Portrait of a Forbidden Love--A Sexy Regency Romance

by Bronwyn Scott

  She smiled kindly at Addy. Her sister saw strangers as potential friends while she saw them as potential enemies. ‘You’re right. I hadn’t thought of that. I was thinking only of my own privacy. You’re too good, Addy.’ She paused and sipped the hot tea, swallowing slowly to let its warmth seep through her. ‘Still, if we take anyone on, I don’t want people gossiping and speculating about what happens up here.’ It would only take one wagging tongue, one unkind speculation to somehow reach London, and the Academy would paint her a loose woman. Admittedly, it was unlikely the people of Seasalter had London connections, but one could never be too careful.

  They drank their tea in silence, listening to the sounds of trunks being hauled upstairs, the grunt and huff of labouring men punctuated by an occasional instruction from Mrs Harris. ‘There’s still time to change your mind,’ Artemisia offered as the sounds of moving in ceased. Her father’s carriage crew would stay the night in Seasalter and return to London in the morning. Addy could go with them.

  Addy shook her head, her words coming around a mouthful of ginger biscuits. ‘Are you joking? With biscuits like these to look forward to? There’s not a chance I’m leaving.’

  Artemisia set down her teacup. ‘I think everyone’s done. Shall we take a tour and see what we’re up against?’

  There were three rooms on the bottom floor, excluding the extension housing the kitchen: the parlour, a dining room, and long glassed-in rectangular space at the back that ran the length of the house. Great-Aunt Martha had used it as a conservatory of sorts for her plants. The space was empty now. Artemisia thought it would do well for an art studio. The windows would capture the precious winter light in late morning and afternoon. Upstairs, multiple bedchambers awaited, lining both sides of the hall. Their trunks had been delivered to two of the chambers facing the front of the house with its view of the estuary. Beds were already turned down.

  Artemisia stared out the window, seeing the wintery landscape with an artist’s eye: blacks, greys, heathers, slate, wheat, copper, sienna, silver, salt. A strong, masculine palette. In the spring and summer the marsh would be full of birds: godwits, oystercatchers, plovers. Today the estuary was deserted with the exception of a flock of Brent geese. It would send a bold message. Women seldom painted in such austere shades. But the icy purples and blues that might be used for a mountainscape simply did not suit the mud of a winter estuary.

  ‘You’re busy, already painting in your mind,’ Addy said from the doorway.

  ‘Yes, I suppose I am.’ Artemisia didn’t turn from the window, not wanting to lose the images and ideas it inspired. Her fingers itched for a brush to paint, a pencil to sketch. She would unpack her equipment tonight and be ready to start tomorrow. Excitement thrummed through her as she planned. She would sketch the geese, the brown weeds, the sienna mud, the silver-grey waters of the marsh. She would paint them all from a palette of isolation. There was a metaphor there for her own isolation from the community she longed to be part of. Yes. She would paint the estuary. To the untutored onlooker, it would be a bold collection of nature, but to those who knew better, it would be a protest.

  Chapter Three

  January 1820

  In hindsight, Darius realised he should have protested more vociferously when his father had invited him to the town house for dinner. He’d wanted a quiet supper his last night in town. While dining with his parents in the insulated elegance of Bourne House met that requirement, it did so at a price.

  ‘Have you met any nice girls yet? I thought there were several in town for the holidays this year.’ His mother was making him pay for the privilege of her French chef rather early in the meal. Usually, she waited until the cheese was served. He’d barely got through the fish—a flaky sea bass spritzed with a zesty lemon juice served on his mother’s Wedgwood creamware. Delicious as it was, Darius wasn’t convinced it was worth the maternal inquisition.

  Darius drew a deep breath and set aside his fork. Calm was what was required here. The more reasonable he was, the better it would go. ‘Not at present, no. But I expect the Season to provide more interesting choices.’ As the heir to Bourne, he had only three mandatory tasks in life: care for the earldom, marry and produce a brace of capable sons. On his last birthday, he’d agreed with his mother that it was time to look to the latter two tasks on that list. He’d be thirty-five this autumn. It was time and it was his responsibility. Darius always did his duty.

  And so did his mother. She fortified herself with a sip of wine. ‘To be sure, this year’s crop appears to be extraordinary. It’s no wonder so many fine young girls were in town pre-emptively over the holidays, looking to steal a march on the others.’ It was the second time she’d mentioned the holidays. Darius was wary. She must have someone in mind.

  ‘Old Worth had his sons’ families with him for Christmas. His grandson, Preston, is impressive. He’s due for a government post, I think.’ She waved a long, delicate hand in his father’s direction. ‘Bourne would know those particulars,’ she said, indicating there was another set of particulars to know and she knew them. ‘His granddaughter, May, is a dark-haired, sharp-witted beauty. She’s bound to be a diamond this Season.’ There it was, the point she wanted to make.

  ‘I am sure Miss Worth is delightful,’ he acceded neutrally. Thoughts of another dark-haired, sharp-witted woman invaded, his mind juxtaposing the fiery Artemisia Stansfield against the image of the no doubt smooth-haired, porcelain featured May Worth. When his mother had said they’d begin looking in earnest in the new year, he’d thought she’d meant this spring when the Season started, not the moment the calendar turned. The new year was only two weeks old. ‘Unfortunately, I am expected out of town. I am leaving tomorrow.’ He offered the news to stall any further incursions on his mother’s part.

  His father looked up in interest. ‘Where to? I’ve heard nothing of this.’

  ‘Seasalter.’ It was an unplanned journey, courtesy of the inconvenient Miss Stansfield. Carrying out his commission for the Academy was becoming far more difficult than he’d anticipated. When he’d agreed to the suggestion it was in part on the assumption that Artemisia Stansfield would paint in London. He’d been wrong on that most important account. When he’d shown up at the Stansfield town house the butler had curtly informed him Miss Stansfield had decamped for Kent, all the while looking down his rather long nose at him as if he were personally at fault for the reasons she’d left.

  ‘Seasalter? In January?’ His father made a look of noble distaste, something sly moving in his dark eyes. ‘Whatever for? The oysters aren’t even in season.’

  ‘It’s for the Academy,’ Darius answered vaguely, feeling protective of the commission while his mother was in full matchmaking mode. His father’s gaze lingered on him for a moment and Darius had the suspicion he’d not escape unscathed. His father was a respected collector of art, the Bourne collection one of the finest in England. His father knew what happened in the art world.

  After that, the conversation devolved into general discussion roaming from Parliament to spring work on the estates, to new exhibitions in town, to the upcoming Season. All the while, the tension that permeated the meal never truly ebbed despite the congenial conversation. That was the Rutherford way, Darius had discovered growing up. Everything must be serene and perfect on the surface. Upon meeting the Rutherfords, no one would guess the disappointments that lurked underneath: the multiple miscarriages that had driven a wedge between the Earl and the Countess years ago, that the Countess had once been a talented flautist, despite being the daughter of an earl herself, and laid that talent aside to make an advantageous marriage, or that a quarrel between the Earl and his sixteen-year-old son had nearly torn the family apart. That quarrel was the last time his mother had shown any real fire. These days her energies were bent unconditionally to the task of seeing him wed, her last maternal duty. She’d failed to present the earldom with the necessary pair of young males. She
could not fail in seeing the heir wed. In that, Darius’s responsibility and hers were intertwined. They could not do their duties separate of one another. He would not fail her. She deserved the best from her one surviving son.

  His mother rose, still a handsome, gracious woman at fifty-five who knew her duty at the table even when dining en famille. ‘I’ll leave you two to your port.’

  The decanter was brought, drinks poured and Darius waited for his father to take the lead. His father would not appreciate any conversational distractions when he had something on his mind. ‘Artemisia Stansfield is in Seasalter,’ his father said at last. ‘Is your trip for the Academy attached to the trouble with her?’ He was only moderately surprised his father knew despite the Academy not bruiting the business about.

  ‘Yes.’ Darius had learned the truth was the only path forward with his father. His father learned the truth sooner or later about everything. Best to have it out in the open from the start. ‘The Academy would like me to check on her progress so they are prepared for her return in March. I only learned yesterday she’d left town.’

  His father cocked a brow and took a long drink. ‘She’s an interesting woman. Too interesting, if you know what I mean.’ Darius did know what he meant. Hadn’t those been his thoughts as well? ‘Perhaps you can get out of it?’ his father proposed. ‘I’m sure when the Academy appointed you to the task, they thought she’d be here in town, surrounded by people. Seasalter can be lonely in the winter.’ His father gave him a strong look. ‘A dishonourable woman and an honourable man are a dangerous combination.’

  ‘I don’t think Miss Stansfield is looking for a husband,’ Darius replied evenly. It wouldn’t do to take offence at his father’s insinuation. ‘I am going in a professional capacity and I doubt Miss Stansfield will be pleased to see me,’ he assured his father. She would be no more pleased to see him than he would be pleased to be there. It was a distasteful business all around. The sooner he dealt with it, the sooner he’d be out of it.

  ‘Just so, be careful. You’re an earl’s heir, a definite step above her usual, I am sure.’ His father tossed back the rest of his drink, signalling the end of the conversation. He rose, confident his message had been delivered. ‘Let’s go join your mother.’ Not because it was the usual etiquette, but because his mother was a constant reminder of those who were counting on him to do the right thing. Perhaps getting out of town for a few days would be a welcome breath of fresh air after all.

  * * *

  The coach stopped in the innyard of the Crown, the only real inn Seasalter boasted, and Darius prepared for the discomfort of the road to be replaced with the discomfort of an out-of-the-way inn not used to regular hospitality. With luck, he wouldn’t be here long. He checked his pocket watch. Half past three. He could refresh himself and make the Stansfield residence by teatime. After all, misery loved company. He was under no illusions that Miss Stansfield would be pleased to see him.

  His footman opened the door, setting down the steps. Darius stepped down into the mud of the innyard, his boots squelching, misty rain dusting the capes of his greatcoat, and took a deep breath of sharp, briny, Kent air. It was certainly fresher than London, he’d give it that, a small consolation. ‘Bring my trunk in,’ he instructed. ‘I’ll let the innkeeper know I’m here.’

  Inside was no better than outside, merely darker. Muddy boots had left tracks on the plank floor and no effort had been made to sweep, perhaps because it was a losing battle. A few men lounged by the fire, drinking ale, and there was the smell of hot food being prepared for the supper meal. That was encouraging. He wouldn’t starve, not that he intended to be here long enough for such a thing to be of concern. The innkeeper gave him the key and a sly look when he asked directions to the Stansfields’. Apparently Artemisia had made an impression on the community already. No doubt they found a single woman living alone quite the novelty.

  Darius found himself wondering as he climbed the stairs to his room if she had enlightened the population about her opinions on the male anatomy. He had an errant image of her, that magnificent mass of dark curly hair wild and loose about her shoulders, storming the public room and spouting her arguments against gender inequality. Some day, she’d learn it was a losing proposition. There was little tolerance in the world for people who thought differently. They either conformed or were stamped out. As a lord’s son, he’d learned that lesson early.

  Darius fitted the key into the lock and surveyed the room. Objectively, it would do. It was surprisingly clean and of decent size. There was a bed, a washstand, a fireplace, a small table for writing or for dinners when the taproom proved too rowdy. He availed himself of the washstand, scrubbing his face and hands, but was hard put as to what other improvements he ought to make to his appearance. This was an informal place, a village by the merest definition of the word. To look too fine would be to attract further attention.

  The farmhouse occupied by Miss Stansfield was just up the road, a half mile or less. The innkeeper assumed he’d walk as, no doubt, most people did in this village no matter the weather. He peered out the window. It was still raining. It hardly made sense to change clothes just to get them dirty when his own clothes had only seen the inside of his carriage. He shook the droplets off his greatcoat and put it back on as his trunk arrived.

  ‘I’ll return for supper.’ His man would know what that meant—a bath and hot food should be at the ready, along with a full-bodied red wine if it could be found. Darius pulled his collar up high and headed out into the misty elements.

  * * *

  He found the farmhouse easily enough a little farther up Faversham Road and, in truth, the chance to stretch his legs had improved his mood despite the rain. Smoke curled invitingly from the chimney and a lamp shone through a lace-curtained window, an affirmation that someone was home, that his walk had not been in vain. For the first time in a while, he was starting to feel lucky. He wasn’t looking forward to calling on Miss Stansfield, but if he could see her and her artwork today, he could be on the road home tomorrow. He need not prolong his stay to the benefit of them both. The less he saw of Artemisia Stansfield, the less opportunity he’d have to report anything unsavoury.

  Darius knocked on the door and it was answered by a round-shaped woman in a crisp apron. ‘I’m here to see Miss Stansfield,’ Darius offered with appropriate deference. In his experience, it always paid to be courteous to housekeepers.

  The housekeeper gave him a swift appraisal, deciding he passed her muster. ‘Right this way, Miss Stansfield is in the parlour.’ It was no great distance to the parlour. The farmhouse was neat but compact compared to the airy town houses of Mayfair.

  ‘Miss Stansfield,’ the housekeeper said with suitable seriousness, perhaps a sign of the impression he’d made on her, ‘there’s a gentleman here to see you.’ She moved out of the narrow doorway so he could step through. From the green sofa a pleasant-looking young woman with auburn hair looked up from a sketch pad, friendly green eyes mirrored his own surprise. Had he come to the wrong place? Had he misunderstood the directions from the innkeeper?

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Harris. Might you bring some tea? It’s a wet afternoon out.’ She set aside the pad and rose as the housekeeper hurried off. ‘A visitor is always welcome, sir, but I don’t believe we’ve met.’

  Darius made a little bow, masking his own surprise. ‘No, I don’t believe we have. I am looking for Miss Stansfield.’

  She gave a light laugh. ‘You’ve found her. I am Miss Stansfield. Well, one of them. No doubt you’re looking for my sister, Artemisia?’ The way she said the last, Darius had the impression she was used to being passed over for her sister. It would be easy to do. She had her sister’s confidence, but not her sister’s edgy boldness, nor her sister’s aplomb. She did have an endearing openness all her own, however. She stuck out her hand in the silence that followed. ‘I am Miss Adelaide Stansfield.’

  Darius took her ha
nd and shook it. ‘I’m Mr Rutherford, I’ve come from London.’ He opted to leave off his title. He was the art critic here, not the Viscount.

  ‘Oh, have you come to purchase a painting? Artemisia will be disappointed to have missed you.’

  ‘She’s not here?’ Darius enquired, wondering if that was a stroke of luck or misfortune, followed quickly by wondering where she might be. It was raining out and there was nowhere to go unless she’d gone into Whitstable or Faversham.

  Adelaide Stansfield shook her head. ‘No, she’s out sketching today in the estuary. Please, sit down and at least have some tea for your troubles. I’m not sure when she’ll be back. She said not to expect her until supper.’ There was no question of staying that long, but he had to stay for tea. It would be rude not to. His stomach rumbled as the tea tray came in, reminding him that it would be practical, too. He hadn’t eaten since breakfast.

  They sat near the fire, the warmth welcome after the damp walk. His eye went to the painting above the mantel—a lone goose on the marsh done in striking blacks and greys against subtle browns and deceptively dark greens for the marsh reeds. In the corner were the initials A.S. He nodded towards the painting. ‘Is that one your sister’s?’ It occurred to him that Artemisia’s absence might be a piece of luck after all. He could see her work without having to overcome whatever resistance Artemisia would put up. Now, her work was unguarded except for this more pleasant Stansfield who offered him tea and delicious little lemon seed cakes.

  ‘Yes, do you like it? I’m not sure if it’s for sale. It’s the first one she’s done in a new collection.’

  ‘Does she have others?’ His gaze swept the little parlour for other work.