The Wild Passion of an Eccentric Lady: A Historical Regency Romance Book

by Emily Honeyfield

  “Come,” Kingsley said, opening the door to the studio which led down a rather steep winding staircase. “It’s time for our stroll.”

  Simon followed behind Kingsley as they descended the twisting staircase. It was the kind of architecture that one might find leading up to the tower of a castle. It offered the studio a kind of seclusion that Simon enjoyed. It was as though when he and Kingsley went up to that studio, there was no one in the world but them, and there was nothing in the world but painting.

  There was something solemn and remarkable about the studio, almost as though it were a religious chapel. Everything was in perfect order, thanks to Simon’s precision, and at night, the little temple would fall dark and silent, awaiting its worshippers the following morning.

  Out in the countryside, the sun was setting, and the fields appeared purple. As they walked, Kingsley discussed the colours that surrounded them and what various paints he would mix to attain the reds, oranges, and golds that were in the sky above them. Simon noted all of these suggestions and thought of how he might practice what was being told to him that very night.

  For a good stretch of time, memories of Lady Susana escaped him, and Simon thought of nothing but oil paints in a rainbow of hues. Once their walk was done, Simon could feel that the cool night air had brought a warm flush to his cheeks. He was pleasantly surprised to walk into the dining room, modest in size, where the steaming pheasant was awaiting cutlery.

  “Now, that is a meal!” Kingsley said with great enthusiasm, and the two men seated themselves and tucked right in. The bird was accompanied by freshly buttered peas, new potatoes, and a salad of rocket lettuce. Once the meal was concluded, cheese and fruit were served. To Simon’s great delight, not only did the thought of Lady Susana vanish, but his belly was quite full and contented.

  “I will retire,” Simon said, bringing his napkin to his lips and then onto the table.

  “No brandy?” Kingsley asked.

  “No brandy,” Simon replied with a smile. In truth, although Simon liked the taste of brandy, it made his head spin, and he needed all of his focus that night to practice.

  The following day, the sun rose with majestic beauty, and Simon entered the studio to find Kingsley already seated on his stool. It seemed as though the master was eager to complete the final touches of his latest triumph.

  “Good morning,” Simon said, taking off his overcoat and walking towards the table where the brushes sat.

  “A fine day,” Kingsley said, his brow knit in concentration. “How is your heart this morning, old boy?”

  Simon sunk into himself a bit. He was delighted that the lady had been banished from his mind for so long, but at the mere mention of his heart, her memory returned.

  “In disrepair,” Simon said humorously, trying to make himself more aloof than he could ever truly be.

  “All of history’s greatest painters have been bereft,” Kingsley assured him. “There is always the blood of heartbreak in every good painting.”

  Although Simon liked the sentiment, he considered that Kingsley was only saying that for his own benefit. Just then, there was a knock on the door, and Kingsley’s trusted head footman, Rutledge, opened it.

  “M’Lord,” Rutledge said with a bow of the head.

  “What is it?” Kingsley asked dismissively. He never did like to be disturbed when in his studio.

  “There is a young lady downstairs that begs your audience. And I truly use the word ‘beg’ with gravity.”

  Simon watched as Kingsley turned to Rutledge in confusion.

  “Whatever for?” Kingsley asked. Momentarily, Simon’s heart sank as he imagined that it might be Lady Susana, coming to beg his forgiveness.

  “She did not say,” Rutledge replied in confusion. “But it does seem that she has travelled a great distance, and her arms are filled with canvases.”

  Kingsley knit his brow yet again, and Simon was curious as to how the master was going to respond to this unexpected intrusion.

  “Perhaps selling fresh canvases,” Kingsley mused to himself. “And her timing is impeccable because the quality of these has gone down,” he added, inspecting the wooden frame. “Send her up.”

  Simon could see surprise written upon Rutledge’s face, and the footman merely shrugged his shoulders and closed the door. Simon waited in anticipation for several minutes until finally the door was opened again and there stood a young lady, Rutledge no longer by her side. She was indeed carrying a number of thin canvasses and sketches, and was entirely out of breath. There was coal smudged upon her cheeks. Simon waited for her to offer her name.

  Chapter 2

  As Emilia Spencer stood in the doorway to the studio of her idol, all she could feel was the pounding in her chest. She was completely out of breath, having climbed the fabled winding staircase that led to the studio of the great Sir Gregory Kingsley with all of her sketches and a few thin canvases in her arms.

  Emilia could feel her hands shaking. She had hoped to present herself to Kingsley with a winning smile upon her face and a gentle pink in her cheeks, but instead, she had to settle for a rose-red flush and the inability to even move her lips into the formation of a smile. In fact, Emilia was frowning.

  But this was not from sadness, for Emilia was overjoyed to have finally arrived at Montgomery House. She merely wished that she had felt more composed. Emilia never expected a fit of nerves to play upon her so completely. In the haze of emotion that she felt, Emilia could make out a young man walking towards her, rather tall in height and light in colouring.

  He could have been a cousin for how similar their colouring was. Emilia, herself, also had blonde hair and blue eyes, although one of those eyes appeared greener than anything else. Everyone was always admiring the uniqueness of those orbs, and from the way that the young man was looking at her, she could tell that he felt the same.

  “Can I help you?” the man said.

  “This is the studio?” Emilia asked in haste, knowing full-well that it was the studio.

  “Of Sir Gregory Kingsley? Indeed, it is,” the man replied.

  “My name is Emilia Spencer,” she said, “and I’d very much like to meet him.” Emilia gazed around the room and saw that the artist was at the far end of it. The old man’s eyes were wide with wonder.

  “Are you selling canvases?” Kingsley asked, and Emilia felt her heart lurch up in her chest once more. He was speaking to her. The greatest artist in all of Britain was speaking to her. Nearly all of her dreams had come true.

  “I fear that these have already been used,” Emilia said, wondering why it was that Kingsley thought her a merchant of canvases. She looked back towards the young man and something about his appearance struck her. Emilia proceeded to drop the canvases upon the ground. “Heavens!” she called out, thinking she must look the biggest fool on earth.

  “Here,” the man said, leaning down to pick Emilia’s paintings up. She was frozen, unable to lean down herself and assist him.

  “I thank you,” Emilia said breathlessly, watching as he picked up all the canvases in one fell swoop and stood up to full height again. The man had to have been a solid foot taller than herself. He handed her the canvases, and Emilia took them into her arms once more.

  “What is all of this about?” she heard Kingsley ask, and Emilia turned to the artist with her mouth gaping open.

  “I wish to show you these,” Emilia said, stepping towards to a barren table with the intention of placing the canvases down.

  The young man put out a hand to prevent her, then turned towards the artist. “Is it all right?” he asked Kingsley.

  “Very well,” Kingsley said with a sigh, no doubt finally gleaning why it was that Emilia was in his studio. The man lowered his arm, allowing Emilia passage, and she quickly rushed to the table, arranging her sketches and bringing a hand up to wipe her cheek. To her dismay, there were still coal smudges there.

  “These are quite good,” the man said, leaning over the table and inspecting the
m. “My name is James. Simon James,” he said.

  “Very pleasant to meet you, Simon James.”

  “Please, call me Simon,” he said with a smile. Yes, his appearance was remarkably striking, and Emilia felt the need to look away.

  “Give me one moment,” Kingsley said, turning back to the landscape painting that sat before him. From what Emilia could tell, he was putting final touches upon it. It was exactly the kind of behaviour that she expected from such a renowned artist. He couldn’t be bothered with conversation until he felt pleased with his own work.

  “Did you come far?” Simon asked, and Emilia turned back towards him, fearing that her flushed cheek was turning even redder under his gaze.

  “From London,” Emilia replied, tongue-tied.

  “Please, don’t tell me that you walked.”

  “No, no,” Emilia replied. “I hired a hackney coach.”

  “Quite an expense.”

  “But well worth it,” Emilia assured him. And it was worth it. She had been saving the money for some time, had learned where Montgomery House resided in Harlow Greens, and had even been told about the stairs leading up to the studio. Everything was falling into place. Now, the famous artist just needed to take Emilia on as his pupil. It would be the only way that she could escape what she was told was her fate.

  “Let’s see what we have here,” Kingsley said, finally approaching the table. From the way that he walked, Emilia could tell that movement wasn’t the artist’s forte.

  “I have been working night and day,” Emilia assured him. “Whenever there is a showing of your paintings, I always travel to see them, no matter where they are.”

  “Even Russia?” Kingsley asked.

  “Your paintings have been shown in Russia?” Emilia asked in wonder.

  “No, dear girl,” Kingsley said with a shake of his head. “I was merely teasing you.”

  “Oh,” Emilia replied softly, thinking herself to be far too gullible for her own good.

  “Now then,” Kingsley said, craning his neck over the table. Emilia watched as he knit his brow in concentration. She looked over at Simon, hoping that there would be some support in his eyes, which there very much was. In fact, she was struck by the warmth of his gaze.

  “They’re merely sketches. Ideas. When an idea comes to me, I have to put it down on paper, canvas, a napkin, anything!”

  “Not unlike myself,” Kingsley said, not giving away with the tone of his voice whether or not he was impressed by her work.

  “I do think that with the right mentor, I could become great,” Emilia said, not shying away from the reason for her visit. Kingsley finally looked back up at her, his expression dubious.

  “You are quite talented,” he said, and Emilia felt her heart soar. “But I cannot be your mentor.” Just then, her heart sank down from its immense height.

  “Why?” Emilia asked, assuming that if he did truly admire her work, then he’d want to take her on. Was it because she was a woman? For Emilia, it was the only explanation.

  “I already have one apprentice, as you can see,” Kingsley said, motioning towards Simon. So, that’s who the handsome man was; the artist’s apprentice. Emilia felt jealousy course through her. “I cannot afford to lodge another,” Kingsley went on. “Especially a woman.”

  “And what has my gender to do with the matter?” Emilia asked, becoming defensive.

  “Absolutely nothing in terms of talent,” Kingsley explained. “In fact, it’s not uncommon for women to be more talented than men,” he went on, walking over to seat himself at his stool once more. “The problem lies in the fact that, having a single woman living under the same roof as two men would be a scandal not only for yourself, but also for me. I could lose my career once the gossip mills began to turn, and believe me, they would.”

  Emilia remained silent for a moment and saw that Kingsley’s back was now turned to her and he had picked up his paintbrush once more. Tears threatened to reach the surface, and Emilia wished that she was not so sensitive. If she was going to prove herself to the famous artist, she needed to keep her composure. Emilia turned to Simon yet again, already finding that his presence made her feel safe, even though she didn’t know the fellow in the slightest.

  “It will be all right,” Simon said softly.

  “But . . .” Emilia said, looking down at her sketches. No, she would not let those tears well up. She took a deep breath and looked around the room at all the paintings that were on display. There was no need to give up hope. She had come this far, and there was no turning back. She’d disguise herself as a man if she had to. Anything to escape the fate that awaited her back in London.

  “Can I get you some tea?” Simon asked, and Emilia felt her heart beat in her chest once more. That’s when she realized that this affable Simon fellow could see right through her. It was vexing. The very thing that she wanted at that moment was not to be transparent.

  “That is kind of you,” Emilia said, thinking that it was a way to stall. Were she to get back in the coach and return to London, she’d have her tail between her legs. If she could linger at Montgomery House for a bit longer, maybe Kingsley would change his mind.

  “Come this way,” Simon said, leading Emilia down the stairs and into what she assumed to be the room that was used for afternoon tea. That was when Emilia realized that she was quite alone with Simon James. He did not present himself with a title, so Emilia assumed that he was not of esteemed birth, just like her. The fellow that had greeted her at the door came into the room, and Simon spoke to him as though he were a casual friend. “We’ll take some tea, Rutledge,” Simon said.

  “Very well,” Rutledge replied, leaving the room without even bowing his head. Yes, it seemed as though things were very informal at Montgomery House, but perhaps that was because the master spent most of his time tucked away in his studio. And Kingsley didn’t seem the sort of man to stand upon ceremony.

  “You’re so lucky to be here,” Emilia said, realizing that her voice gave away her disappointment.

  “I know it.”

  “Do you watch him all day as he paints?”

  “Some of the time,” Simon explained, looking out the window. “But most of the time I clean his brushes, mix his paints, and arrange his canvases,” he added with a smile.

  “It must be magical,” Emilia said with a dreamy expression.

  “It isn’t,” Simon replied flatly.

  “And he allows you to absent yourself at will?” Emilia asked. “To come down for a cup of tea?”

  “Kingsley allows me to come and go as I please. Although he can be quite serious, he realizes that he does not own me in any way. He boards me for my assistance, and for that I am grateful.”

  “And do you enjoy living here?”

  “I do,” Simon said, looking deep into her eyes. Although his eyes were cool and blue, they were also warm and inviting. Emilia got the sense again that Simon was deeply curious about her. The feeling was unnerving but also pleasurable.

  “And do you think that I can further convince him to take me on, as well?”

  “That I cannot say,” Simon said, then turned and watched as the tea was brought into the room. The tea set was remarkably luxurious and reminded Emilia of the fact that Sir Gregory Kingsley had a great deal of money. No, it wasn’t the boarding that was preventing him from taking Emilia on. It was her gender. “May I ask you a question?”

  “Yes.”

  “What is the cause of your distress?”

  Emilia felt the flush return to her cheeks. It was further confirmation that she was not hiding her distress very well. In fact, Simon seemed to feel her sorrow keenly.