by Jess Russell
He could not help but admire his Queen for her good sense and taste.
“Who was that Dutch fellow who painted the chit with the earring?” The gorgon with the fan plied it to her heaving bosom. “This lady brings to mind that portrait.”
Vermeer, you feather-head. He had to get away from these harpies. He elbowed his way from the portrait toward the entry. Could she have slipped in without his noticing? The patrons crowding the floor rivaled the paintings that stood cheek by jowl on the walls. He yanked at his cravat, suffocated by the mass of humanity and richly framed art that covered the twenty foot walls.
Austin had insisted on attending and had stood by his side through these endless hours of waiting, but Dev had finally insisted he take himself home. His arm wound was superficial, but he had suffered burns to both his arms and neck. The stifling room must have been agony for him.
Ivo stood like a fixture by the door, his huge melon bobbing above the bonnets and carefully coiffed heads of the patrons. Poor lad hated the crowds just as much as Dev and likely needed a piss. But he was a stickler when it came to obeying orders.
Dev caught Ivo’s attention and then motioned for him to go relieve himself. Still the man wavered. “I will watch,” he mouthed and, reluctantly, the huge man lumbered off.
My God, he could use some air as well. And a piss.
He saw the wig first. A deferential path opened to reveal a heavily rouged Lady Tippit, and—
A stunning creature in the most beautiful gown he had ever seen. Her hair so simple, so elegant, her face so outwardly calm. His wife. Anne.
His breath expelled in a rush. There she was.
****
Anne’s breath expelled in a rush. There he was.
They both stood frozen to the floor, all her bravado now wavering in the face of her husband and the onlookers who crowded around him. Hushed and expectant, the audience seemed to be waiting for the players opening lines to determine if they would be watching a tragedy or a farce.
“Lord Devlin.” Maddy nodded briefly to James. “Come, Anne. We will view the painting.” Taking her arm firmly, she led the way through the crowd.
Bless Matilda Tippit.
Their direction was clear. The mass of bystanders peeled back to make a path to the far side of the room. She stared straight ahead, her slightly trembling hand crooked into Maddy’s elbow. It was unclear who held who up—she rather suspected Maddy Tippit kept her upright and moving. What was certain, the room appeared endless.
A curtain of patrons parted to reveal a painting.
Sudden heat flushed her entire body, her nose prickled, and she had to blink to see properly.
The sitter held an orange almost carelessly as if she were unaware it were even there.
When the mist cleared from her eyes, she saw the fruit’s skin had been pierced. A glistening runnel of juice ran down its glossy skin. The woman’s longest finger caught the droplet as if she did not want it to spoil her gown or, more likely, did not want to waste a drop of the sumptuous fruit. One had the impression she was just waiting patiently for the viewer to leave before she devoured it.
She knew that feeling. She knew that quiet waiting. She knew that woman. For the sitter was her own self.
“Anne—”
She waved him away wanting a private moment with this woman who sat so utterly still yet seemed poised on the precipice of some awesome experience. The sitter’s eyes held a knowing wonder, and the pierced fruit only confirmed what her eyes spoke.
This woman was not beautiful—Anne Winton—for she was plain Anne Winton in this picture. But she had a grace, a confidence—perhaps even a regal quality. Yes, perhaps a bit of the marchioness she had become. No, not beautiful; luminous.
This painting was not the one she had sat for at Ballencrieff—the picture James would never let her see. Yet this portrait had been inspired by those sittings. She remembered him asking her to roll up the sleeve of her gown. “Yes,” he had said. “Yes, just there.”
She saw now what he had seen, the bit of forearm now exposed, its skin slightly whiter than her hand and wrist. That bare, white arm almost made her blush.
And the orange. Her gift to him. Eyes now awash with tears, she bit her lip to stop the smile that threatened. Tears and her gap-toothed grin would not do for the Marchioness of Devlin. She stood straighter.
Now she remembered he had spent a long time turning her hands over in his after they had made love. And it had been love, she could see that now. This woman in this portrait was loved. Anne Winton, now Marchioness of Devlin, was loved.
Never taking her eyes off the picture which had begun to run and warp with the tears that gathered and finally spilled free—oh well, so much for preserving her dignity—she reached for her husband’s hand.
Dashed gloves. But it didn’t matter, his heat was there melding and forging to become one with hers. They were one now.
“You approve?”
She turned to him. “Not Nora Havermere.” Obvious, but she was not acknowledging his choice of subject.
He smiled his pirate smile, and her breath hitched. “Not Nora. Never Nora. She is not you. She is not my little Owl. My heart.”
She dashed at the tears streaming down her cheeks. Soon her nose would be dripping. This would not do.
His heart. He had painted what was in his heart.
Heavens, where was her handkerchief when she needed it? The strings of her reticule were impossibly tangled.
He pressed a square of linen into her shaking hand. “You see, I can be wise as well. It may take me longer given how inferior my wisdom is to yours, but eventually I get it.”
“You are teaching me another kind of wisdom. Trust.” She sniffed and turned back to the portrait. “As you say, I am no fool. I could never love an empty man.”
“I am sorry I disappeared, my dears.” Maddy materialized next to James. “I had to fend off Lord Rathemore who I have not seen in an age. He was excessively attentive to me. If he weren’t half-way in the grave I might have spared him a moment or two, but I told him I must attend the marchioness.”
Anne ducked her head and shoved the handkerchief into her bag.
“Hmmm…your wife looks quite spent, Devlin.”
Anne cinched her reticule closed and cleared her throat. “Overwhelmed is the word, Maddy. I am overwhelmed. The marquess seems to have that effect on me. Always has.”
“As well he should, Anne. You deserve nothing less.” She turned to James. “I can see painting agrees with you.”
“You are mistaken, Lady Tippit. Marriage agrees with me.”
“About time you both sorted that out. When one is as old as I, ordering the affairs of young people can be quite taxing. I am glad to see that I shall have some leisure now.” She turned back to catch the eyes of a doddering old gentleman. Did that old roué just wink at Matilda Tippit? From the giggle that escaped her ladyship, it would appear so.
“Do you mind if we depart now?” James took her hands. “I know you have only just arrived, but I have been here hours waiting and wondering, and frankly I am ready to tear my hair out.”
“I have seen everything I wanted to see,” she said brusquely. So important now to keep a very tight clamp on her emotions, else she might melt into a puddle at her husband’s feet.
“Ivo will come home with me in my carriage, Anne.” Maddy snagged his arm. “My newest cook has a fondness for giants.”
Anne. How she loved her ladyship calling her Anne.
“Very well, Matilda. I am sure Ivo can be spared. He has been going on about some jam tarts he sampled at Luscombe Hall.”
“Ah, yes, the gooseberry. Come along, dear boy.” Following in the wide wake of Maddy and Ivo, her husband guided her through the throng.
“May I tell you how lovely you are, Anne DeVere Winton Drake, Marchioness of Devlin?”
“You may, my lord. Several people worked very hard to achieve this result.”
“Ah, you speak of the gown which
is very fetching—a huge improvement on Margaret’s efforts. But I was not really referring to your gown. I was complimenting the woman inside.”
She sniffed. Her dratted emotions kept surging to the fore. Who could blame them when she was being heaped with such praise. Thank heavens they were almost to the door.
A man stepped out of the shadows, blocking their way. Sir Charles.
“Well, you are a dark horse, Devlin. I lost a boatload of blunt on you. Your brother assured me the Countess of Havermere was your model.”
“Did he now?” He must thank Austin for that. Later. “If you’ll excuse me, Sir Charles, my wife and I have a very pressing engagement.” They stepped around Brocket.
“We have a pressing engagement?”
“I don’t know about you, but I have something very pressing, Lady Devlin. Perhaps you’d care to step into the carriage, and we might get to the engaging part?”
“In the carriage?” An old dowager nodded to her, and she nodded back just before a hot blush flooded her cheeks. “Oh. Yes. I do think I would like to engage in a carriage.” Bless Bess, the air felt delightfully cool against her heated cheeks.
“One thing I want to get quite clear.” He stopped before the carriage and turned her to face him.
Now is where her entire fantasy would collapse. She steeled herself and met his gaze. “Yes?”
“Did you realize you told me you loved me in there?”
Her tongue found the gap in her teeth and pressed. “Well, yes, yes, I did.”
“Ah, I thought so. I wonder, could I prevail upon you to say it again?”
“You could prevail. I love you.” Her lips parted, nearly against her will, and she smiled. “I love you. Who could not love you? You are so full, full to bursting—with humor, with grace, with curiosity, with talent. You are an embarrassment of riches, Lord Devlin. I am so very lucky to have you to love.”
“And I love you, my beautiful Owl.” His arms came around her surrounding her in his love. “I would have discovered this great epiphany much earlier had I been wiser. If only I stopped and looked inside my heart. You were there all along, just waiting for me to see. I will be worthy of you, my love. I will make myself worthy though it takes me a lifetime. You will see.”
“I do see. The evidence hung for all to behold, there in that room full of people clambering to see you fail—us fail. But instead they had to stand by and watch you soar, to witness, as I did, your love for me. You choosing me. Simple, plain Anne Winton. Pardon me, my love, if I am once again overwhelmed.”
People stood about gawking at their display. She couldn’t give a fig.
“Get in the carriage, madam. Now.”
“Very well, you’ve only to say—Ooof!” He bodily pushed her bum into the carriage.
“I have a surprise for you.”
“A gift?” She turned back to him. “I like your gifts. Especially the first one.”
“Well, yes, that gift was rather special. However, this is something less awesome but more substantial.” He made a motion for her to sit.
“Will I be overwhelmed?”
“I can only hope. But first things first.” He rapped on the roof of the carriage and began closing the blinds.
Could they really do this in a moving conveyance? It was not nighttime. This was not her bed. He was not half foxed.
She liked these new circumstances and possibilities. Heavens, if one could make love in a carriage, what other delights lay before her? Well, one thing was certain, her husband was very creative.
John Coachman was directed to drive to Kensington and back.
Twice.
Epilogue
Malvern Grange, May 1865
“Ellie, Grace! You must leave Ivo be. The goats will not milk themselves.”
Ivo giggled and waggled his eyebrows at the girls. One goat took advantage of his distraction and nipped at his vest where he must have a treat tucked away. Anne scooped up her daughter, Eleanor, before the goat got too audacious, and then carried her to the manger full of sweet, new-mown hay. Ivo dipped into his still empty milking bucket and placed two calico kittens in Ellie’s lap. Two-and-half-year-old Grace squealed and toddled after the giant man.
“An-Anne.” The name had stuck when Grace had not been able to pronounce ‘Aunt’. “You promised to tell Mama I am to have Spots.” Grace climbed up on the fence rail and carefully used one finger to pet the larger calico kitten. Anne had a sneaking suspicion Ivo had something to do with that particular name.
She ruffled Grace’s wispy golden hair. “And so I shall, but she is not yet back from Town. Remember, I told you she will come with An-Margaret, and Gran-Maddy. You must be patient.” She settled Grace next to Ellie. “Now, where were we? Cristabelle was about to be eaten by the dragon.”
“No, silly, An-Anne. The dragon was captured by the elephant that had lost his trunk, don’t you remember?”
“Ah, yes, quite right you are, Grace.” Ellie nodded vigorously and touched her nose. “It is well you have been attending so. You will keep me on the right track. Now, the herd of purple rhinoceroses caused quite a ruckus as Mr. Hiro wielded his shears at Prince Dauntless—”
“Ah, there you are.” James pressed a kiss fully on her lips. Grace gawped and Ellie held out her arms to her father. “The light is fading and so I have finished for the day.”
“Is it going well?”
“Hello, what’s this?” He took up a wriggling kitten. “How did a chicken get into the barn, Ivo?”
A look of confusion crossed his face and then he opened his mouth to answer. Poor Ivo, ever literal.
“Silly, Un-Dev, Spots is a kitten, not a chicken.”
“Hmmm, are you quite certain?”
The tiny creature, thoroughly tired of being suspended in the air, dug its claws into her husband’s hand.
“Owww!” He dropped the kitten back into the hay. “Yes, I do believe you are right, Miss Grace. It is indeed a feline.”
“No silly,” she said her hands on her hips, head shaking—which of course Ellie imitated. “Not a fee-lion, a kit-ten!”
“Ah, next time I shall remember.” He scooped up their daughter and turned to Anne. “In answer to your question, I am quite pleased with the painting.”
“Will it go into the exhibit?” Ellie’s sweet dark head next to her father’s, their pewter eyes smiling into each other, was a sight she would never tire of.
“Yes. I think it is just what is needed to fill the gap between the seascape and pastoral with the owl.”
“Ah, my favorite—the owl. Who would have thought the devilish Lord Devlin would turn to the landscape for his muse? It still astonishes me how you hold an entire world within a simple canvas.”
“You will give me a swelled head, my lady.”
She smiled and then ran her tongue over the gap in her teeth, which she had begun to accept if not love. “Hmmm… I would like to swell your head, my lord.” Her gaze fell to rest on his fall. “Oh.” She jerked her eyes up to meet his. “You did remember to write the countess about the portraits?”
“Sweet Jesu, Owl, you go from seductress to schoolmarm in the blink of an eye. How is a fellow to keep up?” He nodded. “Yes, I did this morning. Poor Nora. The old earl, a cur to the very end, first refusing to die and then leaving Nora a pauper. Hopefully the old portraits will fetch something so she can live in relative comfort. She never wanted them displayed. Now she will have to stand by as they go under the hammer to the highest bidder. I just hope she is not stubborn about selling them.”
“It is silly of her not to just accept a loan.”
“We are not all as wise as you, my love.” He pulled a bit of straw from her hair which Ellie grabbed and promptly put in her mouth.
Anne pried it away and dipped her hand into her pocket finding a carrot for her daughter to gnaw on. “And what of Austin? I saw you had a letter.”
“He has safely reached Bombay and seems to be settling into army life. Most of his letter was abo
ut the natives and their culture. He has ridden an elephant—”
“El—font!” Ellie exclaimed with pride.
Her father tossed her in the air and she squealed. “Yes, El-an-or! It seems your uncle has become bosom beaus with Sir John, the viceroy.”
Ellie squealed, so delighted with her father.
“Oh, good, I am glad he has found a calling. Margaret seems happier as well. She and Phoebe are in each other’s pockets these days. Perhaps when Austin comes home they can begin anew?”
“Perhaps,” was all her husband said, still busy tossing their daughter into the heavens.
The kittens wriggled out of Grace’s too loving arms and dropped to the floor of the barn.
“Ivo, mind the kittens, they are headed your way!” Anne called out. Bless Bess, her skirt looked like a haystack. She shook it out. “Mrs. Ambrose came by with another cordial of elderberry wine. This time I took it gladly. There is no sense in convincing the village my healings are free.”
“I told you as much, but it is well you have come to that conclusion on your own. How is young Adam?”
“Better, though I will go again this evening. I want to try some oregano oil, and perhaps if I added a poultice of—”
A peal of giggles rang out ,and two forms came barreling around the corner of the far stall. Wind milling arms and legs sorted themselves into Hester and Ava, Anne’s newest charity girls.
“Oh, perfect. You ladies are just in time to relieve me.” She dusted off her skirts and then turned to her husband. “Lord Devlin, I believe I feel a cold coming on.”
“Indeed, my dear?” Ellie reached out a hand trying to remove her father’s nose.
“Yes, I have an irresistible urge to sneeze. I am hoping you might provide some sort of relief.”
“I would be most happy to be of service in any and every way I can, my lady.” He pried grubby fingers from his face. “Will you relieve me of this octopus, Hester? Her ladyship is in need of my services.” He deposited Ellie into Hester’s waiting arms and winked at Grace who was about to correct him.
