peer cautiously around the edge of the door. She strode confidently into the room, her eyes seeking him out.
"Welcome, Mrs. Beaumont." He greeted her with a grin and his most elegant bow.
She curtsied deeply, a smile playing about her lips. "Mr. Travers. I hope you are doing well today."
"I am. I hope you are ready for your art lesson."
"I am quite eager," she answered. She glanced about the room. "Where shall we sit?"
"I have somewhere else in mind." When her eyes snapped towards him, he continued, "There is not really enough light here to be useful."
Her expression became a little cautious, but she seemed to fight it off. "Then we should go there at once, since we have only one hour."
"I detest that we have so little time. But we shall definitely make the most of it." He held his hand out towards her, and she regretfully shook her head.
"I cannot. I am risking a great deal merely by accompanying you."
"I must apologize. I forgot." He strode towards the door and held it open for her. "Come then, let us sneak away."
She laughed. "I suppose we should have a reason at the ready, in case we are stopped by a curious onlooker."
"That is easy. You have been charged by my aunt to deliver me to her, most likely to reprimand me for one of my numerous faults."
"Yes," she said with a smile. "That is entirely believable. No one would question it."
He grinned and motioned them toward a long corridor to their left, and then he led them down another, one that led to a distant wing of the house. She stopped for a moment, as if to get her bearings.
"I am not certain I have been in this part of the house. Or at least, not in recent memory."
He placed a finger to his lips in a conspiratorial fashion, even though they were completely alone. "I must enlist your promise never to tell the Dowager where we are going."
"I promise," she breathed, her eyes wide and trusting.
He couldn't resist a quick kiss to the tip of her nose. "Good. This has been a secret hideaway for many years. Even Miles and Richard are unaware of it."
She smiled up at him, and he felt the most curious feeling in his chest—a desire to keep that smile on her face continuously. What a strange notion. How could he possibly do that while he was off pursuing his fickle muse and she was tasked with keeping his aunt entertained? He brushed away the unhappy thoughts. He would keep his attentions on her for the next hour. There was plenty of time the rest of the day to bemoan their fate.
After a long stroll through the deserted wing, William extracted a key from his waistcoat pocket and inserted it into the locked door. It gave a satisfying click. He opened the door wide and motioned Mrs. Beaumont to enter ahead of him.
It was the chivalrous thing to do, of course, but he also wanted to see her reaction to his secret studio. Her eyes widened with genuine appreciation. She smiled as her eyes lit on the easels with half-finished works on them, then the table filled with pencils and paints and discarded paper, and the windows with light streaming through, brightening every surface.
"Now it is I who is jealous of you." She spun around to look at everything once more. "No wonder you have not told anyone else of this treasure. I am honored you have shown it to me."
Her words humbled him. Such a small thing, yet she treated it as something remarkable. A treasure, she had called it, when it was she herself who deserved that title.
She stopped and gave him a smile, one tinged with envy, it seemed. She shook her head and looked away.
There was so much more he needed to know about her. What were her hopes and dreams? Would she share them with him one day?
"Tell me how you came to be my aunt's companion."
She looked at him once more. "It is a common tale. A young widow with no prospects or means of support is taken in by the generosity of others. I am grateful the Dowager chose me."
"She is lucky you accepted. I know what a terror she can be."
Honora laughed. "Not unless you are a mischievous young boy intent on tormenting her."
William shrugged, grinning. "I have often wondered if she enjoyed our little tricks. For all I know, she secretly promoted them, to inspire our creative thinking."
"So she was the reason you became an artist. I shall let her know."
"I would prefer you did not." He laughed. "It might inhibit our future ability to wreak havoc with her."
She laughed again and continued to circle the large work table. "What are your future plans? An exhibition? A Grand Tour to inspire even more art?"
"I am not certain," he confessed. "In truth, I have not done much in the way of art lately."
"Oh? Why not?"
Her genuine concern warmed him. Before he knew it, he was spilling his secrets, telling her things he had never anticipated sharing. "I fear I have lost the urge to paint. My muse has fled to parts unknown."
"No wonder I detected a melancholy air about you. When did your muse flee? Perhaps it will help us determine where she has gone."
"I like that plan. Though it was not an obvious flight, with dramatic sounds and flashes of anger. It was more gradual, until one day I woke up and realized it had disappeared."
He could not confess that she was the source of his inability to paint, all because he could not replicate her joyful demeanor from their very first encounter, when she had completely bewitched him. Each time he had attempted and failed, it had made him wonder if he might never paint again. But there was no need to burden her with his failings. Nor could he make her believe she was at fault.
"I have never heard a sadder tale." From her sympathetic expression, he could see she meant it. "I would be willing to help you."
"I suspect you already have. Come. Let us begin your lesson. We have only a small amount of time available to us."
"Of course. Where shall we start?"
William felt the stirring of excitement that had seemingly disappeared when he tried to do any of his work. Just one more reason he wanted to have Mrs. Beaumont at his side each day.
"Let us move closer to the light, over there by the windows."
&
nbsp; He set up an easel for her, placing the paper just so, relishing the excitement in her features that she tried to minimize. He found it so endearing, he nearly leaned in to kiss her temple, but refrained at the last moment.
"Have you always loved to draw?" she asked. "I must apologize. I have too many questions."
"Not at all. I find I am enjoying being the center of attention. It is a heady experience."
She laughed. "I have never had that experience, so it shall be one more thing I learn from you."
"You are always at the forefront of my thoughts," he confessed. "I can scarce put my attention anywhere else."
"You are quite the flatterer, Mr. Travers."
"I prefer William."
She breathed his name, and his body instantly responded to the soft sound, and the longing accompanying it.
"Please call me Honora."
He touched his lips lightly against the shell of her ear, treasuring the round of shivers it elicited. "Honora. A muse's name. It suits you perfectly."
She tilted her head, to see him or to signal him for more kisses, he was not certain. "I can serve as your temporary muse then. Until the original chooses to return."
The words made him groan with pleasure. Honora took his face in her hands, gazing at him quite seriously. He felt his heart thudding with an emotion he had not experienced, one that was both thrilling and unnerving.
He placed his lips lightly against hers. "I may never let the original return."
***
Honora forced herself to step out of his embrace, giving her a chance to catch her breath, and her equilibrium. He was an intriguing blend of intensity, and quiet certainty, and playfulness. Yet it was easy to see how dismayed he was at not being able to evoke his muse whenever he wished. She had no difficulty setting aside her lessons in order to help him. She was just not entirely sure how to do so.
A vase of yellow roses, clearly liberated from the Dowager's garden, sat atop the large work table in the middle of the room. A half-finished oil painting was on one easel. Honora moved closer to better admire the brush strokes and bursts of vivid yellow.
"Will you finish this one soon?"
William shrugged. "It is not going as planned, for some reason."
"Perhaps watercolor would be a better medium." She grinned. "Though as we both know, my last attempt involved more water than anything else."
"You are correct." He laughed. "I mean about switching the medium when the muse proves uncooperative. Lately nothing seems to affect my progress though."
The wistful tone of his voice stirred up her sympathies, making her want to give comfort. "Surely it will not last."
He shrugged. "It has lingered quite a while."
"But your sketches? You have no trouble with those."
"Those never seem to be affected. I wish I knew why." He walked closer to the easel, studying the half-finished painting. "Perhaps because I do not strive to make them more than what they are."
"Expectations can be rather restricting."
He tilted his head while he regarded her. "Yes, that is exactly it. Even when it is only my own."
"Those are the worst of all."
He plucked one of the roses from the vase and handed it to her. "Would you be willing to see if we could persuade my muse to cooperate?"
She nearly declined the offer. It was unexpected, and a bit nerve-wracking. Still, if it aided him through his current difficulties... And what better way to learn the inner workings of art than to aid an artist who was struggling himself?
"Of course. What can I do to help?"
He brushed the flower over her cheekbone, smiling at the blush it surely produced. "Sit over here, near the window. The light is perfect."
It made her self-conscious, being the center of attention, especially his, but she strolled to the spot he had indicated and took a seat. She did her best not to fidget. What a herculean task that proved to be. She clasped and unclasped her hands several times, not sure what to do with them.
"Is there a certain way I should pose?"
"Do not pose. Simply sit and talk with me."
The same fashion as when he had sketched his cousin. Before she could say anything else, he came and stood in front of her, the rose in his hand. She began to reach for it, but he shook his head. He leaned forward and touched his lips lightly to hers, and then tucked the bloom behind her ear.
"Your beauty puts this poor flower to shame."
She laughed. "Perhaps you should consider becoming a poet instead."
His grin warmed her in a most unusual way, and in places that had seemed quite frozen the past several years.
"I may consider it," he said, "if you are unable to lure my muse out of hiding."
He stepped back, giving Honora a chance to recover her aplomb. She was so out of practice with flirtation, and her feminine wiles had been in hibernation for years. She could not remember the last time a man had made her heart flutter uncontrollably. It would seem she would be learning not only about art, but wooing as well. Both were skills that would stand her in good stead in the years ahead.
William picked up a pencil and gazed at her while he sketched several broad strokes across the paper. She found his intensity fascinating, even more so now that she was the focus of it.
"Shall I sit still? I do not wish to disturb your efforts."
"No, you may move about a bit. This is a preliminary sketch. When I do your actual portrait, you will need to remain in place."
"I did not know you meant to do my portrait."
"Do you find it objectionable?" He halted his movements and gazed at her.
"Not at all. I am rather flattered actually. I had never anticipated seeing a portrait of me done."
"You are someone who should be painted constantly. On a daily basis." He turned his gaze away. "I would do so if I could."
His last words were softer, as if he did not mean for her to hear them, so she pretended she had not. "Will I be able to have the portrait, once you are done with it?"
He laughed, his eyes twinkling with mischief. "Let us wait until it is done. You may regret asking to have it."
"I cannot imagine that ever happening." She found herself intrigued with this man, so quietly confident, yet clearly beleaguered by his perceived artistic failings. "What was the first portrait you painted?"
He tilted his head as he pondered her question. "It must have been the Dowager..." A burst of laughter filled the room. "No, now I remember. It was Richard. Although, to be fair, it should probably not be called a portrait."
"Did it resemble him?"
"Not precisely." His lips lifted in another grin. "I depicted him as a demon of sorts, complete with horns and surrounded by the flames of hell."
"He does have a devilish streak, from what I have heard."
"True. He actually adored the portrait. The Dowager did not, however, and I was banned from doing anything remotely involving paints or canvases for at least a month."
She laughed. "And how many canvases did you paint that month?"
"Dozens. There is nothing quite like the forbidden to stir the muse, it seems." He paused, his pencil in mid-air. "Mrs. Beaumont, you are quite brilliant. I believe you have helped me discover what it is I need."
"The forbidden?" She swallowed carefully, hoping the pounding in her chest was not visible to this man who seemed to see everything she tried to keep hidden. "What could possibly be forbidden to you at this moment?"
"You are," he said softly.
"But I am here. So I am not completely forbidden to you."
It seemed he was going to protest, but then he gave a quick nod, and went back to his sketching. What did he consider forbidden about her? That she was his aunt's companion? He never treated her as less than important because of her role, though he also clearly respected the boundaries it required. He was definitely a puzzle, and even knowing it was probably folly to spend time figuring it out, there was nothing she wanted more.
He clea
rly wanted to know more about her as well. "When you became the Dowager's companion—why did your family not take you in?"
"Because I had gone against their wishes when I chose to marry Mr. Beaumont."
"A rebel then? It seems you know a thing or two about the forbidden."
"As well as the consequences of pursuing it," she said, a little more forcefully than she had intended. "It was not that he was an unsuitable match. He was a good man, and provided for me in every way. My family wanted me to marry another, however, and when I refused, I was cut off from them."
"I am glad my aunt took you in."
"I am as well. I am not entirely certain how she knew I was in such straits, but next thing I knew, she was in my humble abode, insisting that she needed my services. It was impossible to say no to her."
"It usually is," he said with another one of his enchanting grins. "I hope it has been an enjoyable experience."
"It has, actually. She can be irascible at times, and is definitely strong-minded, but she is also very generous with me. I have no complaints or grievances."
William glanced up at her once more, and then back down at his drawing. There was the sound of scratching as he continued his work. "Did you love your husband?"
"Yes, I did. He was the only one who was ever concerned about my happiness. It was painful when he was taken away from me."
"I am so sorry. Truly." There was no mistaking the genuine sympathy in his eyes. "I must apologize for causing you pain now."
"No, you are not. My life has taken an unexpected path, but I find it still contains a great deal of joy."
"Do you anticipate that you will love another someday?"
His question took her aback, because he was once more gazing at her intently, as if her response meant the world to him. She could not decipher his reasons, though. He did not seem the sort to trifle with a woman's affections. If that were the case, he would have one of the debutantes here, not someone he viewed as forbidden. Yet maybe that was the allure...
"You have a great many questions, Mr. Travers."
"William." It was a gentle request, but as it was accompanied by that devilish smile, it created an intimacy that stole her breath. "I have a great many more questions if you will permit them."
Where Have All the Scoundrels Gone? Page 14