by Liz Tyner
He walked to her, moving among the other guests with a quick word here and there, but with little detour. She watched his movements more closely than she’d ever studied another man. Other needs had been foremost in her mind on the night they’d met, but now she could see him with shadows flowing over his face. This was the man she’d been looking for, if not all her life, then at least for a year. If she could convince him to let his hair become a bit unkempt. His jaw could use a bit of darkness on it, too. The valet would have to spare the razor perhaps. She could paint him as a knight, a rogue, a rake for any century.
Yes, the man was exactly what she needed for inspiration. Already she could imagine him, standing bold, sunlight flowing haphazardly over him. The contrast of light and shadows emphasising the nature of a person, good and bad. If he held a sword, tip into the ground beneath him, perhaps a sheen of moisture on his face, hair in damp spikes on his forehead, framing his eyes. Standing as if he’d been awakened from another century, and risen, ready to do battle with whatever the fates thrust his way.
She might well send Tilly the amethysts with a lovely note. Not any time soon, though.
When he stopped in front of her, she looked up into the depths of dark eyes. Her words crumbled at his feet even before they were spoken. His jawline was firm, but not too long to detract from the beauty of his face. It only made him seem stronger. And she knew, if he were to gain weight as years passed, the thinness of his cheeks would fill and he would only become better to view.
She imagined all the ravages of life she could think of on his face. Andrew would not disappoint in later years. His bone structure was that of society’s world, but her brother had said he’d dressed in workman’s clothing at the back of his home where repairs were being done. Wilson claimed Andrew had selected the men who worked on his repairs, inspected their work and directed them. Looking at Andrew, she could imagine him bounding up a ladder, scampering along the frame of a roof, or carrying lumber on his shoulder. Her fingers burned to return to her brushes. She could not speak.
The night she’d first met him would have been so different if she’d known. He would have walked into a room lit by a thousand candles and her eyes wouldn’t have blinked.
‘Lady Riverton,’ he spoke courteously, but nothing soothed her in his countenance. She suspected he didn’t enjoy the attention turned his way.
Watching his expression, she flicked a finger against the back of the amethyst earrings he’d sent. They’d arrived that morning. His eyes flashed a glint of a smile and his lips firmed, but he appeared to struggle to keep them that way.
‘Lord Andrew.’ She waited half a breath. The moment passed and it almost felt as if they were strangers. The man in public did not seem quite the same as in private. But that was for the best. It would not do to become close to him.
But she wanted to paint him. Certain risks came with that. She had never been able to distance herself from a model completely.
‘This is my entranced look for today,’ she said, covering for the fact that she knew she gazed at him too strongly.
His nod would have been imperceptible to anyone standing near.
‘I thought you might wish to change our—your plans after the sheet was printed. You weren’t named,’ she said. She didn’t want him trapped in any mire. He would not take well to it.
He leaned in slowly, his voice strong, assured and moving over her like a warm fog enveloping a valley. ‘The plans have not changed, Beatrice.’
In response, he took her gloved hand and tucked it around his arm. ‘The only reason I did not approach the man who printed that trash and thrash him is because he will be quite useful.’
His breath brushed past her ears. Her heart beat in her chest, her knees and her toes. He had to know every eye in the room was on them.
Her mind recovered first and then she gasped. Yes, he knew everyone watched. She could not let herself be fooled.
His eyes tightened. ‘Are you choked? Do you need a glass of lemonade?’
‘Only the glass. Perhaps with something else inside it.’ She had to get herself out of the crush of people. To think. ‘Later.’ Those same butterflies in the brain feeling from before. Oh, she could not let herself fall into that chasm.
She must talk to him privately. It would look as if they were moving away to be alone because they were besotted. He might not react well, but so be it.
The scent of shaving soap bathed her, but then she realised the aroma might not be shaving soap, but laundered wool, mixed with leather and something she couldn’t quite place. Then she remembered. When the carriage house had been expanded, that gentle scent had wafted through the air mixed with the sound of hammers. She shivered inside. He really did smell a bit like a forest.
If she could translate this man into a portrait, it would be her masterpiece.
She leaned closer as they walked. ‘I must paint you,’ she whispered.
His feet stopped abruptly, causing her shoulder to bump into his, her opposing foot swinging wide. He steadied her.
He raised a brow as he moved forward with her. ‘No.’ He proceeded on, leading her through another doorway and to the entrance of the duke’s gardens. They stood on the steps, the doors behind them. In front, light shone to the open grounds. Several people lingered about, but far enough away to ensure privacy for Beatrice’s words.
‘No?’ she said. ‘I’m quite experienced. I assure you. I’m naturally talented.’
‘I am certain.’ He pulled his arm from hers, but he remained close, his words low. ‘I do not have time to be painted. I have too many irons in the fire as it is. I have no time for it.’
Someone chattered, moving closer. She smiled while tightening her arm.
Voice low, she whispered, ‘You should make time for art.’
For a moment, neither spoke, moving aside for a couple to return inside. Once the door snapped shut behind them, he gave her a rueful smile.
‘I admit, I do appreciate that likenesses are captured for the family to view after a person is gone. But that is about the extent of my tolerance for such things.’
‘Art is my reason for life.’ What spirit possessed her, she didn’t know or care—it always remained nearby. She wondered if she wanted to push him away.
He was a man who could not even allow himself flaws. His clothes fit him to perfection and he was as comfortable at the soirée as if he were the duke himself. She felt like a scullery maid trying to be a countess. She always had to some extent, but then she had not been born into such a life. No matter how much she spent on clothing, her corset always chafed, or the pins in her hair fought to loosen, or her shoes tightened on her feet. She pretended to brush her glove over her shoulder, making sure her chemise had not slipped from under her dress. Luckily, her stockings remained in place. So far they had not tried to bunch at her ankles.
She’d like to be someone other than herself for one night, she supposed. Now she just wanted to leave. To get back to the studio and paint. To close herself into her world and forget about the words that might be printed about her. She did not belong at a soirée—she belonged at a studio.
When she opened her mouth to speak, he stepped away.
A memory surfaced—Riverton leaving while she begged him to stay and left her with the knowledge he was going to another woman. For a moment, a familiar emotion surfaced and stilled the blood in her veins. She took a breath, and reminded herself that Lord Andrew meant nothing and had promised nothing. Fate had brought them together, or Tilly, or a mistake, or whatever it could be called. He didn’t owe her anything, truly, and yet he’d agreed to help her. She would paint him. The art would be a gift to him. A thank-you for trying to retrieve her reputation. She could already imagine showing him a life-sized mirror image of himself.
‘Lady Riverton. We should perhaps return to the others and waltz.’ His voice barely reached her ears.
She considered her goal and then thought of him. ‘Andrew. If you don’t dance with me,
you might not be connected to me. Let us part now.’
She hadn’t called him Lord Andrew, but he had not seemed to notice, which she appreciated. Riverton would have shot her a killing glare.
‘No. I am desperate for a waltz with you.’ His lips didn’t smile, but happy crinkles appeared at his eyes and his voice was just a touch more resounding, possibly able to carry to others. ‘A waltz, Beatrice?’
She kept her words for his ears only. ‘Don’t say you were not warned.’
‘Is your dancing that bad?’ His face tipped near hers, words soft.
She raised her chin. ‘It’s quite grand.’
He clasped his hand over her gloved fist and pulled it to his lips for a quick brush, then opened the door for her. ‘Then I will not give you an opportunity to refuse.’
When she stepped into his arms for the waltz, she did not care what was said about her, even in the past. It had led to this moment and this dance, and she looked into the eyes of her muse.
‘Andrew. You must pose for me. We did get along quite well the other night and we do now.’
‘I cannot be blamed for that. You looked so lovely in the spectacles and mob cap. I was overcome with madness,’ he whispered, but his eyes sparked humour. ‘And the name... I’ve always had a penchant for women named Tilly. Sadly, I was misled.’
‘Right to the bedchamber.’
‘Tilly’s bedchamber.’ He leaned so close she could see the light flecks in his eyes again.
‘Soon we’ll attend the theatre together,’ Andrew said. ‘You must be consistent and appear a new woman. The widow who has put the past behind her and is embarking on a sedate journey.’
The music wafted over her and she had no trouble looking adoringly at Andrew. But her shoes still hurt, her stockings wanted to bunch and she prayed her chemise did not show. It was hard to glide in his arms when she felt the barbs at her back and feared she would somehow embarrass him again.
Chapter Six
Andrew perused the papers, pleased. It seemed their waltz had garnered just the right amount of attention. The engraving wasn’t flattering to either of them, but the words did not embellish much beyond the truth.
He’d perused the paper twice that day, considering his plans and how far he should continue with them. He carried the print to his bedchamber to read the story a third time before he prepared for their outing.
The engraving had some merit. They’d actually been able to capture the shape of her lips in the likeness. The over-sized eyes were vile, staring so hungrily at him, but overall the face was hers. It stirred his memory of holding her while they danced.
Beatrice was quite the actress. She had given him such looks of adoration that even he would have believed them if he’d not known. He’d actually enjoyed the role himself. His hand had slid down her back as they’d parted from the waltz and he’d been aware of each hook on her gown. The dance had ended much too soon, but he could recall every moment of it.
He had not been able to stop thinking of how those blasted hooks had felt and how easy they would fall aside. Corset ties next. A chemise. Bare skin. Tickling laughter.
Blast. Blast. He kept thinking of her skin and then his mind would switch to the sight of her touching her lips in her bedchamber and telling him she wanted him to remember her. He wished to stop thinking of that moment, but he had not been able to.
He must stop such nonsense.
But he’d be seeing her tonight. A perfectly innocent outing with her brother in tow. He’d insisted Wilson go with them to add to the image of the new Beatrice. Andrew had explained twice how it would help with the creation of the demure Lady Riverton. A chaperon would be greatly beneficial in another way. He did not think it wise to be alone with her. Not if he kept thinking of her musical laughter.
Fawsett’s perturbed huff as he poured steaming water into the washbasin caught Andrew’s attention. Fawsett was boiling, too, but the man had earned the right to a bit of complaint. Andrew had been trying to work away his excess thoughts of Beatrice and the efforts were frazzling Fawsett.
Fawsett sniffed, slapped the pitcher on to the table and turned to Andrew. ‘I resign.’
Andrew stood. ‘No.’
Fawsett strode forward. ‘That is not the way fingernails should look. No amount of care can correct that damage. It will have to grow out and hopefully I am not scarred for life.’ He thrust out his opened hand. Then he flipped his hand over, palm up. ‘Calluses. Calluses. Disgraceful. Hammers are for ruffians. And scaffolding is for hangmen, not valets. I have decided to find employment elsewhere.’
‘Fawsett.’ Andrew threw a note of caution into his voice.
‘I am not really who you think I am,’ the valet grumbled, raising his chin in challenge. ‘I am not Thomason Fawsett, but Robbie Fawsett. Thomason is my father. I used his references. I am not a valet.’
‘Oh.’ Andrew widened his eyes. ‘I am so shocked.’
Andrew moved to the washbasin and splashed water on to his face, and looked across to his valet, still grimacing at the sight of his hand.
Last evening’s work had not gone well. Andrew had tried and tried to get Beatrice from his thoughts, but no amount of activity had helped. He really shouldn’t have kept Fawsett busy after the others had left, but the lanterns lit fairly well. The night air had been the problem. He supposed the sole of Fawsett’s boot had got dew on it and caused the accident.
Andrew reached for a cloth, then pushed the flannel to his hairline and slowly slid the fabric downwards. ‘If that is true, then it would certainly explain why I have had to purchase twelve new cravats because I refuse to wear the ones with a brown spot from a too-hot iron. And it could also mean you are the son Thomason apprenticed to a carpenter and who ran away after stealing a horse. By the way, Miss Sarah’s father never did find the young man who’d romanced his daughter. The man he plans to kill on sight if he ever finds him. Miss Sarah’s father, who often goes to the Four Swans Tavern on Bishopsgate Street.’
‘Don’t worry yourself, sir. My leg hardly hurts at all.’ The valet’s miffed words jabbed into the air. ‘I always wanted to fall from scaffolding. Prove my loyalty to my employer. Follow him wherever he wishes and hide from my friends the fact that I don ruffian’s clothes so I can hold boards for my master. Boards.’
‘You’re paid well.’
‘Not well enough,’ the man grumbled, starting into the wardrobe. ‘My hands should be preserved to fold cravats. Not run to and fro, handling construction equipment like a common carpenter. You could hire labourers for such tasks.’
‘I told you when I hired you that you would often be required to do out-of-the-ordinary duties. Lift heavy objects.’
Fawsett gritted his teeth. ‘I thought it might mean bringing you a woman, or hiding you from a husband. Or picking up your sotted corpse from the stews. That is what I am comfortable with.’ He sniffed. ‘I did not lie and practise signatures to forge my way into a post where I would have to work harder than shining a boot, or brushing a hat. Questionable activities should better oneself, never lead to honest work!’
‘This house needed remodelling and I could not find enough workmen with the skills I needed and who could work at my schedule. I very much regret you stumbled. You suffered a minor injury. Happens.’
Andrew studied Fawsett’s unlined face and fit form. The man could make a hammer sing and measure with flawless accuracy. Andrew shook his head. He’d never understand why Fawsett preferred taking care of another man’s clothing. Except Fawsett did have considerable free time to spend with maids. Andrew frowned, wondering how much truth the valet told when he hinted at his exploits. Probably all true. The maids did flutter around him.
Fawsett could accomplish so much more if he did not let himself be distracted by women. But Andrew could understand, it was not easy.
Fawsett complained, ‘You look a sight. Overtiring yourself with work. It is a disgrace. Even my special mixtures will not take the effects of the sun from your face.
I have heard that a woman is now on your horizon and I fear you are not considering all the happiness available if one remains unmarried.’
‘Stubble it.’
‘I am only concerned for you.’ Fawsett picked up the pot he had specially mixed at the apothecary. Something he assured would keep bothersome bugs at bay when out of doors, and attract interesting creatures indoors. It smelled of a wooded glen, so Andrew allowed it. ‘The papers are hinting that the Be—lovely Lady Riverton is on the prowl for new prey. Although I am quite certain she is a delightful lady, I would not wish to see you step into a snare of any sort.’
Pulses of anger flashed in Andrew’s body. Idle chatter. How that could damage a family. He forced his muscles to remain relaxed. He wadded the cloth and let it drop to the side of the basin. ‘I will be going to the theatre tonight, your Haughtiness, and I suggest you keep to your own life and not mine. Show her complete respect.’ Andrew raised a brow.
Memories of walking in on his own father weeping flashed in Andrew’s mind. The first and only time he’d seen his father cry. He had seen what lack of control could do. The servants. He’d known, even when they walked by without looking directly at anyone, their movements had changed. They all knew what had happened in the household.
He thrust those thoughts aside. Beatrice had taken the cane to the carriage on one occasion and attacked her husband with scissors on another. She was impulsive and she would always be so, but she could re-invent her image enough so the scandal sheets would not pick her bones into pieces. Some day, she would be thankful she’d done it. He wished someone had warned his father. Not that he would have listened.
Andrew looked in the mirror. He resembled exactly the portrait of his father that graced the sitting room. Family history told how his mother had wanted it as a present for her first wedding anniversary. His father had been older., and in his thirtieth year. The man had been a duke first and foremost, except in the evenings when he’d sat with his wife in the library and their contented murmurs had wafted through the room. Those had been the warmest moments of Andrew’s life. But then his father had changed. He’d just changed. Andrew hadn’t realised how much until the newspapers explained it to him.
