A Reluctant Betrothal (The Grantham Girls)

by Amanda Weaver

  “Rupert,” Lady Honor called. “Come look at these paintings. They’re of horses.”

  “Oh, those aren’t part of this collection,” Julian explained. “They were collected many years ago. They’re up here because Mother isn’t fond of them.”

  “Not fond of them?” Rupert cried in disbelief. “Why, look at these lovelies. I’d like to have some paintings like these in my house. You know I’ve just bought a house, Lady Honor?”

  “No, I didn’t!”

  “I wasn’t so keen on the idea, but my uncle insisted that I have a London home.”

  “Where is it situated?”

  “Belgravia. Quite a nice place, I’m told, but not a stick of furniture came with it. It’s like a tomb. A bit daunting.”

  Honor’s eyes lit up. “Oh, I do love arranging rooms. I could advise you on the furnishings.” Then she caught herself and looked to Grace. “I’m so sorry. That was terribly presumptuous of me.”

  Since there was no official understanding between Rupert and herself, Grace didn’t find it presumptuous at all. Instead, it was a relief.

  “Not at all, Lady Honor. Rupert’s been asking my opinions on wallpaper samples for weeks, but I must confess, I haven’t much of a head for it. My opinions are not to be trusted.”

  “In that case, I would love to help, Rupert. Architecture and decorating are passions of mine.”

  “You see, Rupert? I’m sure Honor has a much better eye than I do.”

  “Would you really advise me, Lady Honor? I’d be eternally grateful for your assistance.”

  “Not at all. It would be a delightful project for me. Shall I come around with Julian tomorrow and take a look?”

  “Nothing would make me happier.”

  And then they were gone, chattering about wood finishes and curtains and carpets, leaving her alone with Julian. Precisely the situation she’d sworn to avoid.

  “Did you receive my flowers?” he asked quietly.

  She swallowed hard and willed herself not to flush. “I did. Thank you.” And she’d received the second bouquet he’d sent, and the third, this morning. All hyacinths and tea roses. His apology and his...promise?

  “They were meant as an...apology. I’m sorry I offended you the way I did. It was badly done of me.”

  “I think it’s better forgotten.”

  Julian paused. She didn’t dare look at him to see his face. “As you wish.”

  “It is what I wish. And please, don’t send any more. It made for an awkward explanation.”

  “To whom?” His voice was edged with a new thread of aggression.

  “To Rupert, of course. He was curious as to who was sending so many flowers. I didn’t tell him it was you.”

  “I see.” Julian cleared his throat awkwardly. “I hope our altercation at the variety didn’t spoil the rest of the evening for you.”

  “Not at all. I was more entertained than I often am at those sorts of things.”

  “The variety isn’t your favorite?”

  Why was he prodding at her this way, attempting to get the measure of her? Did he mean to denounce her pedestrian tastes in entertainment next? She turned away from him. “Actually, I prefer the opera.”

  “Hmm,” he hummed. “Myself as well. Honor is wild for the variety, however.”

  “Rupert’s fond of it, too. That’s why I went, although I did end up enjoying it.”

  “How nice you have that much in common, at least.”

  She looked up at him, prepared to snap back after his dig, but he kept his eyes on the paintings. Grace inhaled deeply and turned her attention to them, too.

  “Some of these seem quite good. You said they were your father’s?”

  Julian was silent for a moment and then he moved to stand at her side. “They were part of his household effects in France, yes. You like art.” He said it as a statement rather than a question.

  “I do. Very much.”

  “Rupert said you were quite knowledgeable. Where did you study?”

  Grace chuckled wryly. “Nowhere. No school for me, I’m afraid.”

  Growing up, there hadn’t been money for a proper house, never mind a proper education. Anything she knew she’d taught herself, from books she culled from the lending library. Once at Gen’s she’d had time and the ability to improve herself properly, but Gen’s emphasis had been on comportment and the precedence of nobility, not a classical education. As a result, her knowledge held wide gaps. She knew quite a lot about art and literature, but she was dreadful at mathematics of any kind, and large swaths of history were a void. Mostly, she spent her life flubbing her way around anything she didn’t know.

  “Where did you learn about art, then?” Julian pressed.

  “I learned by looking, and by listening to people who knew more than me. It’s how I’ve learned everything.”

  She bent over, sliding a small canvas out from behind a larger one. “This one looks like a Sickert.”

  “A what?”

  “Walter Sickert. He’s quite good. I love his use of color.”

  Julian scowled at the painting. “It’s not very pretty.”

  Grace laughed. “They’re not meant to be pretty. They’re meant to depict life as it is, not as we wish it were. Do you see? He doesn’t romanticize his subjects or their environs.”

  “And you like this? It appeals to you?”

  Grace studied the small canvas, a portrait of a woman reclining on a couch. She was young, but there was a weariness in her posture, a resignation in her roughly rendered features, which gave her a worldly air far beyond her years. It was not a pretty picture, and not a happy subject. “It does appeal to me.”

  “Why?” he pressed. “I thought young ladies preferred pictures of mythological scenes, or gardens, or children.”

  Grace gave an unladylike snort. It was refreshing, knowing she didn’t have to impress Julian. He’d already made up his mind about her, so there was no point in maintaining a façade. “Maybe some young ladies do. For my part, I prefer art that reflects life.”

  Julian examined the painting, the hard, confrontational eyes of its subject. “And this reflects your life?”

  “You might be surprised.”

  “I think there’s another by him.” Julian leaned over the stack, flipping through the canvases until he found the one he sought. “Oh.” His hand closed around it, but he didn’t draw it out.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “It’s not... It’s perhaps not a painting meant for ladies.” Hearing his voice shake over a painting made her want to laugh.

  “Don’t tell me...the subject isn’t wearing her clothes.”

  “Errr...”

  “Do let me see it. I promise not to swoon at the sight of a little naked flesh.”

  Julian coughed. Perhaps using the words “naked flesh” was ill-advised. Now the words were out there, summoning thoughts of bare flesh and touching and...

  “Here it is.”

  “Right.” Grace schooled her face into scholarly interest and took the small canvas from his hands.

  The naked figure, reclining on a narrow bed, was as raw as the portrait, and all the more powerful for it. This was not some glowing, idealized Greek goddess, delicately draped in sheer fabric. This was a warm, real woman, laid back and presenting herself for the artist’s eye, and for the viewer. The humble room, the rumpled bedsheets, her fleshy thighs and pendulous breasts, made the act of observing her feel immediate and visceral in a way viewing no naked sculpture from antiquity could ever be.

  Julian stood silently at her side, staring at the pale flesh against the navy ground of the room. “It’s...”

  “It’s lovely,” Grace said softly. “She’s real and vulnerable, and it makes her beautiful.”

 
“I see what you mean. I confess, I’ve never seen a painting like this.”

  Grace smiled. “You haven’t looked in the right places.”

  “Perhaps.”

  This was all becoming too much. The nude was a work of art, but its intimacy had stirred something in the air between her and Julian, something which refused to be dispelled. Best to move things back to the business at hand. She set the painting down. “Sickert is quite talented. He’s been working in Europe since he finished apprenticing with Whistler, but I believe he’s just come back to England. His circle is doing some very exciting new work. I predict his fame will only grow.”

  Julian rubbed his jaw. “Interesting.”

  She cocked an eyebrow at him. “You doubt its value?”

  “Not at all. You seem to know better than I. It’s just... I doubt my father had any idea of its worth. He wasn’t that kind of collector. I think he just acquired the works of his friends...and anything else he liked.”

  “Then he had a good eye.” She poked through several more canvases, some by other noteworthy young artists. “There seem to be several by this artist,” she noted, pointing to one. “I don’t recognize the hand.”

  Julian sighed, and when she looked at him, he was rubbing a hand across the back of his neck. “I believe they were all painted by Lady Clevedon. Apparently she took up painting in France.”

  Ah. The lady he’d abandoned his wife and son for. No wonder these paintings had been banished to the far corner of the attic. And no wonder Julian looked so uncomfortable. She pulled one from the stack and carried it closer to the eaves, tilting it into the weak spring light coming in the oval window. She heard Julian moving up behind her, looking at it over her shoulder.

  “She was quite good. Her use of color is extraordinary. And her depiction of spatial relationships is intriguing.”

  Grace had gotten lost in examining an exciting new artist, but at Julian’s sharp intake of breath, she remembered herself. After what Lady Clevedon had done—what she and the elder Lord Knighton had done together—the quality of the woman’s work was beside the point.

  “I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking.”

  “It’s all right. I’m quite used to it.”

  She looked up at him, at the bleak expression in his eyes, and felt that unwelcome surge of sympathy once again. “Somehow I doubt that’s true. It’s not for me.”

  His slashing dark eyebrows furrowed as he examined her. “What do you mean?”

  “Only that my father brought a great deal of misery down on my head, as well. He raised me to think of myself as a viscount’s daughter, but he left me to support myself like a pauper.” She let out a soft huff of laughter. “Worse than a pauper. At least then I’d likely have some skills. I’ve lived with his failings all my life. I confess, I’m still not resigned to it and probably never will be. I’ll always be angry at him for failing me.” She remembered herself with a start, biting off her last word. Her face heated as she left the window to return the painting to the stack. “I’m sorry, I got a bit carried away.”

  “Don’t apologize. I like understanding you. I’m sorry again, for believing the worst of you based on the word of someone like Musgrave.”

  Considering what she knew about his father, she could almost understand his anger when he’d thought her Musgrave’s mistress. It must be a subject of some sensitivity to him. In light of that, his actions regarding Rupert were understandable, too. He cared about his friend. If she’d ever thought Victoria or Amelia in danger from an untrustworthy man, she’d have done anything to protect them.

  When he was being like this—kind, interested, respectful—it was hard to believe she’d been so furious at him she’d resorted to violence. “Then perhaps you can concede I’m not a villain.”

  He smiled. “I don’t think you’re a villain at all.”

  “I’m glad to hear it.”

  He held her gaze, still smiling. His smile was a thing of wonder, utterly transforming his face, lighting up his eyes and chasing away the stern set of his jaw.

  Perhaps they had finally found some neutral ground. They would put what happened behind them and find some way to become friends.

  “But I still can’t allow you to marry Rupert,” he said conversationally. And then, as she was still struggling to comprehend what he’d just said, he turned away. “Rupert, Honor, are you done with those dusty horse pictures? I’m ready for tea. How about you?”

  Chapter Ten

  Julian shook hands with Mr. Worthington as he prepared to leave his office behind his gallery. “Have your secretary contact me to arrange a viewing of the works, Your Lordship. I am at your disposal,” Worthington said eagerly. From the moment Julian had mentioned a few of the artists in his father’s collection, the man’s eyes had been alight with interest. It seemed Grace had been right about their potential value.

  “I’ll do that. Don’t trouble yourself,” Julian protested when Worthington made to follow him out through the gallery. “I can see myself out.”

  Worthington retreated back into his office as Julian made his way through the gallery, mulling over his choices. If he were smart, he’d sell the lot to Worthington and have done with it. But he’d also been approached by the National Gallery about donating the collection. The idea of his scandalous father’s art collection hanging on a museum wall, feeding the gossip for years, filled him with dread. But when he remembered Grace’s face as she examined the Sickert, he found himself reluctant to refuse them. She’d taken such joy in them, and he could share that with many more people by donating the collection.

  As if just thinking about her summoned her, he passed into the gallery’s front room and saw the woman herself, standing before a small canvas on an easel, talking to a gentleman. Well, not quite a gentleman, if he were being particular. Her companion was short, only reaching Grace’s shoulder, with a wild gray grizzled beard and small gold-rimmed spectacles slipping down his nose. He wore only a rumpled, paint-flecked cotton smock over his waistcoat and shirt. No tie, no jacket and no hat, only a wool cap. He was talking animatedly, gesturing at the painting and waving his hands. Grace smiled and nodded, as if she weren’t conversing with the most peculiar man Julian had ever seen.

  She wore a walking suit of gray wool edged in black. Her sleek dark hair was twisted up on the back of her head and topped with a little straw hat, its whisper of a veil brushing her forehead. The primitive flare of satisfaction he felt at stumbling upon her here disturbed him profoundly. He was not allowed to want her, not allowed even to take pleasure in her company.

  But he couldn’t stop his feet from carrying him to her side. He told himself as he went that it would be unconscionably rude to walk past her without greeting her, and he’d already insulted Miss Godwyn too many times with his terrible behavior. Good manners had nothing to do with the flash of heat he felt when she turned her face and recognized him.

  “Lord Knighton,” she said, slightly breathless with surprise. “What are you doing here?”

  “I’ve been speaking with Mr. Worthington about selling him my father’s collection.”

  She tilted her head. “Ah, yes, you could probably get quite a good price for them from Worthington. May I introduce my friend? We both came to see this painting and ran into each other.”

  “Please do.” He was curious to know who Grace’s odd companion was, and how she knew him.

  “Lord Knighton, this is Mr. Alfred Boyland. Mr. Boyland, Lord Knighton.”

  Boyland gave Julian an absent smile, but didn’t extend his hand to shake. “Nice to meet you. Grace and I have just been having the liveliest debate about this new Sérusier. What is your opinion?”

  Julian wasn’t accustomed to such a direct and informal greeting, although Boyland seemed to mean no insult by it. His attention was already fixed back on the painting.

&
nbsp; “I’m afraid I’m unqualified to provide an opinion. As Miss Godwyn can tell you, I’m a Philistine when it comes to art.”

  Boyland looked back at him, as if only now truly seeing him. “Ah. That’s too bad. A terrible thing to go through life without art.”

  How peculiar to feel as if he’d disappointed this strange man, and yet Julian had an urge to defend himself just the same. “Well, I—”

  “Lord Knighton’s interests tend more toward philanthropy,” Grace interjected. Then to Julian, she said, “Mr. Boyland is a painter himself. He’s quite accomplished.”

  “Ah, Grace, you’re the modern art world’s best friend, aren’t you? I’ve got to be going. I was meant to meet Pierre Lamotte at his studio hours ago.”

  “Oh, don’t let me keep you.”

  “Will I see you at the Egyptian Hall for the New English Art Club show next week?”

  “I’m not certain of my plans right now, but I hope you will.”

  “Do try to come. There’s a new American chap exhibiting, Max Beer? Max Bone?”

  “Max Bohm?”

  “That’s him!”

  “I will try to make it. I’ve been hearing wonderful things about his work.”

  “Perhaps I’ll see you then.” He turned to Julian. “Will you come along?”

  Julian startled. “Me? No, I think not.”

  “Eh,” Boyland said, dismissing Julian and his entire existence with a shrug. “Just as well, as you’ve got no love for art.”

  “I didn’t—”

  “Goodbye, Grace. Mr. Knighton.”

  Boyland left in a hurry, the hem of his smock flapping behind him.

  Grace coughed into her gloved hand to stifle her laugh. “I apologize. Mr. Boyland is a talented artist, but he’s a bit of an odd conversationalist if you’re not used to him.”