by Grace Elliot
He had drunk heavily, trying to obliterate Miss Foster, but if he carried on like this and he’d start to lose clients, it wasn’t good to be seen in his cups, staggering around Covent Garden. For once in his life, Huntley was at a loss as to what to do.
With a moan, he hung his head, which exacerbated the cruel pounding at his temples. He prided himself on being a rational man, but this was an experience outside logic. Miss Foster had bewitched him and not even drunkenness could erase her influence.
Slowly, he raised his head. The facts were these: despite his best attempts, there was no denying he loved Miss Foster, and he was drawn to her like a moth to a lantern. Gritting his teeth, Huntley stared once more at his reflection. He could deny his love and destroy himself in the process or take Miss Foster on face value and make her his wife.
New emotions stirred inside, he held his breath, trying to pin them down. Then it came to him. Excitement. Hope. Wonder. This was what he wanted more than anything. Material achievements paled compared to Eulogy. He had to take that risk, trust his instincts and Miss Foster.
A slow smile spread across his wide lips. Eulogy was not Caroline. He must not confuse the two. With sudden resolution he knew what he must do.
First thing, sober up, second work out a way to woo Miss Foster and make her his wife.
Coffee and writing paper.
With sudden vigor he reached for the bell to summon his valet.
-oO0Oo-
A lazy bee drifted on the breeze, following the scent of lilac and beside the road, such traffic as there was moved sluggardly, a stray cat stretched in the sun. The carriage horses broke sweat with the slightest exertion and when Huntley’s barouche pulled up, the matched greys were already blowing hard.
Huntley jumped down. “Hold there, Giles.”
His mouth dry as the dusty streets Huntley knocked on Farrell’s door.
Miss Foster emerged, in a gown of pale blue lawn, her hair caught up beneath a bonnet that shaded her face. With a shy smile, she placed a feather light hand on his arm, and his breath hitched.
“Thank you.” Huntley walked her to the barouche.
Her eyes dilated. “For what?”
“For agreeing to meet with me.”
“Oh!” Miss Foster looked puzzled. “I have no argument with you.”
“When I saw you last, in Grosvenor Square I feared I’d offended you.”
“No.” Slowly, she met his gaze. “Twas something else altogether that caused my distraction. I owe you an apology. Please forgive me.”
“Of course.”
“And forget?”
For a heartbeat Huntley hesitated, then smiled. “Of course. Let’s say no more on the subject. Here, let me help you up.”
Miss Foster settled in the open carriage and adjusted her parasol.
“It’s such a beautiful afternoon. I thought a visit to Gunter’s.”
“Oh? Your note mentioned discussing Farrell’s forthcoming exhibition. I assumed we’d go to The Gallery?”
Jack gestured at the cloudless sapphire sky.
“We can discuss business just as well over an ice. A shame to be indoors on such a day.”
“As you wish.”
From the seat opposite he studied her lowered lashes, the bonnet cast a shadow across her pretty nose, framing softly parted lips that sent his pulse racing. When she looked up and caught him staring, he flushed.
“Farrell said you’d been ill,” Miss Foster said, her voice soft with concern.
Huntley’s color deepened. How to admit that his ailment was self-inflicted, that he had drunk himself into oblivion to forget the woman now melting his heart?
“I am quite recovered.” He lied, for his heart would forever be hers.
“I am glad to hear it.” She smiled in a way that gave his soul wings. They lapsed into silence as the streets passed. In the wilting heat the greys made slow progress; the gentle pace lulling driver and passengers alike.
Huntley cleared his throat.
“How does Farrell’s work progress?”
“Very well indeed, he is excelling himself.”
“Will he be finished on time?”
Eulogy nodded. “Most paintings are either drying or varnished. He plans one final masterpiece, a work to steal the breath.”
“Excellent. And Farrell, might we rely on his sobriety?”
“Of course. No alcohol has passed his lips in the time that I have known him.”
Huntley fought to maintain a neutral expression, whilst inside his heart raced. Her nearness overwhelmed his senses, he craved to feel her touch, to taste her mouth and yet the thought of a heady tumble seemed insulting as with a jolt he realized he wanted more. He wanted to protect and cherish her, to know what made her laugh and cry, to know her hopes and fears. He wanted to share the sunrise and see it through her eyes .Such love meant weakness, vulnerability and he swallowed nervously.
As the barouche turned into Berkeley Square, Huntley marshaled his wits.
“Soon I will confirm the dates for Farrell to open the exhibition. You will attend?”
Miss Foster looked startled. “Me? Surely that isn’t necessary? Who would be interested in the model?”
“You’d be surprised.”
Beneath the welcome shade of a maple tree, the carriage lurched to a stop. On the opposite side of the road, a waiter emerged form Gunter’s in a spotless white apron and gloves. He was a round faced man, cheeks beaming with heat, dodged the passing carriages with practiced ease.
“Aren’t we going inside?” Eulogy asked.
Huntley smiled indulgently. “We will be served in the carriage. On balmy days it is quite the fashion. Everyone does it so your reputation is quite safe.”
“Thank you.”
“For what?’
“Considering my reputation.”
An awkward silence hung between them and the waiter, having reached their carriage, bowed.
“Sir, madam, good day. How may I serve you?”
“Ah, yes, Bergamot water ice for myself, my good man. And for my companion, what will you chose, Miss Foster?”
“I’m sure I don’t know. What flavors are there?”
The red faced man smiled indulgently.
“Well there’s a very pleasant punch-water ice and a special barberry ice. Even if I say so myself, the burnt filbert is especially fine today…or for the sweeter tooth there’s a chocolate cream ice…”
“Stop, stop,” Eulogy laughed. “Too much. I’ll take your recommendation.”
The waiter puffed out his chest. “That being the case I’d suggest the Royal Cream Ice for the lady.”
Jack regarded the chap suspiciously. Fifty if he was a day, old enough to be her father, and yet he felt jealous.
“Very well, Bergamot for me and Royal for the lady.”
“My pleasure, sir, I shall fetch them directly.” With a parting glance at Eulogy, the waiter bowed and threaded his way back across the street. Jack watched him go, struggling to subdue an irrational protectiveness. He turned back to Miss Foster. Her smile hit square between the eyes, knocking the air from his lungs.
“Mr. Huntley?”
“Miles away, sorry.”
Miss Foster regarded him oddly. “Does my company bore you?”
“Oh no, quite the opposite. You are enchanting company.” Embarrassed by the confession, Huntley shut his mouth.
Miss Foster frowned. “Mr. Huntley, we agreed to be friends, did we not?”
“Indeed.”
“And friends are honest with each other?”
Jack felt hot under the collar. “Indeed.”
“Then why have you been avoiding me these past few days? Was it because I cut you in the Square?”
Her frankness disarming, Huntley considered his answer. “In a way.”
She nodded slowly. “I thought as much. I say again, I am sorry.”
Huntley let out a long, slow breath. “No, it is I who should apologize. Discussing the exhibition w
as a pretext. I feared you would refuse my invitation otherwise.”
Miss Foster’s eyes widened, her pupils huge despite the summer glare. But further confidence was interrupted by the return of the jolly waiter with a silver salver and two crystal bowls.
“Here we are, sir…madam.”
Accepting the stemmed glass, Miss Foster licked her lips.
“Will there be anything else, sir?”
“That is all for now.”
“Very good.”
The waiter bowed and left.
Miss Foster picked up the silver teaspoon and shaved off a shard of creamy ice, lifting it to her lips. Her mouth formed a dark oval and she shivered at the tingling coldness. Fascinated, Huntley watched with cat-like intent as she savored the ice.
“Well? How do you like it?”
“This is delicious.”
Huntley beamed.
Five minutes, and two empty bowls, later, Eulogy sighed. Huntley, feeling more relaxed, stretched his arm across the back of the seat.
“I’m glad we can be friends,” Eulogy said. “I had thought you were ashamed to be seen with me.”
“Whatever made you think that?” Knowing this in part to be true, Jack bridled.
“Well asking to make me your mistress didn’t help.” Was that amusement in her eye? She was teasing him! Heat swirled in his groin.
“Well I didn’t know you then, as I do now.”
“Even so, I am not of your rank. It is brave to be seen with me.”
Wistfully, she sat back.
“Miss Foster, I admire you immensely.” He stuttered, confused by this sudden cowardice. “You are beautiful, witty, intelligent and any man would be proud to escort you.”
“But I am not fit for society,” Eulogy stated baldly.
Jack reeled. He should deny it and declare himself. Here was the moment he had dreamed of and yet in that moment past hurts flooded his mind. “It’s not what I think, it’s the ton.”
Silence. Cutting, excruciating silence.
Huntley squirmed. To risk the shame, it brought back memories of the wagging tongues and false sympathy and the utter humiliation of Caroline’s betrayal. Had he not worked too hard, starting The Gallery, building a reputation to risk it again on a woman? Suddenly, he was shaken by indecision.
Miss Foster shook her head. “You are warm one minute, then cold and distant the next.”
Huntley sat paralyzed.
“Mr. Huntley, what are you afraid of?”
His heart lurched, perhaps if he explained? He wanted to tell her but would she laugh?
He dabbed his forehead with a handkerchief whilst Miss Foster stared out across the Square, distance settling round her shoulders like a cloak. If he didn’t speak now he would lose even this friendship. His guts churned. Without Eulogy Foster life would be colorless.
He drew a deep breath and forced out the words.
“Years ago,” his voice grated with emotion, “I courted a woman. She was dazzling in looks and wit, but from a humble background. I was so enchanted, couldn’t believe she would even look at such an awkward youth, let alone profess to love me…” Huntley glanced at Miss Foster, watching for derision.
“Her company was hypnotic, I couldn’t eat or sleep. She inhabited my every thought. Everyone was jealous of me. She returned my feelings, we planned to marry, raise a family and grow old together.”
“Go on,” Eulogy whispered.
“Father was furious when he found out I was engaged to a nobody, but he needn’t have worried.”
Miss Foster gasped. “She died!”
“Oh no.” Jack almost smiled. “Worse. She’d been using me for social advancement. Through me she gained introductions, started flirting with a viscount more eligible for her purpose—as he was elderly, wealthy and titled. I refused to believe the rumors and cut the friends who warned me. When news of their engagement broke, I became a laughing stock. Young Jack Huntley, a fool for a pretty face. Jack Huntley, cuckold. Jack Huntley, the butt of jokes, who no one would ever take seriously. When I remonstrated, she accused me of pressing my attentions on her against her will. She even started a whispering campaign against me to blacken my name…it was utterly humiliating.”
“But that’s awful.” Eulogy touched his hand.
“As her lies spread, people sniggered behind my back and cut me to my face.”
“I’m not laughing, I’m sure people now see her for what she was and people forget.”
“Miss Foster, I am the youngest of three. Charles inherited the title, George is a hero, and me, I am nothing other than what I’ve made for myself. Pride, to me, is everything.”
“Caroline was a long time ago. Why not forget and move on?”
“That pain has been my guide for so many years.”
“Then by confiding in me you have taken the first step.”
“But there’s more.” He hardly dared breathe and looked up sharply, to gauge her reaction. “You see Lucien Devlin introduced me to Caroline, he had my humiliation planned from the start.”
Miss Foster opened her mouth and shut it, then shook her head. “Why?”
Her surprise seemed genuine, which puzzled Huntley all the more.
“Once we were friends, or so I thought. He was competitive and loved to be the center of attention. I still don’t understand why he did it, but I suspect he was jealous because a woman he coveted who had set her sights on me. It rankled with him, coming second and he wanted to teach me a lesson.”
“Are men truly that cruel?”
“Not all men, just Devlin.” Huntley looked in Eulogy’s eyes, brown and sincere. With effort he tore his gaze away. How easy to forget that Miss Foster harbored secrets…just like all women.
“I have told you of my past, now what of yours?” Call it a test, let her return his trust and confide in him. But at her stillness, a chill gripped his heart.
Miss Foster turned white and clutched the side of the barouche, speaking in a choked whisper.
“I made a promise,” she said and hung her head, “that I cannot break.”
Huntley welcomed the pain. It confirmed he was right to doubtful. He had confessed his shame and she had given him nothing in return. So be it. Lack of breeding was one thing, but secrets quite another.
“Drive on!”
Now all he had to do was convince his heart of what his head already knew, and forget Miss Foster.
Chapter 13
A dandelion seed drifted in through the studio window. Eulogy watched its dawdling path, spiraling on a feathery parachute across the room until it alighted on her sleeve. Her world contracted into that one seed; how it had voyaged so far, only to fall on fallow ground. For a moment Eulogy allowed her weighted lids to close over burning eyes and shutter out the pain. Inhaling the comforting smell of oil paint, she forced herself to keep still.
“Are you all right, Mauvoreen?” Farrell peered around the canvas.
“A little stiff, that’s all.”
“Shall we stop?”
“Oh no, the light won’t hold much longer, please carry on.”
“Only if you’re sure.”
“I’m sure.”
The artist’s head disappeared back behind the easel.
“This picture needs finished this week, and wi’ Mr. Huntley hisself expected soon, I want him to see progress.”
Eulogy’s pulse accelerated. “He’s coming here? Today?”
“You’ve gone pale, Mauvoreen, take a break.”
“No, no, continue. I haven’t been sleeping well, that’s all.”
Farrell’s disembodied voice lilted from behind the easel. “Aye, well it seems the worst of the heat is over thank goodness. Who’d have thought it would last so long, wi’ September half done.”
“And your exhibition opening in October.” At the unexpected boom of Huntley’s voice, Eulogy’s eyes flew open.
The artist grinned and made to greet their visitor, but Huntley raised his arms in mock alarm at Farrell
’s paint stained hands.
“My valet would have me forgo the handshake, if it’s all the same to you.” Huntley laughed. “So, how does the final piece progress? I hope it’s worth the wait.”
“Aye, it is. See for yourself.”
Huntley disappeared behind the canvas Eulogy fought to calm her jangling nerves. She heard an exclamation of surprise, and the sound of shoulders being slapped.
“Magnificent! What can I say? Magnificent. Your best work to date.”
Beaming, Huntley stepped around the easel. Still holding the pose, Miss Foster avoided his gaze.
“Mauvoreen, we will finish for the day.”
Free to move at last, her muscles ached from dis-use. Eulogy wriggled her shoulders, arched her back and cautiously rolled her neck. She felt a stab of panic as Huntley crossed the room, his eyes bright as he watched her stretch and flex. He reached out to help her down, the touch of his hand on hers made her melt inside. She could avoid him no longer.
“Miss Foster?” His unblinking moss-green eyes held her. “Miss Foster, you work too hard. Why I have barely seen you these past three weeks. I was beginning to think you were avoiding me.”
Eulogy smiled weakly. How could she speak when it was the truth? She knew she had let him down, that time at Gunter’s. He’d trusted her and expected her confidence in return. She couldn’t break her promise to Devlin and besides, since Huntley hated Devlin might he not hate her to, if he knew her secret?
“Is something wrong?” Huntley squeezed her hand. She pulled it away.
“Mr. Farrell needed me,” she said, dropping her gaze.
“But so pale.” With unmistakable tenderness his hand strayed across her cheek, leaving Eulogy unable to breath. Huntley rounded on Farrell.
