Her exhilaration was lessened only by her worries about Langham. They’d heard nothing of him since he’d been taken from the pub by the earl. She had no doubt he was all right, aside from the possible ill effects of too much drinking. Even though Lord Morestowe had sent murderous glares at his brother, Cara didn’t think he would actually hurt him. After all, he was a member of the aristocracy! They didn’t do such things—did they?
Cara shook her head and ended up pulling against Georgiana’s hands.
“Is something wrong?” Georgiana asked.
Cara met her eyes in the mirror. “Do you think Langham will come back?”
“I’m certain of it. He’s had run-ins with Lord Morestowe before. His lordship doesn’t understand Langham’s desire to be an artist. They are like oil and water, those two.”
“How can you be sure he’ll return?”
“He’s got to paint, hasn’t he? All his materials and works in progress are here. He’s not going to abandon those.”
Cara took some comfort in that. Still, she wasn’t entirely at ease. “Suppose his lordship makes him go away?”
Georgiana paused to look at Cara more closely. “You’re not falling in love with him, are you?”
“Of course not! It’s just that, well, he’s been so helpful to me. And he brought me here and asked you and Adrian if I could stay.”
Georgiana went back to working on Cara’s hair. “We have no objection to your staying here for now. We might leave, though, in a week or two. My family has been urging us to join them on holiday in Blackpool.”
It was a reminder to Cara that, as much as she enjoyed being here, this was a temporary situation. Was she only putting off the inevitable—seeking help from her own family? Maybe she’d been foolish to think she could strike out on her own so soon.
“We can discuss all that later,” Georgiana said, tucking the last bit of ribbon behind one of Cara’s curls. “Let’s go show you to Adrian.”
As they went downstairs to the studio, Cara told herself to take things one day at a time. She’d seen many times at the orphanage that answers to prayers could come out of nowhere, and hardly ever in the expected way. Hadn’t she experienced that already, given the events that had transpired since she’d arrived in London? This bolstered her soul and gave her greater confidence for the future.
Adrian was pleased with Cara’s costume and set to work finding the best light to put her in. He had her stand on a raised platform and try several poses.
“But aren’t there supposed to be three of us?” Cara asked. “Where are the other two?”
“That’s what I’d like to know, too,” Adrian replied with a frown. “They are late.”
He’d hardly finished speaking when the doorbell rang.
“That’ll be the ladies, no doubt,” Georgiana said.
Cara caught a glimpse of their maid, Susan, hurrying down the hallway to open the front door.
A minute later, it wasn’t the sound of ladies Cara heard approaching. It was men’s voices. Langham strolled into the studio. Cara was overjoyed to see him, but her greeting snagged in her throat when she saw who was with him.
The Earl of Morestowe paused the moment he laid eyes on her. His raised eyebrows and slightly open mouth conveyed surprise—shock, even. It was no wonder. Her Grecian robes offered far less coverage than a proper frock. A shiver skittered across her bare neck and shoulders. She became acutely aware that the full length of her arms was exposed, along with her feet and ankles. Why hadn’t she felt uncomfortable like this with Adrian? The whole atmosphere of the room changed with the earl’s entrance. Embarrassment flooded through her.
In her confusion, she dropped her eyes from his bold look that seemed to take in every part of her. As she did so, she noticed the bandage around his left hand. She remembered how the coachman had accidentally shut the door on it the night before. Cara’s heart, already aflutter from mortification, began to beat wildly. An idea played at the far edges of her mind, but she wasn’t sure she dared to believe it.
CHAPTER
10
WHEN HE’D ENTERED the artists’ studio, Henry had been prepared for any number of things. But not for this. He froze, hat in hand. He barely registered the room around him, because standing in the center of it, lit by sunlight, was a Greek goddess.
It was a testament to how startlingly beautiful she was that the sight of her instantly sent Henry’s normally staid thoughts into such wild imaginings. He knew, of course, that this was the girl from the tavern. Cara Bernay, the “stunner.” The would-be professional beauty. Her blue eyes grew round, her lips parting in surprise when Henry and Langham entered the room.
Henry swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry. This woman, who had been pretty even in a drab coat, had transformed from an ordinary human into a vision from some myth or heraldic tale. Her cheeks had the rosy bloom he’d noticed last night, but her neck and shoulders were pale as marble. Her gown was drawn in with a gold cord at her waist, displaying a figure perfect in every way. She was a statue come to life, with flowers in her hair and delicate blond tendrils framing her face.
Henry couldn’t find the strength to look away. He was overcome by the urge to take in every detail of her. Try as he might, he could not dislodge the swarm of ridiculous thoughts taking over his brain.
Cara dropped her gaze. She held a bouquet of flowers, which she reflexively brought closer to her chest. Was she embarrassed to be seen like this? If so, why was she allowing herself to be captured by the painter’s brush for posterity?
A curl bounced a little as she straightened and resumed her pose, her moment of uncertainty replaced with a jaunty lift of her chin. The grit she’d displayed last night blossomed in her eyes and posture, and her full red lips gave the barest hint of a smile. Henry was captivated, but there was a stab of disappointment, too. Cara Bernay was learning to throw off embarrassment as one more step on her road to becoming a professional beauty.
“What is this vision of loveliness?” Langham broke the awkward silence, opening his arms wide with warmth and approval. “Cara, you are perfect. Simply perfect. Not even Adrian will be able to do you justice.”
D’Adamo gave a grunt of displeasure at this remark. He had paused his work when Henry entered. So had the other woman in the room, Georgiana Marshall. She stood at an easel by the window, also with paintbrush in hand. Neither looked pleased at Henry’s arrival.
Cara turned her attention and a warm smile toward Langham. “I’m so glad to see you. I was worried you might be prevented from coming.”
Her gaze slid briefly to Henry, but the warmth she’d been directing at Langham did not come with it.
Dropping his hat and gloves carelessly on a table strewn with painting implements, Langham went over to her. “You needn’t have worried. My brother is an ogre, but he has not reached the point of locking me in my room.”
“Not yet, at any rate,” Henry warned, irritated at being talked about as though he weren’t here and growing uncomfortable at the cool reception. “Langham, show me your work,” he directed. This brought more disapproving looks from the others, but Henry didn’t care. If he was to be considered an ogre, then so be it.
“I do not show unfinished work, so I won’t show you the work in progress,” Langham returned. “However, here is one that is complete.” He went to a stack of canvases leaning against the wall. He pulled one out, unwrapped the burlap covering, and turned it to Henry’s view.
The painting was perhaps four feet high. Judging from the clothing of the people in it, it was a depiction of some medieval tale. The scene was set in a garden. Everything was painted in minute detail, from the vines encircling the columns to the intricate patterns on the lady’s gown.
There were two people in the piece, a man and a woman. They looked hurried, furtive, as though in a clandestine meeting. They seemed familiar, but Henry couldn’t place them. Perhaps this was because their faces were partially obscured—the woman’s face was turned away from th
e viewer, toward the man’s shoulder, and the man was leaning into her, his lips pressed against one of her arms. The whole painting spoke of love and longing. It shocked Henry, because it grabbed at his heart in a surprising and painful way.
He said, astonished, “You painted this?”
Langham’s eyes blazed with pride. “Perhaps now you understand what I’ve been trying to tell you.”
A stillness overtook the room. Henry looked around to see that all eyes were on him as he studied the painting. The superior, almost haughty expressions of D’Adamo and Miss Marshall indicated the pride that they, too, had in their profession.
“Isn’t it wonderful?” Cara said. “Langham is such a talented artist.”
Her praise had a near-worshipful tone, and her eyes were shining. Henry wondered if she was in love with Langham. That thought worried him. What if Langham returned her feelings? Given Langham’s history, how could he not find such a woman irresistible? And what dangers would it lead to? In this living situation, it would be too easy to cross the lines of propriety and—
Clearing his throat, Henry looked away from her and focused instead on his brother. “I won’t deny it is good. I can see why Sir Coutts is willing to hang it in the Grosvenor.”
His praise was given grudgingly, because he knew Langham would start preening. Langham did indeed indulge in a triumphant smile.
“Are you also a painter, my lord?”
This question came from Miss Bernay. It surprised him, for he was sure Langham would have already told her the answer to that question. But she seemed perfectly sincere, looking at him with friendly eyes. How could this woman appear so artless and yet also so alluring? A slant of sunlight perfectly highlighted one smooth shoulder, and for some reason this simple fact made it hard for Henry to breathe. “No, I am not,” he managed.
“Henry does have a modicum of ability,” Langham said, “but—”
“I haven’t time for such things,” Henry cut him off.
Langham’s eyes narrowed, and his mouth flattened. He looked between Henry and Cara, his expression unreadable.
“I am a painter,” Cara said, speaking with a lightness that indicated she had not noticed the tension in the air.
“So I have heard.” He spoke more harshly than he intended, sounding as though he were belittling her. Cara looked startled at his rudeness. He said more gently, “I, er, wish you well in your efforts.”
She beamed at him in response, and Henry felt decidedly unsteady.
Langham replaced the burlap over his painting. “Now, dear brother, if you will allow me to return to my work? My next oeuvre will be a masterpiece, too, but it is far from complete.”
The others looked ready to see the back of him, too, except Cara. She was still smiling. Was she trying to win him over? If so, to what end?
Henry wasn’t going to allow his younger brother to dismiss him so casually. “You will accompany me to the door, if you please.”
Langham gave a little smirk at this order. “Yes, m’lord.”
After giving terse good-byes to the others—and refusing to allow his gaze to linger too long on Cara Bernay—Henry walked out of the room with Langham. He paused when they reached the front entryway, satisfied they were out of earshot. “Langham, what do you know of that girl?”
“Cara?” Langham shrugged. “She’s very sweet—as you have no doubt noticed. She has artistic talent, too. I think she has a good chance of succeeding as a painter. Would you like to see her work before you go?”
“No!” Henry didn’t want to risk spending any more time in that studio. Cara had unsettled him too much already. “Where is she from? What’s her background?”
“She grew up in Bristol and spent several years in service before coming to London. She’s pretty, isn’t she?” Langham lifted an eyebrow. “Is that why you are so interested in her?”
“No, that is not why I’m asking,” Henry replied heatedly, although he was still trying to quell the odd sensations that had overtaken him. “I want to know if you are forming some kind of attachment to her.”
“I think she is marvelous, but no, I am not ‘forming an attachment.’”
“Why not?” he blurted, and immediately regretted it. He knew it would give the wrong impression.
Langham answered nonetheless. “My interests regarding that sort of attachment—which I assure you are honorable—lie in a different direction.”
“Which are?”
“I’m not going to tell you. If I do, you’ll interfere and ruin everything.”
It wasn’t the first time Langham had sent back a similar retort, but today it seemed to have extra venom. As though he harbored a long-standing grudge. Sometimes, Henry wondered whether his brother suspected that the sweetheart of his youth had been forcibly separated from him all those years ago. But Henry had no way of finding out, short of telling Langham the truth about the situation, and that was not something he was prepared to do. He returned to the topic at hand. “I’m worried that you’ve taken this woman under your wing when you know almost nothing about her.”
“She needed a place to stay. She has relatives in the city, but for some reason she prefers not to stay with them. That is a sentiment I can well understand.”
They stared at one another with mutual animosity. Henry seethed with frustration, taken by a powerful urge to shake some sense into his brother. Not that it would work.
Langham relaxed his posture and aimed a disarming smile at him. “Have you any money? I owe Adrian for a new canvas and paint.”
It took extra audacity to ask this after the way he’d just insulted Henry. But then, Langham never had any qualms about asking for money, no matter the circumstances.
Reluctantly, Henry reached into his pocket. But he wasn’t going to let the money go without strings attached. He paused before dropping the coins into Langham’s hand. “You are coming back to the house tonight, remember? You are to remain here only during the day—and to spend that time painting.”
Langham gave him a supercilious grin as he pocketed the cash. “Yes, m’lord.”
“Don’t be late.”
Henry strode swiftly out the door, fairly bursting from the house. He wanted nothing more than to walk off his agitation, but his carriage was still waiting at the curb. Taking a deep breath, he got in.
Two young ladies, walking arm-in-arm up the sidewalk, drew even with his carriage. One was a statuesque redhead, the other a shorter but equally slender brunette. Both wore the strange gowns preferred by the devotees of the Aesthetic Movement. Henry had come across a few of these types among the daughters of the upper classes.
He had brought his open landau, so although he was seated, the women could see him plainly. They must have noted the coat of arms on the carriage, for one of them said, “Good afternoon, m’lord.” They both smiled and bobbed a curtsy, but Henry could see their actions stemmed from barely suppressed amusement rather than respect.
He tipped his hat, grateful that the movement of the carriage, which was already pulling away from the curb, kept him from having to do more. Why was he so uncomfortable around women today?
Before the carriage turned the corner, he sent a glance back and was not surprised to see the women walking up the steps to D’Adamo’s house. More models. Or artists? At this point, Henry wouldn’t hazard a guess. Not after seeing Cara Bernay looking so beautifully ethereal and yet insisting she was going to be a painter.
Henry’s interactions with his brother usually left him irritated, but today he was more unsettled than ever. He knew it was because of Miss Bernay. So waiflike, and yet with flashes of inner strength. Clearly she was benefiting from forging this friendship with his brother. Had she really crossed Langham’s path purely by chance? Even if she had, Henry was of the opinion there was no such thing as a “happy” accident. Something was bound to go wrong, and it would fall to Henry to make it right.
“That went well,” Langham announced as he returned to the studio.
&n
bsp; He looked amused, but Adrian gave a little harrumph. “I don’t appreciate such high-handedness in my own home. I don’t care who he is.”
“Trust me, I will do everything in my power to keep him from returning. I’m sorry my brother is such a boor. However, I think he was positively smitten by Cara.” He winked at her.
“Do you really think so?” Cara was still agog from the encounter. She’d been nervous at first, but that abated as soon as she’d come to the firm belief that she had been meant to meet this man. His injured hand proved it.
This thought made her smile, even though it was a secret she couldn’t share with anyone just yet.
“You like him, too, it seems,” Langham remarked.
“Yes, well . . .” She hesitated, not wanting to answer directly. There was no doubt the Earl of Morestowe was handsome. He was too stern and serious, but perhaps a man in his position had to be. Was there a friendlier side to him hiding somewhere, or was he truly so different from his brother?
A picture of Julia’s frowning face came to mind. Cara rarely did anything right in her sister’s eyes. She gave Langham a sympathetic smile. “He doesn’t seem to approve of what you are doing.”
“That’s nothing new.” Langham removed his coat, draped it over a chair, and began rolling up his sleeves. “He’ll change his tune after my triumph at the Grosvenor.”
“He did concede that your work is good,” Georgiana pointed out.
“Small steps.” Langham’s reply held more than a hint of sarcasm. He grabbed his painter’s smock from a nearby coat stand and prepared to work.
Cara was grieved at this discord between the brothers. Thinking of her own situation only intensified this feeling. She was still angry at her sisters, for both had betrayed her. She intended to keep stoking that anger, because it was entirely justified. And yet, it did not keep an ache of longing entirely at bay. Despite their frequent disagreements, she’d never been completely cut off from her sisters, as she was keeping herself now. What were they doing? Were they thinking of her? Were they worried about her?
The Artful Match Page 10