It's Marriage Or Ruin

by Liz Tyner

  ‘There is one younger male than you in your family?’

  ‘Yes. He is dancing with Miss Geraldine now.’

  She gasped. He felt it. ‘Oh, I thought him the eldest.’

  ‘He just looks older. It’s all the dancing he does. It wears on him.’

  ‘Then it really must chagrin you,’ she spoke as he swirled her around, ‘when people confuse the two of you.’

  ‘They don’t often.’

  ‘And you are a wonderful conversationalist,’ she added. ‘I dare say you could carry on a conversation with...a...a teapot?’ She frowned. ‘That did not come out exactly right, did it?’

  ‘Perhaps you should have said anyone.’

  She shrugged. ‘I’m not very good at speaking with people. It’s I who lack conversational skills.’

  ‘Perhaps you could practise.’

  ‘I prefer to speak through my canvas. I know nothing of the subjects that other people talk about.’

  ‘The trick is to listen and encourage them to speak more.’

  ‘A brilliant theory.’ She paused. ‘And what interests do you have?’

  He firmed his lips, set his jaw, then gazed at her. ‘Beautiful women. Fine refreshments.’ He gave a slight twist to his lips. ‘A night of dancing.’

  She raised one eyebrow. ‘You have your conversational skills honed.’

  ‘I practise.’

  ‘And what interests do you truly have?’

  ‘I gamble, on occasion. Small amounts. Drink. Small amounts again. And then, of course, I prefer an occasional soirée, but not masquerades. I know the object is to pretend to be someone else, but it’s too frivolous for me.’

  Her mouth opened, then her lips turned up. ‘I saw a reproduction of Dressing for a Masquerade once and the event looked exciting.’

  Marcus took a moment before speaking. ‘I’ve witnessed that particular portrayal of Thomas Rowlandson’s and I would advise strongly that you take caution when you see anything with his name on it. He doesn’t consider that a woman might view what he creates.’

  ‘I live for drawings and oils and charcoals. And sometimes the life that is reproduced is not always polite.’

  ‘Miss Catesby, that doesn’t mean that it shouldn’t be. The world doesn’t begin and end at the end of a paintbrush, and artists should only create to educate.’

  ‘Well...’ she moved within the waltz and the distance between them lessened ‘...the world doesn’t revolve around gambling, women and drink for me.’ She beheld him through her lashes. ‘Please allow me my vice.’

  ‘I would prefer to credit you with only virtues.’

  She laughed. ‘Yet you prefer me to presume only vices for you.’

  ‘Where you are concerned, that is probably for the best.’ He’d so wanted to dislike her, but when she laughed, the sound resonated inside him and made him want to hear it again. ‘And accurate.’

  ‘Shame on you, Lord Grayson. If I may be so straightforward, you have a dashing profile.’

  He bowed in acknowledgement of the compliment.

  ‘What did you think of Lady Avondale’s portrait?’ she asked. ‘I know you said it is good, but...’

  He glanced down. ‘I should like to view a likeness of you.’

  She gasped with pleasure. ‘That is so kind of you. Are you fascinated at all by art?’

  He blinked. ‘No. I don’t see colours the same as other people. I can’t tell the difference between most of them.’

  She closed her eyes for a moment. ‘I am so sorry you have missed out on the beauty of hues.’ She shook her head. ‘I will try not to be bothersome to you, Lord Grayson. I feel for you. I could not live without the colours of my paints.’

  ‘I am sorry I have missed out on the beauty as well.’

  When the music ended, they stopped, but didn’t immediately separate. He imagined her in a portrait. On his wall. To gaze at. He swallowed. His conversational skills had evaporated.

  ‘Would you like a stroll in the gardens?’ he asked.

  She studied him. ‘You don’t like art?’

  He firmed his lips. ‘Not usually.’

  ‘Oh...’ She peered beyond his shoulder. ‘If you will pardon me, your brother is beckoning me.’

  Neither spoke as they went in opposite directions.

  * * *

  Emilie walked away from the couples, feeling she’d just stumbled, instead of dancing. And she was certain she’d not missed the steps.

  Mr Westbrook strolled her way and she asked him if he liked watercolours, and he regaled her with a day his father had hosted the caricaturist Gillray, years before, and Mr Westbrook continued on, discussing prints he’d seen, and agreed that he, too, dabbled with paints. The talk of tints and hues should have been more interesting. But it wasn’t really.

  Then he led her into the swarm of dancing people and she beamed in all the right places and feigned all the fascination she could and hid her relief as the music ended.

  When she reached her mother at the refreshment table, she peeked at Lord Grayson. He was observing Lady Elliot and her two daughters.

  Then, another man approached the group. The man glared at Grayson, which was wise of him, and offered his arm to the younger Miss Elliot. She accepted the invitation and they sauntered away.

  Then Grayson turned, an indulgent smile on his lips. He gave Emilie the barest glance before he turned to the elder daughter, spoke and she tucked her hand under his arm and let him lead her to the Roger de Coverly.

  Emilie tapped with her fingertips against the side of her lemonade glass, watching Lord Grayson with Miss Elliot—the woman dancing was obviously revelling in the experience of being so close to him.

  Grayson spoke to his partner when they met. He moved as if he had wings on his boots. The woman floated along, too.

  He gazed at the woman as if he’d never had such a captivating audience.

  When he changed position, Emilie knew he’d perceived she was observing him.

  He spoke again to the woman and indicated the doorway.

  That wasn’t appropriate. He would likely take that woman to the gardens as he had suggested to Emilie. True, the garden had many guests conversing in it, but a later meeting could be planned.

  That unrepentant rake. That scoundrel. He was aware she watched.

  Well, if he wished her to be aware, then she would give him a taste of his own medicine. Emilie turned to her mother.

  ‘Did you notice how Lady Elliot appears pained?’

  Her mother’s brows furrowed and she inspected Lady Elliot, her grey hair swirled at the edges of a feathered band. ‘No,’ her mother said at Emilie’s side. ‘I perceive nothing out of the ordinary about her.’

  ‘I should ask her to take a turn around the gardens,’ Emilie said. ‘For her—for my health. If I say it is for my health, that might make her feel better and not make her ashamed of her weakness.’

  ‘That is so unlike you.’

  ‘It is the society, Mama. It makes me feel...um, not like an artist so much, but more like a...’ She paused, listening to the nonsense she spouted, but it had truth in it. ‘I feel...womanly.’

  Her mother groaned. ‘If I had known that getting you to a gathering such as this would change you, I would have made sure to have done it years ago.’

  All her mother would have had to do was guarantee some interesting artists would be there and Emilie would have jumped at the chance.

  She meandered to the mother of the woman Lord Grayson had danced with. She was engrossed in conversation with a dowager. Chaperonage fell to the wayside when a mother’s daughter was close to a potential peer and a longed-for son-in-law.

  ‘Lady Elliot,’ she whispered, touching the woman’s arm and interrupting the discussion. ‘Could you please join me in the gardens? I may have had more wine than I shoul
d have. I had two glasses, but perhaps more.’

  The woman raised her eyebrows. ‘The wine is delicious, but a lady must always pace herself.’

  Emilie touched her gloved hand to her forehead. ‘I agree. But sometimes a faster pace gets the better of me.’

  The older woman patted her hand, spoke briefly to her companions and took Emilie’s arm as they strolled to the cooler air.

  Emilie saw the darkest edge and aimed for it, leaving the strains of music behind.

  ‘If you’d stay with me for a moment longer...’ She kept Lady Elliot at her side. ‘I am feeling better, but...’

  ‘Dear...’ Lady Elliot patted Emilie’s glove ‘...do be careful of the drink. It doesn’t always improve a woman’s complexion. A little does add a rosy glow, but take a lot and the headache isn’t worth it. You’ll be ghastly the following day.’

  ‘Well,’ Emilie admitted, brushing away a wisp of hair that had loosened from her bun, ‘now and then, I do forget about my appearance.’

  ‘You must never do that.’ Lady Elliot sputtered. ‘A woman’s decorum and fashion should always be of utmost importance in her mind. My Cecilia Ann has been schooled in that. Proper manners and a good wardrobe can take a woman far.’

  Emilie frowned. She wouldn’t make it far then.

  They found a bench in the darkness. ‘It is a lovely evening,’ Lady Elliot said, ‘except for Mrs Hodges’s dress. The colours would favour Mr Hodges better.’

  ‘Um...’ Emilie said, imagining a painting of Mr Hodges. ‘It would not work with his complexion. He would fade away into nothing.’

  They discussed the varieties of colour in the ballroom, then feminine laughter and one rich baritone interrupted their chat. The laughter and the baritone were obviously moving towards Emilie and Lady Elliot.

  The woman beside Emilie stilled.

  Lord Grayson and his dancing partner were nearly directly in front of them when the two standing saw the two sitting. Even the air stopped.

  The young woman spoke, voice high. ‘Mother?’

  Lady Elliot moved to her feet. She took her daughter’s arm. ‘You promised the next reel to Sir Calvin.’ She took her daughter’s arm. ‘Cecilia. Inside. Right now. Immediately. I cannot fathom how you got confused. That is inexcusable manners.’

  Lady Elliot didn’t slow as she twirled her daughter around and moved towards the lighted house—forgetting all about Emilie.

  Chapter Two

  Lord Grayson remained perfectly still for several moments before he moved. He rearranged the hem of his sleeve and his eyes fell over Emilie, making the air she swallowed fill her with a fresh warmth. ‘We meet again.’

  ‘You knew I was out here,’ she said.

  ‘Whether I did or not, it doesn’t matter.’

  Even in the darkness, Emilie could imagine him plainly. Nature had sculpted a visage which could have inspired Michelangelo to do better work.

  Her hand wanted to caress, to run over the planes of his cheek so she could experience him with the feeling of touch as well as sight.

  Inwardly, she berated her traitorous thoughts. She pulled herself from the momentary stupor, blaming it on her fascination with form.

  How unfair that someone such as Lord Grayson, a man who said he liked frivolities, would have such a pleasing appearance. Her mother had been so wrong about which of Avondale’s sons had been graced with handsomeness.

  The humour on his lips faded. ‘Miss Catesby, you are an accident waiting to happen.’

  She tossed the words out. ‘Accidents do happen and I am not the cause of any of them.’

  ‘You cause things to happen on purpose.’

  ‘Occasionally.’

  He reached out, taking her hand, and she moved, letting him pull her to her feet.

  ‘When you are near, Miss Catesby, I suspect they happen more than usual.’ He touched her waist, gently connecting with her garment and pouring sensation into her.

  ‘I would not claim that.’ She forced her voice to be firm and tried to examine him closely in the darkness—an error. Something pushed her heartbeats faster.

  ‘We have seen each other before,’ he said. ‘Years ago.’

  ‘I don’t...’ She searched her memories. ‘Are you certain?’ she asked.

  She heard the leaves whispering to each other as they rustled in the darkness.

  He didn’t answer with his voice. But his expression told her. ‘I remembered where earlier. But it has been many years. I didn’t recognise you at first.’

  Emilie paused.

  ‘I should go inside.’ The words didn’t sound like her own. ‘I wouldn’t want either of our reputations harmed.’

  ‘Miss Catesby.’ His free hand closed over her gloved fingers and before she knew what he intended, he lifted her fingertips as if to kiss them. The scent of his shaving soap teased her. She’d never come across a soap like that, but she wasn’t sure if it was the soap that made him smell so good, or if it was the man himself.

  ‘If my reputation were to be harmed, I would be pleased if you were the one to do it.’

  She felt disappointment when he dropped her hand instead of kissing it.

  He moved closer and she realised he still held her waist, rotating his fingertips against the covered corset which felt thicker than any mattress, yet the warmth of his hand penetrated the garment. His mouth moved closer to her own and he held her still, keeping her so steady she couldn’t have moved away. She presumed him about to kiss her, but instead, he spoke.

  ‘Miss Catesby. Stay away from my brother. He would ruin you.’

  She touched the light wool of his waistcoat, letting her fingers flatten against him. Leaves rustled again as the wind touched them. The breeze strengthened, and the air tingled her cheeks. ‘I would say it’s not your concern.’

  ‘Miss Catesby. You’re an innocent.’ His fingers pressed into the fabric at her waist and he moved back a whisper.

  She trailed her fingers up the waistcoat, touching the cravat, the edge of his jaw, the curve of his lips. She could have been touching a Michelangelo when she felt his face. This was something she’d never imagined before. Her heart pounded from the merest touch of his skin.

  To feel a true masterpiece overwhelmed her. She dropped her hand and clenched it, keeping it at her side. She could hardly wait to capture in paint a masculine jawline. One with a hint of darkness in it. In shadows. Such a challenge. To put this image on canvas. A man in the shadows. Darkened features. She could never call it The Dark Angel. Her mother would destroy it. She would call it A Saint In Repose.

  She could not calm her heartbeats, but inspiration came at the strangest moments, and one should relish them, hold them close, hug them to one’s heart.

  But she could not touch him again. He was the forbidden fruit. The crevasse that could swallow the as-yet-unmade creations that were inside her and turn her into nothingness.

  ‘Art is my passion.’

  His mouth parted. ‘You could have more than one passion, perhaps.’

  ‘I do. Oils, then watercolours.’

  ‘Oils?’ he spoke, moving so close, and somehow he’d turned the word into something else. Something intimate.

  Her scrutiny never left him and her hand escaped again. She had to study him. She retraced his jawline. The linen cravat. The rougher wool. She stopped where she started, trapped in some trance that he had spun around her.

  Her love of shape and form and inspiration travelled from her fingertips to deep inside her.

  He stepped away and her fingers followed, lingering at his waistcoat.

  ‘No.’ His voice roughened.

  ‘Your brother would not refuse my touch.’

  ‘No.’ The word destroyed the magic. ‘I am telling you no for both of us.’

  He touched the hand at his chest, took her fingers, kisse
d above the glove and released her. ‘And you must stay away from him.’

  ‘Really, Lord Grayson?’

  ‘Yes.’ He brushed a touch across her cheek and she swayed towards him.

  She whispered, ‘I know what I’m doing.’

  ‘You are creating an accident and it is your choice.’ Grayson took her shoulders and moved inches from her, hinting at things both darker and softer. ‘Do you prefer my brother?’

  She didn’t speak.

  He whispered at her ear, his voice becoming even richer. Fingertips touched her chin. ‘He is wrong for you.’

  She turned away, pulling from his grasp.

  He increased the distance between them, using his voice to make a barrier, but a barrier that could be moved. ‘Say it, Miss Catesby. Say whether you prefer me over my brother.’

  ‘Why should it matter? I hardly know him.’ She examined Lord Grayson again. ‘I know even less of you.’

  ‘I feel I have known you for ever.’ He paused. ‘Please call me Marcus.’

  ‘This is the first occasion we’ve met. Truly.’ Yet he stirred something deep inside her. She wanted to tell him the energy he inspired within her. How fortunate she’d been to have the opportunity to approach him and to feel the sensations. She gave him her greatest compliment. ‘You would make a lovely portrait.’

  In that second, he retreated, turning the night cold.

  His head tilted back and, even in the dim light, she could tell he scrutinised something in the distance. He flexed his jaw. ‘I hope you enjoy the soirée.’

  ‘And you as well, Marcus.’

  She couldn’t force herself to leave him, but he turned and moved back to the light.

  She took her glove from her hand and touched her lips. Marcus. So much better than Michelangelo’s David. David was almost a child. Marcus was a man.

  Unable to move inside, she waited in the darkness, listening to the muted music and the laughter. Her aunt had a book with an engraving of the sculptor’s Moses. Marcus was not bearded or old, but she imagined him as a likeness of that sculpture. Oh, the arms. They were magnificent in the engraving.