Evelyn had assumed the scrutiny would shift away from them once it was realized that Benedict was not among them, but that turned out to be only half true. While many seemed to forget about them, others glanced up at them from time to time, trying to discover who occupied Benedict’s box and how they might be acquainted with him. It had caused her to fidget and squirm throughout the performance, making it difficult for her to enjoy it.
She turned to Hugh now, taking solace in his nearness. “I am fine, truly.”
He gave her hand a squeeze. “We can leave if you wish. I don’t want all the attention to rob you of your enjoyment of the play.”
Guilt assailed her at the notion of her own anxieties ruining the evening for him. He’d wanted to come out with her and introduce her to his friends; she would not spoil that.
Tightening her hold on his hand, she gave him the best smile she could manage. “No, I want to stay. I will be fine, I promise.”
He spent the rest of the evening clinging tight to her hand in a silent show of support. It was easier to forget the glances of those below them in the pit, though the slow circles he made on the inside of her wrist with his thumb proved to distract her from the performance. Despite her gloves, she felt his touch down to her bones, goosebumps prickling the surface of her skin as she gave herself over to thoughts of how the night might end. Her distraction grew so unbearable, it was all she could do to keep from telling him she’d changed her mind and they had to leave right away. But, to leave now would only draw more attention, and the last thing she wanted was for people to notice and begin speculating over the woman who had made an early exit from the theater on the arm of the son of the Earl of Perth. Hugh might no longer hold much of a place amongst the people of the ton, but he could still provide the sort of fodder that would keep the gossip mill churning for months.
So, Evelyn suffered through what remained of the performance. When the curtain finally dropped it was all she could do not to leap from her chair as if her skirts were on fire and drag Hugh out into the night. Instead, she took his offered arm and traded banal remarks with their companions about tonight’s performance—what little of it she could recall—with a tight smile on her face.
When Dominick invited them to join the others as a nearby coffee house, Evelyn had tightened her hand on Hugh’s arm and glanced up at him. Without a word, she communicated her desire to be alone with him, which he seemed to interpret with very little effort.
“Perhaps another time,” he said, placing a hand over hers in the crook of his arm. “I should get Evie home.”
And to bed, she thought, excitement coursing through her in a heady rush.
She was finally ready, and now nothing stood in her way. The moment they were ensconced within her bedchamber, she would make known her desires. A small smile curved her lips as they navigated the stairs down to the lobby, now allowing her thoughts to tread the places she’d avoided during the play. Evelyn became so occupied imagining Hugh undressing her, kissing her, laying her down and finally joining their bodies in that irrevocable way, she nearly stumbled when he came to an abrupt stop just outside the doors of the theater. His arm tensed beneath her hand, and he drew in a sharp breath as he stared with wide eyes at whatever had snared his attention.
Evelyn righted herself, clinging to Hugh’s arm with both hands as she glanced about for the object of his clear distress. Following his gaze, her heart plummeted into the pit of her gut as she noticed the tall, slender man with Hugh’s facial features and dark hair. He’d come to a stop as well, his gaze falling onto Hugh for a moment before darting away to fix on something beyond them. Despite being very much aware of their presence, he seemed to actively ignore them, a fact that had Hugh fairly vibrating with barely-contained emotion.
“Marcus,” Hugh said, his tone clipped.
So, she’d been right to assume this man was one of Hugh’s brothers. If she hadn’t missed her guess, they stood before Viscount Radcliffe himself, first son and heir to the earldom.
Marcus flinched when Hugh said his name but did not respond. Neither did he make a move to walk around or away from him. Hugh heaved a frustrated sigh and shook his head in disbelief.
“You don’t even have to speak to me, god damn you,” he growled. “But I’d heard Elinor has come close to her time. You might at least let me know if my new nephew or niece has been born.”
A muscle in Marcus’s jaw ticked, but for a moment that was the only sign that he was anything more than a statue, some heavy, motionless thing standing before them. But then, he finally turned his head to meet Hugh’s gaze and ever so slightly inclined his head.
Hugh scowled. “Boy or girl? Oh, don’t bother wrestling with whether or not to actually tell me aloud, I know how difficult it is for you to make a move without Father here to pull the strings. Still, you might...I don’t know, blink once for a boy and twice for a girl. Would that soothe your conscience over not even telling me you were expecting again?”
Evelyn shifted from foot to foot, growing uncomfortable as the brothers began to draw stares and whispers from those walking past. They’d been recognized, and she felt certain that by tomorrow morning drawing rooms would be filled with stories of the confrontation between the eldest Radcliffe and the youngest.
Marcus clenched his jaw, looking as if he wished to strike Hugh, one hand even balling into a fist at his side. But, he refrained, simply holding Hugh’s stare and offering two slow blinks.
A girl. Hugh now had a new niece added to the ranks of family he had been barred from. Sorrow for him slumped her shoulders as she realized he might never lay eyes upon the babe.
As if released from some sort of trance, Marcus finally moved, shouldering his way past them, bumping Hugh as he did so. Hugh swiveled to watch his brother retreat, his long legs carrying him deeper into the crowd swelling outside the theater.
“Take care not to fall down off that high horse of yours!” Hugh bellowed at his brother’s back.
Marcus kept moving, not even looking back to indicate whether he’d heard Hugh. Evelyn glanced up at her companion, who shook with anger, his face set like stone, a vein throbbing in his temple. She wanted to take his hand as she had in the theater, lean in and kiss his jaw, smooth the furrows in his brow with her fingertips. She wanted to find some way to banish the pain that lingered just beneath the rage, the rejection that had clearly hurt more than he wanted to let on.
“Come,” he murmured, gently tugging her along.
She followed his lead, remaining silent as he searched for a hackney coach among the vehicles coming and going on the street. Before long, he’d handed her up into a conveyance, settling himself on the squabs across from her without a word. They made the journey to her house in complete silence, the tension radiating from Hugh in waves and stifling the air around them. Evelyn clenched her hands together in her lap and searched her mind for the right words to say. Yet, nothing she could think of would suffice. What was she to say to him—I’m so sorry your family has cast you from among them like an unwanted dog? Even reassuring him that he’d done nothing wrong did not feel quite right at the moment. So, she simply surrendered to the silence, hoping that by the time they arrived home he would have recovered from the encounter.
However, he seemed no better once they stood before her front door, the street lamps casting a yellow glow over them. Evelyn searched his face, though now he wouldn’t even look at her, his mind seeming somewhere far off as he stared into the night, unmoving.
Clearing her throat, she took a step closer to him, wringing her hands. “Will...will you come in with me?”
He finally gazed at her, his expression softening slightly as he cupped her cheek. “Forgive me, Evie, but I’m afraid I wouldn’t be very good company tonight. It is no fault of yours.”
No, but she couldn’t help the sinking feeling in her middle. She realized that their arrangement gave her all the power here, that all she need do was make it clear what she wanted and insist he accompany h
er inside. And no matter how wretched he was feeling just now, Evelyn knew he would comply. He’d do it if she told him exactly why she wished for him to come upstairs with her.
But then, she had no wish to treat him like a whore, no matter how much money she was paying to keep him at her beck and call. He’d come to mean more to her than a way to get rid of her virginity. She liked him in a way that went beyond lust, and she cared about him a great deal more than she’d realized before now. She wanted him to want to be with her, and if he was not in the mood just now, she couldn’t bring herself to demand it of him.
“I understand,” she whispered. “Good night, Hugh.”
She stood on tiptoe to accept his kiss on her cheek, then turned to go inside as Joseph swung open the front door.
“Good night, Evie,” he replied, just before the door clicked shut behind her.
* * *
“Ah, Hugh, there you are!”
Hugh glanced up from the tiles beneath his feet to find that he’d nearly run down Mr. Crosby and the man walking beside him. He’d been unsettled all morning, just barely making it through his study of Greek statues. While the other students had diligently examined the sculptures from all angles and set about capturing the marble forms in their sketchbooks, Hugh’s mind hadn’t been up to the task. He’d made a poor attempt at it, filling his pages with half-finished renderings of Hercules wrestling with Lichas, Artemis holding a stag by his antlers, and Pluto seducing an unwilling Proserpina. The study of motionless sculptures which still portrayed lightness and movement had always been one of Hugh’s favorite classes, yet he could not bring himself to feel that spark of inspiration or creativity, not after the events of last night.
“Mr. Crosby,” he murmured, adjusting his hold on the satchel hanging at his side. “Good to see you this morning.”
His mentor wrinkled his brow, seeming to notice that something was amiss with him. But he made no mention of it, gesturing instead to his companion.
“If you have a moment, there’s someone I’d like you to meet. This is Mr. Noel Russell.”
Hugh’s curiosity piqued as he took in the somber man in stark black attire, a hat held under one arm. His dark hair had begun to gray at the temples, and a pair of round spectacles sat balanced on a sharp, prominent nose, a pair of cool blue eyes assessing him from behind glass lenses.
“The architect?” he asked, taking the other man’s proffered hand. “It is an honor to meet you, Mr. Russell.”
The man had made quite a name for himself in the last decade as one of the foremost architects of England, undertaking several public works on top of renovating many of the nobility’s grandest country homes. The man also taught at the Academy’s school of architecture, though Hugh’s studies had never brought him in contact with the man.
“The honor is mine, Mr. Radcliffe. Crosby has been singing the praises of his favorite student for a while now, so I supposed it was high time to meet you.”
Crosby beamed, clapping Hugh’s shoulder with one hand. “Mark my words, Russell, this young man will be hailed as London’s most accomplished portraitist in a decade or less.”
Hugh’s face heated under Crosby’s praise, but the other man’s words stoked his hopes. After being reminded, yet again, that his choices had led to him being effectively barred from being part of his own family, he needed a reason to continue his current course.
“Show him your work,” Crosby whispered, giving him a little nudge.
Hugh fumbled with his satchel, producing one of several sketchbooks inside—taking care not to retrieve the one with today’s work inside. The last thing he needed was for Russell to see just how distracted he’d been during his lesson. The drawings weren’t even half as good as what he was capable of.
Crosby glanced over Russell’s shoulder, observing the pages as the architect flipped through them. The book represented some of his best work, from landscape drawings, to his studies of the various live subjects he’d gotten to work with in class. There was a particularly good sketch of a nude woman sitting upon a pedestal in the style of a goddess, and half a dozen sketches of Evelyn—the one of her lying in bed, one of her holding a bouquet of roses, another of her sitting near a window reading a book, three of her hands holding various objects such as a mirror, a flower, a quill pen. He’d drawn all but the first one from memory, finding that it was easy to conjure every detail of her appearance when he sat alone thinking of her. It was almost embarrassing, how perfectly he could sketch her face and form after such a short time together, but there you had it. When she was before him, he couldn’t help studying her every feature, finding them as perfect for execution in art as he ever had.
“These are quite extraordinary,” Russell murmured, pausing on a sketch depicting a view of a row of townhouses from the garden in Berkeley square, the buildings perfectly framed by looming trees in the foreground, the paths dotted with pedestrians walking here and there. “You have a clear knack for geometry and scale, as is evidenced in your landscapes. Tell me, have you ever given thought to the study of architecture? At least, the speculative if not the physical execution.”
Hugh glanced down at the sketch Russell studied with clear interest. “I cannot say that I have. When I do draw or paint landscapes or buildings, it is simply because it’s a subject that appeals to me in the moment. But, as Crosby said, my primary interest is portraits.”
Russell nodded. “Yes, I can see that portraiture is your strength, but a well-rounded artist ought to consider ways in which all his skills may be employed, and I can see the untapped potential in you in an architectural sense. Simply put, Mr. Radcliffe, I am an artist of sorts myself...one who takes a client’s vision for their home and turns it into reality. But, before I do that, I am obligated to produce a perspective drawing of the work to be done, in order to show dimension and shape. This, I have done for years with much success. However, it has recently become quite the thing for clients to request perspective elevations—paintings that offer an illusion of a three-dimensional shape in relation to the surroundings of whatever grounds the house will be built upon. In short, I now find myself faced with supplying clients with full color paintings of what’s already shown in the perspective drawing, but with the plans pertaining to the lawns and gardens added in. The technique allows the client to not only imagine what their home will come to look like, but to truly see the finished product before I’ve ever laid a single brick.”
“As you said, you’re an artist yourself,” Hugh replied. “I’d imagine such a task would not be too difficult for you.”
“On the contrary,” Russell said with a chuckle. “My skills are more of a technical sort due to the nature of my work, and I find I am merely adequate at best with oils and watercolors. For this reason, I have asked Crosby and the other instructors to introduce me to their best students—young men who might be able to take my prospectives and place them on the canvas. You already have the right foundation of knowledge for it. Based on what I can see of your work, you’d need nothing more than a bit of additional instruction in measurements and scale, and you’d be perfect for such an endeavor. Might I add, the pay would make the effort more than worth your while, and could help to distinguish you from other up and coming artists. Many of these perspective paintings end up adorning the homes of those who commission them. What better way to draw the notice of the very people who will someday commission you to paint them?”
Russell reached into his breast pocket and retrieved a square trade card, which he presented to Hugh. The thick paper had been printed with a collection of the architect’s past works in Palladian and Neoclassical styles. In the middle of the depictions read “Russell and Co, Builders & Architects, Leicester Sq., London.”
Hugh studied the card with a heavy measure of awe, the untapped potential it offered occurring to him in a way it never had before. He was still counting on the Summer Exhibition to open a few doors for him, but Mr. Russell’s offer also had its merits. He would need all the hel
p he could get making a name for himself.
“Perhaps you might give it some thought, then call upon me if the venture is of any interest to you.”
“I will,” he replied while tucking the card into his sketchbook, then sliding both back into his satchel. “Thank you, Mr. Russell.”
The man donned his hat and tipped it at him before shaking both his and Crosby’s hands. “It was a pleasure, Mr. Radcliffe. Crosby, I shall see you tomorrow morning.”
The architect left them, pushing open one of the doors leading out to the courtyard. Crosby turned to him then, a concerned expression overtaking his face.
“You aren’t yourself today. Is everything all right?”
Hugh sighed as he fell in step with Crosby, who was heading to his afternoon lecture. “Everything is fine. I just...I encountered Marcus at the theater last night. It has been so long I’d forgotten what it feels like, being shunned and ignored.”
Crosby gave him a sympathetic look before motioning for Hugh to follow him into the empty classroom. “Ah...I’m so sorry to hear that. But, you aren’t the first of my students to find themselves ostracized for their pursuits, and you will not be the last.”
Perching on the edge of a desk, Hugh lay his satchel on the surface. “I thought I’d come to accept it. I told myself I didn’t care anymore, that I didn’t need them to accept me.”
Crosby began arranging a scene in the midst of the room—pillars surrounding a pedestal draped with white silk. “The existential crisis of humanity...the need to belong somewhere. Try as we might, we can never quite rid ourselves of it.”
“I’ve found where I belong,” Hugh argued, arms crossed over his chest. “Here, among other artists like you.”
The instructor paused in the middle of rearranging his silk, arching one gray eyebrow at Hugh. “While that is true, there is nothing wrong with wanting more. Outside these walls, we become very solitary creatures. For some of us—namely, myself—that solitude is a blessing. Our artistry does not allow room for attachments. For others, the attachments are a necessity; they enhance our view of the world and thus they affect the way we execute our art. The key, Hugh, is to decide which of these applies to you and act accordingly. Perhaps you will never make amends with your family, but...well, I did notice a particular inclination in your work as of late. Who is she?”
Portrait of a Lady: The Gentleman Courtesans Book 1 Page 13
