Harlequin Historical February 2021--Box Set 1 of 2

by Virginia Heath

  ‘Excluding me, of course, because we both know her reasons for thinking the absolute worst of me—’ And there it was again, that fleeting flash of hurt in his eyes which was gone so fast she already questioned if she had either imagined it or projected it, trying to see what she wanted to see in those fathomless mossy depths to justify why he intrigued her. ‘What does your mother have against all other men?’

  ‘She has three daughters…’ Faith raised her eyebrows, leaving the implication to hang while her mind whirred.

  She wanted to stay. Here, chatting to him. Because he did intrigue her.

  What on earth was the matter with her? Of all the men in this ballroom, all the handsome and less scandalous men in this ballroom, why was she so inexplicably suddenly drawn to him? Why was she so hell-bent on liking him when all she was basing that on was a feeling the rest of the world might have got him all wrong, when she knew it was misguided? When she knew, without a shadow of a doubt, where attractive men were concerned she was a very poor judge of character. Automatically, her gaze flicked to where Lord Rayne and his suitably aristocratic wife were stood across the ballroom, and she absorbed every bit of the anger and shame just the sight of him caused in the hope it would fortify her.

  ‘Ah…yes. Having three daughters must be awful for your mother and your father.’ Unconsciously, Lord Eastwood’s eyes wandered to where his parents stood laughing with friends and instantly they softened, making her wonder if he had abandoned them on purpose at the first available opportunity so they could still have a good time without having to suffer more unsubtle and rude behaviour like her mother’s. Which was an altogether too selfless and too self-aware gesture from a man who selfishly thought only of himself first, last and always. ‘My father used to worry all the time about my sisters. I recall all unrelated men were considered potential despoilers before they were safely married and out of harm’s way.’

  He leaned a little closer, dropping his voice conspiratorially, completely unaware that the whispered tone raised goose pimples on her flesh. ‘Between you and I, I am not entirely sure he’s entirely taken to my two brothers-in-law despite them both proving themselves to be thoroughly worthy men.’ He smelled positively sinful too, the subtle blend of his spicy cologne making her want to move closer so she could sniff it directly from his skin.

  Being all alone in the quiet alcove suddenly felt deliciously intimate. Unnervingly so.

  ‘He’s beginning to warm to my elder sister’s husband…’ As the dancers clapped their appreciation at the end of the set, he briefly leaned closer still so he could be heard over the cacophony, his warm breath caressing the sensitive skin of her neck. Something which had the most unexpected and wholly improper effect on her. An improper effect which brought her up short. For a level-headed, not easily impressed and usually cynical young lady who had been duped before, she was certainly not behaving like herself around him.

  She had always been far too inquisitive. Too nosy and determined to understand everything. That had to explain why she had purposely avoided her waiting dance partner and determinedly sought Lord Eastwood out instead. That she enjoyed his company as much as she enjoyed looking at him was by the by.

  ‘But they have been married almost eleven years, so it is long past time. The younger is only two years in so has yet to prove his mettle. It’ll be years before the poor fellow is fully accepted—if at all—what with Melissa being the baby of the family, and therefore much too young to have a husband in my father’s eyes despite her four and twenty years.’

  ‘Did your father feel the same way towards your wife?’ Faith winced at her crassness, blaming the way his proximity kept distracting her for saying aloud exactly what she was thinking. ‘I’m sorry—that was insensitive of me and is entirely none of my business.’

  Myriad complex emotions skittered across his features before he sighed. ‘In all honesty, they barely knew her. We met during my first weeks in Portugal and married there within a month.’ A fast courtship by anybody’s standards. Had he stumbled blindly into a marriage, married rashly in haste before he realised it had been a huge mistake then…

  Annoyed at her continued habit of always trying to see the good in him when she had nothing but her own gut instinct to go on, Faith decided to focus on his face rather than speculating on the whys and wherefores, then regretted it the second she thought she saw another brief flicker of pain in those seductively hypnotic eyes. ‘They only met once when I brought her on a brief visit to London for our honeymoon and we stayed with them for a few days. The next time I returned home, I came alone and then…well… I stayed alone thereafter.’

  He stiffened then, and looked momentarily horrified by his frank admission before that telling expression vanished too. ‘But enough of that depressing story… Let us talk about something more interesting.’ His gaze swept the room until it latched on to her youngest sister who was dancing a cotillion. ‘For example, are Hope and Charity cut from the same cloth as you, Miss Brookes?’

  She wanted to ask him why he remained alone thereafter. Wanted to know why his marriage came to such a swift and decisive end. Needed to know how he felt about that and why he, a mild-mannered diplomat who appeared to have avoided the gossip columns before his marriage, sought to legally terminate it when he clearly would have loathed all the fuss and scandal such an unusual action created. She already knew him well enough to know that without a doubt. But there was a glint of panic in his expressive eyes now which belied his carefully schooled expression and she did not have the heart to put him through that turmoil too, when just being here at this ball was quite obviously hideous enough for him to be avoiding it so thoroughly.

  ‘Are we cut from the same cloth?’ She tapped her lip and pretended to ponder it, watched the utter relief in his gaze to have been granted such a timely reprieve and wished she could take him by the hand, lead him into the privacy of the night outside and encourage him to let it all out. He was clearly still in pain because she felt it viscerally, even though she really did not want to, and he clearly was in dire need of a friend here in this ballroom.

  ‘If my sisters follow me in anything, it is only in that they are as outspoken and as unfashionably overeducated as I am. Outdated puritanical values aside, my parents brought us up to be independent and freethinking individuals…although between you and I…’ It was her turn to lean forward conspiratorially and she did it to show him she might be able to be that friend she thought he needed so very much, which came as a huge surprise when the sensible part of her still wanted to hate him.

  ‘I suspect they regret that expensive, liberal education now as we all drive them to distraction and never do as we are told. I suppose I favour Papa the most, as I am the only one to inherit his flair for drawing and despite my love of music and annoying tendency to sing to myself all of the time, I have not inherited any of my mother’s talent for it. It’s dreadfully unfair as both my sisters can sing. Charity intends to pursue it professionally like Mama, so I don’t begrudge her the talent in the slightest, but Hope doesn’t particularly even like music so the gift is completely wasted on her.’

  He was smiling again and that warmed her. ‘What does she do instead?’

  ‘She writes.’ Faith pulled a horrified face. ‘Intensely dark, Gothic novels filled with trauma, villains, ghosts and chaos. She’s desperately trying to get them published but is struggling because she flatly refuses to take on a male pseudonym and publishers baulk at the shocking prospect of printing anything written by a female. Not that I blame her for her continued and stubborn persistence, as I doubt I would either.’

  ‘Yet you paint half of some of your father’s pictures and only his name appears on the bottom. Doesn’t it gall a little that he gets all the credit?’

  ‘It does sometimes.’ Especially when people raved about the whimsical landscapes on the giant tableaus which she created, but neglected to mention her hand in them even
though they had seen her paint them, albeit in her father’s style to his exact specification. But Lord Eastwood was the first person who had ever asked that question. Most people assumed women had no ambition of their own and that she would be happy with always playing second fiddle. ‘But it is not uncommon for great artists to use apprentices to assist them on large compositions. Michelangelo and Raphael famously allowed students to practise their skills on portions of their bigger canvases. It is the best way to learn and I am learning from the best after all.’ Although of late, she had felt herself straining at the bit, yearning to paint things her way.

  She loved her father’s work, had once been only too happy to emulate it, but their styles and even their methods were different. He liked to rigidly plan, whereas Faith preferred to let the muse take her, which meant that she often felt hemmed in by his clear vision. She also, although she would never admit it aloud to another living soul, frequently felt some of his group portraits erred too much on the traditional formal side for her taste. Tried and tested poses. Classically toned palettes. Still always brilliant of course, because nobody painted a likeness better than him, but a tad safe. Something her reckless streak rebelled against. When she eventually branched out on her own, her pictures would be very different. But she quashed all that to answer Lord Eastwood.

  ‘The truth is, my lord, until somebody deigns to buy one of my compositions, I consider myself lucky to be his apprentice. Any budding artist would give their eye teeth for the honour of working with my father and there is a waiting list for his classes at the Royal Academy. He is a brilliant teacher and a generous one. He has always been my strongest advocate who actively encourages my own ambitions.’ A fact which couldn’t be denied. ‘So when I assist with one of his commissions, like I am with your family’s, I like to think what emerges on the finished canvas is an amalgamation of the both of us.’

  He folded his arms as he regarded her, drawing her gaze briefly to the muscles in them where the fabric was pulled taut and making her wayward artist’s eye consider he would be a good specimen to paint. He was tall, broad, classically handsome. Perfectly proportioned. Shirtless perhaps.

  Or completely nude…

  Her pulse quickened at the illicit and improper thought.

  Not that her father would countenance such a study. In all her years of training, with all the various sitters she had honed her craft on, not one had ever been anywhere close to naked! She glanced guiltily back at Lord Eastwood, only to find him staring at her amused and for one horrible moment she was convinced he had read her mind.

  ‘I said, are you never tempted to swap, Miss Brookes? Let your father paint the landscapes for a change while you tackle the faces?’

  Of course she was. All the time. She itched to spread her wings and explore the entire gamut of her talent. To try new things and experiment with different and radical ideas and methods. Except nobody had yet asked for a uniquely Faith Brookes picture of anything—let alone a portrait. Nude or otherwise. ‘Why would we do that?’

  ‘Because—and you must excuse my language here, Miss Brookes—it hasn’t escaped my notice you draw a damn good portrait yourself. The one you did of me was excellent. It ran rings around your father’s.’

  The compliment warmed her while making her feel disloyal at the same time. ‘My father was merely having an off day. I am no match for his talent.’

  ‘If you say so…’ The knowing look seemed to see straight through her, perhaps even to the scandalously nude image of him her mind adamantly refused to relinquish. ‘But if you don’t mind, I have a faith in you, Miss Faith Brookes, and I believe you are as talented, if not more so, than your brilliant father, and I for one would like to see what you will accomplish when you decide to come out from behind his shadow.’

  ‘I…’ She was touched. Momentarily speechless. Thoroughly charmed and scandalously attracted to a man she shouldn’t even be talking to in public, let alone smiling at. ‘I have no plans to…’ She had never admitted her own ambition outside the safe confines of her family, assuming they would inevitably scoff because of her sex, but for some reason she wanted to tell him because she felt he would understand. ‘That’s not true. I do have plans. Huge lofty plans of setting up my own studio and painting things all my way. Vast landscapes and seascapes mainly because the raw intensity of the ocean and nature fascinates me, but I would like to dabble in portraiture too just…’ She paused, feeling disloyal.

  ‘Different to your father’s?’

  ‘Yes…a little less traditional. I know the fashion for portraits is close up and demure, and some, like my father’s, are less formal, but I should like to paint people doing things rather than staring out of the canvas. I suppose that is why I prefer to paint nature—I can paint what I see and feel and not what everyone expects.’

  His astute green eyes seemed to stare into her soul as he smiled. ‘Why am I not surprised by that?’

  ‘It’s my wilful streak.’

  ‘No it isn’t. It’s you. You were born to be different and to shine because of it.’ That was the nicest compliment anyone had ever given her and it did something odd to her heart. ‘Which begs the question, Miss Brookes, what exactly are you waiting for? If what I have seen is any gauge, you have served your apprenticeship. Paint your pictures, fulfil your destiny and take the world by storm.’

  ‘If only it were that simple.’ She sighed and made no attempt to mask her frustration. ‘First, to make any headway, I would need to get my work noticed and that requires someone willing to exhibit it. The most prestigious and lucrative route is to get a picture or two into the Royal Academy’s annual exhibition, and that is easier said than done. The judges are very particular.’

  ‘And you are very talented.’

  ‘Perhaps…’ She shrugged, wanting to believe him, to cast out her own crushing doubts about her talent, and then huffed out a frustrated sigh. ‘But I am also a woman, which automatically puts me at a disadvantage even though they might claim it doesn’t, and then I am also the daughter of Augustus Brookes, which bothers them more.’

  ‘Why? Isn’t he one of them?’

  ‘That’s the problem. While he isn’t a judge, he is an Academician, and to avoid any accusations of nepotism on their part, I suppose they cannot accept one of my pictures unless it truly is one of the best put forward. The bar is set ridiculously high and so far, I have failed to meet it.’ Deep down she suspected that might be because she too played things safe when submitting to them. Offering a canvas which she thought might appeal to them instead of risking one of the paintings she had poured her heart and soul into.

  ‘You will.’

  ‘Because you have faith?’

  He smiled at her reuse of his pun. ‘I do. When is the next exhibition?’

  ‘June. Submissions need to be in next month as they need a long time to deliberate, and I have a few paintings which I might enter, and one I am still working on which I might finish in time.’ The one her heart and soul wasn’t in but that nagging voice of doubt thought the judges might understand better.

  ‘I’d love to see them.’

  And bizarrely, she was tempted to show him them, which came as a total shock when she ferociously guarded her truest art by making sure it never left the sanctuary of her studio. ‘I thought you had no interest in art?’

  ‘I have no interest in my mother’s family portrait, largely because she insists on putting me in it, which involves your father forcing me to sit for hours bored stiff while he shouts at me. Is he always so…’

  ‘Unreasonable? Temperamental? Downright impossible with a brush in his hand?’

  ‘I was going to say tetchy, but then I am a diplomat and I do have an uncanny knack of bringing out the worst in people nowadays so…’

  ‘There you are, Faith!’ Her next dance partner suddenly strode into their private little oasis. ‘I was beginning to despair of ever fi
nding you. Have you forgotten you promised me the last waltz?’

  ‘Is it that time already, Edward?’ Because she now wished she could turn back time a little or will the hands of the clock to move slower. Obvious reservations aside, she now had so many unanswered questions about Lord Eastwood, she would happily chat away to him all night. He was surprisingly easy to talk to.

  ‘It is about to start.’ Two blue eyes, nowhere near as compelling and expressive as the suddenly stormy green ones, glared at Lord Eastwood with downright hostility. ‘If you will excuse us?’

  ‘Of course.’

  Edward offered Faith his arm and reluctantly, she took it, not liking the way everyone initially treated this conundrum of a man like the worst sort of scoundrel—herself included. He immediately covered her hand with his possessively, but as he started to lead her away, he turned.

  ‘Forgive me, but I do not believe we have been formally introduced, my lord—although, of course, I know you by reputation.’ He held out his hand in challenge, the implied insult as clear as a gauntlet being thrown down, almost as if he was waiting for any flimsy excuse to be aggressive. ‘I am Edward Tate. A particular friend of Faith’s and indeed of her entire family.’ He still held her firm like a prized possession. ‘You have doubtless heard of me.’

  Appalled at both the lack of manners, the presumptuous proprietorial claim upon her and the haughty prejudgement of a gentleman who had been nothing but polite, she wanted to slap Edward away, then rail at him for his rudeness. Instead, mindful of both a potentially hideous scene and causing Lord Eastwood yet more undeserved embarrassment, she let go of Edward’s arm as a mark of protest and stepped aside. Hell would have to freeze over before she danced the waltz, or any other dance, with Edward Tate tonight! If he was going to be petty and small-minded, she wanted no part of it or him and tried to tell Lord Eastwood as much with the power of her outraged glare and the yard’s worth of frigid distance she had put between them.