by Cara Elliott
And now, with terrier-like stubbornness, he wouldn’t be satisfied with any other sustenance.
“But bloody hell, Watkins,” he growled. “I am counting on you to get the deal done.”
“I assure you, milord, I shall do my very best.”
“I am anxious to proceed on the project,” he added, hoping to cover his querulous mood with a professional reason.
“Of course, of course.” The publisher looked equally relieved to change the subject from paintbrushes to pens. Blotting an ink-smudged handkerchief to his brow, Watkins quickly asked, “Have you given any more thought to the subject of your last essay?”
“As a matter of fact, yes,” answered Gryff. “In fact, I’ve just returned from a preliminary visit to the estate that I wish to write about. It inspired some…new ideas.”
That further fieldwork within its picturesque confines might prove a problem was something he left unsaid. How would Lady Brentford react to his reappearance at Leete Abbey?
Not by serving herself on a silver platter, he thought with an inward wince, recalling her reluctance to continue the relationship. Or in any other way that involved smooth, shiny metal.
Which was a shame, since the thought of feasting on her luscious body was stirring an involuntary reaction in his nether region. Her mouth had held beguiling traces of a nutty sweetness when he had last kissed her. The Siren of Shortbread, luring men to their doom…
“Then you think it possible that we might stick to our original plan of publishing the book in the spring?” asked Watkins.
“I see no obstacle,” answered Gryff. “Save for the elusive Linden.” And a long-legged lady with breasts as sweet as sun-sweetened peaches and eyes as alluring as brandy-deep sin.
Keep your mind on landscape, not lust.
Cameron was right. It was damnably hard for a rake to reform. But he was determined to make himself a better man.
“Then it is imperative that we finalize arrangement with the artist as soon as possible,” mused Watkins. “I’ll send off the letter this afternoon.”
Landscape, not lust. Work, not play. The massive pearwood desk in his library sat in readiness for the final drafts to be done. Quills and penknife aligned in sharp order, paper and ink lay at the ready, scholarly volumes stood ready to offer up the answers to any research questions.
Gryff cleared his throat and steadied his resolve. Yes, this is what matters to me. “In that case, I had better make plans for returning to the final estate in order to work on my notes.”
“We don’t have a ‘yes’ yet,” cautioned the publisher.
“Let us not worry about Linden,” he said slowly. “If your appeal fails, you will have to turn the matter over to me. When I put my mind to something, I can be very persuasive.”
Chapter Nine
The sound of polite applause snapped Eliza out of her reveries. Heaving a rueful sigh, she realized that much of the last hour had been spent woolgathering, rather than picking up on the fine points of pistil and stamen shapes in Lavandula stoechas. “A fascinating talk, was it not?” said Lady Fanshaw, the elderly wife of the local squire.
“Indeed,” agreed Eliza, quickly gathering up her notebooks before any further queries could unmask her inattention to the lecture. Lady Fanshaw’s bulging eyes and chubby jowls gave her the appearance of a well-fed pug, but woe to anyone who underestimated the lady’s intellect. “Oh, look, Augustina is waving for me to join her. Mr. Simpson must have a question regarding what watercolor pigments to purchase.”
“I didn’t see—”
“Yes, yes, there it is again,” assured Eliza. “A discreet hand signal, which means she is in imminent need of rescue.”
“She could have employed an even more discreet way of communication by waving a nutmeg geranium,” quipped Lady Fanshaw. “Which, according to a book I recently read on the secret significance of botanical blooms, means ‘I expect a meeting.’”
Good heavens, thought Eliza. The language of flowers seems to be more popular than French these days.
“How very interesting. Though I daresay sending messages that way could be slow going in winter.” Leaving her fellow member pondering the point, Eliza slipped behind Mr. Kennan and Mr. Semple, who were arguing over the right type of winter compost for rose bushes, and made her way to the tea table.
“Ask Mr. Simpson about paint pigments,” she said under her breath as Augustina offered her a cup of tea. “Loudly.”
The odd request didn’t cause her friend to bat an eye. “How are your garden sketches coming along, Mr. Simpson?”
“Why, I am very glad you asked,” answered the curate. Eliza had heard him grousing earlier about the quality of paint to be found at the local emporium. “I am having great difficulty mixing a proper shade of Hooker’s Green.”
“Have you tried the pigments made by Newton? Their ingredients are superior to any others I have tried…” Out of the corner of her eye, Eliza saw Mrs. Fanshaw pause for a moment and then sweep by into one of the side parlors.
“What was that all about?” inquired Augustina, once the conversation had ended and Mr. Simpson had moved off to the pastry table.
“I’ve enough tempests in my teacup without offending the patroness of our Society.” The monthly meetings were usually a safe harbor, a tranquil haven from the storms threatening her life. But today, she found herself feeling at cross-currents with the genial mood and chatter of her fellow members.
“I am in sudden need of some fresh air,” Eliza added in a low murmur. “Do you mind if excuse myself and run a few errands while you enjoy the refreshment hour?”
Augustina started to set down her cup. “I would be happy—”
“No, please. You always enjoy the tea and cakes. I would just as soon take a solitary stroll.”
“In that case, run along,” replied her friend. “I shall tell the others that you are exhausted from having Harry and his friends down from London for a visit. Everyone knows that your brother would try the patience of a saint.”
And God knows I am no saint, thought Eliza.
“Thank you, Gussie.” Her words spilled out in a rush of relief. Gathering her shawl, she edged into the entrance foyer, the shafts of sunlight slanting through the front windows beckoning to her like beacons.
Solitude, and a chance to reflect on the last few days.
Perhaps she would sit for a while in the shade of the graveyard wall, and sketch the morning glory blooms that dotted the mossy stones with vibrant shades of blue.
Impelled by the thought of peaceful quiet, Eliza hurried her steps and turned down the rectory lane. Up ahead, the way narrowed and wound past a row of stucco and timbered buildings. Over the roof slates, she could see the top of the towering yew that marked the lynchgate. A crow rose from the branches with a raucous cawing, its big black wings stirring the still air.
A movement in the shadows suddenly drew her gaze back to earth. Two figures stepped out from the narrow alleyway between the middle buildings.
Harry and Brighton?
All three of them stopped short and stared at each other.
“’Liza!” Harry sounded drunk, and a little nervous. “Didn’t ’spect to see you here.”
“But meeting up with you is always a pleasure,” said Brighton smoothly over her brother’s stutter. He smiled, looking very much at ease, and inclined a polite bow.
Eliza acknowledged the greeting with a wordless nod. “It’s the regular meeting day for the Horticulture Society,” she replied to Harry. “So my presence should come as no surprise.” She left the obvious implication hanging heavy in the air.
Harry was foxed—but not so foxed as to miss it. Like a wary turtle, he drew his head down into the fussy folds of his cravat and avoided her eyes. “Right-o. Well, we’ll be on our way.”
“What were you doing here?” Eliza blurted. There was no sign of any tavern or other haunt for gentlemen, which stirred a prickling of alarm. Not that Harry couldn’t get into trouble anywhere,
but something about the quiet of the surroundings seemed so out of character for him.
“We simply stepped into the alleyway to blow a cloud,” replied Brighton. “We know you ladies find the smell of tobacco noxious, so we didn’t wish to offend any delicate sensibilities by strolling down High Street sporting lighted cheroots.”
And yet Eliza could smell no hint of smoke in the air.
“If I have led your brother astray, I beg your pardon,” continued Brighton. “I just came down from Town this morning to join the party at the Abbey, and Harry agreed to meet me here in Harpden.”
“As I have no say over Harry’s activities, there is no need for any apologies to me,” she replied caustically.
“Quite right,” agreed Harry in a querulous slur. “I’m m’own man.”
Oh, how I wish you were a man, Harry, rather than a sulky, spoiled child.
“Yes, but it is to your sister’s credit that she expresses a concern for your well-being,” observed Brighton.
Harry’s mouth took on a mulish set, but he didn’t retort.
“Shall we walk with you for a bit?” went on Brighton. “You look as though you might welcome some assistance in carrying your things.”
Shifting the small satchel of her papers and paints from one hand to the other, Eliza waved off the request. “Thank you but there is no need for that. I’m only going as far as the rectory, where I plan to sit and make a few sketches of the flowers.” That information ought to hurry the two gentlemen on their way.
But Brighton did not seem in any rush. “Ah, yes, your brother often sings praises for your impressive artistic talents.”
Ah, yes, and pigs often fly to the moon for tea.
Eliza eyed the baronet warily, wondering what had sparked such a show of attentive pleasantries. Nothing good, she decided, though what his motives might be were a mystery to her.
Brighton smiled at something Harry muttered, showing a set of perfect, pearly teeth. He was, she admitted, a man whom most females would consider handsome. His glossy chestnut locks were thick, showing only a touch of silver at the temples, and though some years older than her brother, he cut a more impressive figure. Taller, broader, heftier. Only an artist’s discerning eye would see the telltale signs of dissipation—the sagging mouth, the thickening jowls, the chest muscles turning to fat.
A clench of disgust tightened her hands.
He noticed the tiny movement and lifted a brow. “I assure you, we would be happy to relieve you of your burden and offer an escort to the churchyard.”
“But we’re headed in the opposite direction, Freddy,” whined Harry ungraciously.
A quelling look from his companion warned him to silence.
“Thank you, but I’m perfectly capable of carrying my bag the short distance,” replied Eliza. She couldn’t help but add, “I daresay I won’t encounter any ravening wolves along the way.”
Perhaps it was merely a scudding of the clouds, but Brighton’s expression seemed to darken for an instant. Had his cousin mentioned the encounter in the Abbey corridor? Men seemed to brag about such things among themselves…but likely only when they could trumpet success rather than failure.
“Of course y’won’t,” piped up Harry. “Don’t think there are any wolves left in England.”
“How very clever of you to recall your history lessons,” said Eliza sweetly. “Good day to you.”
Brighton tipped his hat. “And to you, Lady Brentford. Will I see you at Leete Abbey on the morrow?”
“I—I have not yet decided on when I shall return,” she replied. “Miss Haverstick has been feeling a little unwell, and I wish to stay with her until she is fully recovered.”
“Your loyalty is commendable. Though I am disappointed to hear that a more extensive interlude together may have to wait for a future date. Alas, your brother and I must return to Town for a previous engagement the day after tomorrow.” Another doff of the curly brimmed beaver. “Enjoy your sketching.”
Eliza watched the two men walk off, dismayed to discover that the premonition of danger lurking somewhere close did not trail along with them.
Harry had appeared guilty and Brighton had looked smug—an unsettling combination if ever there was one. She expelled a long breath. But worrying over unknown threats was pointless.
If mischief was afoot, it would catch up with her soon enough.
Her own steps brought her abreast of the wrought iron gate to the graveyard. The cheerful chirping of the sparrows helped dispel her mordant musing. In the shade of a leafy oak, she found a tumbled block of stone from the old wall and took a seat. Sunlight dipped and danced over the weathered granite, teasing tones of pale grays and greens from the lichens growing in the shadows. In contrast, the variegated blues of the morning glory blossoms glowed with an exuberant life.
Eliza took out her paintbox and canvas roll of brushes, but after a hitch of hesitation, she set it aside, deciding there was no point in delaying the real reason she had sought some time to herself. Reaching into her satchel again, she withdrew the packet that had arrived that morning from Mr. Watkins.
Damn Harry and his debauched friends for distracting her from the pending commission. She had been meaning to draft a suitably flowery acceptance of the terms and generous fee, but for the last few days her attention had been elsewhere. Mentally ogling the muscled abdomen and lean loins of a notorious rake, she admitted with a guilty grimace. It would serve her right if the author of the essays had changed his mind.
But no, a quick perusal of the publisher’s letter informed her that the author—who, like herself, preferred to be known by a nom de plume—still wanted to engage her services and was anxiously awaiting her decision.
As if there was any doubt in her own mind as to whether she was going to accept the offer from “Owain.”
Heaving a small sigh of relief, Eliza unfolded the accompanying pages. Clever Mr. Watkins—having worked closely with her on several projects, the publisher apparently knew her soft spots better than she had imagined. He had forwarded one of the finished essays, saying that he hoped the ideas would appeal to her artistic imagination.
Up to now, she had read only a short excerpt of the writing…
The paper crackled softly beneath her fingers as she began skimming over the words. It was a short piece, sensitive yet strong, and once again, Eliza found herself impressed with the author’s perceptive eye. Owain saw textures and nuances that most people missed. And she liked that the ideas and observations were expressed with such grace and wit.
She stifled a chuckle over one particular passage. The words had a certain joie de vivre that made her want to shuck off her corset, like a butterfly breaking free of a confining cocoon, and dance around in her shift to the music of a spring breeze riffling through newly unfurled leaves. Tilting her face skyward, she closed her eyes and imagined the rhythm of raindrops, the melodies of birdsong. Warmth whispered against her cheeks. The air was still, silent, and yet in her head she heard a symphony of sunshine, in harmony with nature.
Strangely enough, Owain, the Poet, made her feel…well, much like Haddan, the Rake, made her feel. Free. Alive. Exuberant. Both touched her in ways that stirred a passionate response…
Oh, don’t be foolish, she chided herself. Owain was probably female. Or an octogenarian with a humpback and a squint.
Still, she couldn’t help but think of the Poet as a kindred soul.
If circumstances were different, she might even be tempted to ask for a meeting. But seductive as the idea was, it held far too many dangers.
And of late, she had taken enough impulsive risks to last a lifetime.
Banishing any further wayward thoughts, Eliza pulled a pencil and notebook from her satchel, and began composing a letter.
Dear Mr. Watkins,
After careful deliberation, and a lengthy study of the essay you sent me, I have decided to accept your generous offer. The timing will leave little room for error, but with luck it should work out…
After several drafts, she was satisfied and copied out a final draft. Now, if only she could structure her feelings about Haddan in the same orderly, logical fashion.
Haddan—forget about Haddan!
“Don’t be pathetic,” she muttered. “You can be sure that the marquess is not pining over the memory of a country widow.” Not when he had legions of lissome beauties eager to make the fleeting interlude fade to an indistinct blur. A colorless, shapeless blur.
For the next few minutes, she busied herself in uncorking her water bottle and mixing colors on her palette. But after two or three desultory tries at capturing the flowered wall, she abandoned the effort and turned to a fresh page.
Perhaps the nearby gravestone would provide better artistic inspiration—she could draw a monument to girlish dreams that were best left dead and buried in the earth of the past.
As her brush floated over the page, Eliza mused on gentlemen of the ton, and how quickly they grew bored. For them, life seemed naught but one passing fancy after another. It took a brash challenge to excite any sort of enthusiasm—racing a curricle from London to Bath, downing a half-dozen bottles of brandy in the space of an hour, picking which raindrop would reach the bottom of a window first—and even then, heated passion often turned to jaded indifference within the blink of an eye.
“And that,” she reminded herself, “is why you would be a complete and utter lackwit not to put Haddan out of your head.”
The drawing of the dragon seemed to wiggle in response.
Eliza snapped the book shut. Poppies—she need to find a patch of poppies for her sketching.
In the secret language of flowers, they stood for oblivion.
Gryff set aside his razor and patted his cheeks dry. The mundane tasks of dressing and shaving himself proved surprisingly soothing, making him glad that he had left his valet in London. Prescott had not been happy about the decision, no doubt fearing that the marquess’s elegant clothing was journeying into mortal peril.
