“It’s all right. Where did you meet him?”
“Oh, I can hardly remember now. An exhibition or a gallery of some sort, I’m sure.”
“You keep curious company, Miss Godwyn.” Once again, she had surprised him. Underneath the elegant, reserved facade, she seemed to have the soul of a bohemian.
“I love art. Artists come hand-in-hand with art.” Her voice held a hint of a challenge.
“I suppose they do.”
“You’ve decided to sell your collection to Worthington?” she said, clearly looking to change the subject.
“I haven’t decided yet.” The disapproval of her odd artist friend still rankled, and he found himself wanting to impress her, to please her. It had to be why he offered up the next piece of information. “The National Gallery has also asked me to consider donating them.”
Her smile told him he’d succeeded. “That would be a very fine thing to do. I visited the National Gallery more times than I can count as a child. Without it, I’d have had precious few opportunities to see this sort of art.”
“You seem to seek out paintings in every house you visit,” he pointed out.
“I didn’t exactly frequent the finer houses of London as a child.”
“No?”
“No. It was a sorry lot of rooming houses for me. That was all my father could afford, at a certain point.”
“Where was your mother?”
“Dead. She died when I was six.”
“I’m sorry.”
Grace gave a diffident shrug, one at odds with the grim tale she was telling. “Perhaps it was for the best. I’m glad she didn’t live to see how low we eventually sank. It would have broken her heart.”
“I see.” He hadn’t realized her childhood had been so terrible. Haddon had lost the family fortune, of course, but a shabby rooming house was a long way to fall for a viscount. Especially one with a child to care for.
Her father had been no better than his own, failing the people who depended on him. It made sense of Grace’s desperate desire to marry well. It didn’t stem from greed, but rather a wish to right what had gone wrong in her life. He could entirely understand that motivation.
“For a great many people—people like me, when I was a child—public galleries are their only chance to experience great art.”
“I hadn’t thought of it that way.”
“I’d imagine not. In this world, most people have fine paintings hanging in every room of their house. It’s not the case in most homes. We’re fortunate to be living in a great age for public art. I hope you consider the donation. It would mean so much to so many.”
He shook his head. “It’s not so easy. Everyone in London knows how my father chose to live his life, and under what circumstances he acquired the pictures. I fear if they hang on a museum wall, the talk will never die down, and it will plague my mother unnecessarily.”
“But if you sell them to a dealer, there’s no telling where they might end up. Your mother could find herself encountering one in someone’s private home every time she ventures out. That might be worse.”
“Or they could stay where they are, where they’ll do her no more harm.”
“That would be a shame. Then no one will ever enjoy them.”
Somehow he’d known that was precisely what she would say. Indeed, as he’d wrestled with it, it was Grace’s voice he heard in his head, advocating for the donation, as she just had. “Perhaps you’re right, Miss Godwyn.”
“I know it’s not on the same level of philanthropy as your housing works, but—”
“I understand. There’s no telling who will benefit from which act of charity. You clearly benefitted from the generosity of the National Gallery.”
She smiled. “Yes, I did. It was often the only bright spot in my life. Someone, no doubt, would benefit the same way were you to donate your father’s collection.”
“It would be a way to make some good from the pain he caused, I suppose.”
She cocked her head to the side as she examined him. “And it’s what you wish, isn’t it? To do some good.”
“Yes. To leave the title, and the world, better than I found it. I can’t undo what my father did, but I always strive to make up for it.” He’d never said that out loud to anyone before. For all his resolve to stay away from Grace, he seemed to be forever sharing intimacies with her he’d shared with no one else.
“It’s an admirable goal.”
He fought his way back to more neutral ground. “What brings you here today?”
“I’d heard Worthington had a new Sérusier.” She nodded her head at the painting she’d been examining with Boyland. “He’s a French painter in Gauguin’s circle.”
He looked at the painting, a loose representation of a figure, head bent, sitting on a darkening hillside. Or maybe it was dawn. It was impossible to tell. “It’s not very cheerful.”
“No, I suppose it’s not.”
“What do you like about it, then?” His own appreciation for art extended to portraits and the occasional landscape decorating a drawing room. These modern painters Grace seemed to find such pleasure in were foreign to him. “There doesn’t seem to be much to it.”
She considered the painting again. “I suppose it’s what I like about it. The artist makes me feel something with a minimum of detail. He evokes my reaction with color, with composition, with mood. It’s fine for a painting to tell me a story, but I much prefer feeling the story. This makes me feel.”
He looked at the painting again, this time through Grace’s eyes. It did indeed evoke a feeling. Looking at it made him feel bleak, lonely, lost. No stuffy portrait or serene landscape had ever made him feel the slightest twinge of emotion. He almost wished Boyland was still here so he could prove he did indeed have the occasional thought about art—or feeling, as the case may be. “You’re quite good at this,” he said at last.
“At what?”
“Explaining it to a Philistine like me. I confess, I’d have passed it by without a glance, but you made me see something more in it.”
She smiled in satisfaction. “I enjoy things that are often overlooked.”
Was she speaking of the painting or her friend, Boyland? Or perhaps Rupert? He looked at her, but she was still looking at the painting, her expression giving nothing away.
He’d already lingered too long talking to her. He should take his leave and go. He stayed where he was, studying her profile while she was otherwise engaged. Her long lashes cast faint shadows on her pale cheekbones. A small jet earring brushed against the side of her neck, a little hollow behind her ear just the right size for his thumb, were he to wrap his hand behind her head.
He cleared his throat in an effort to clear his head. “Do you often come here alone?”
He shouldn’t be surprised she moved about London on her own. Grace was unconventional, and supremely self-possessed. He was pondering whether it was legitimate concern for her safety or some selfish impulse that had him considering offering to take her home in his carriage when she spoke again.
“I thought you’d be pleased Rupert wasn’t with me today, since you seem unhappy about our friendship.”
“I’m not unhappy about it. I simply feel an alliance between you would be a disaster.”
Grace turned to face him, cool fury in her gray eyes. “Despite your many years of friendship, I don’t see why you feel Rupert’s personal affairs are any of your concern.”
“I owe him a debt.”
“What sort of debt?”
“When I started at Eton, my father’s...unconventional life was the source of much gossip. The other boys chose to tease me about it, rather mercilessly. Coupled with the fact that I was, back then, still small for my age, my experience was rather bad. Rupert befriended me. I’m not sure he d
id it with any plan in mind, but having him at my side brought the worst of the bullying to an end. And his friendship, his loyalty, has never wavered. That is why I feel so strongly about protecting his happiness. It’s my duty to look out for him.”
“And I’m some sort of threat?” Her voice turned sharp on the last word. She was beautiful in her anger.
“You are dangerous to his peace of mind.”
“Who are you to make such a judgment?”
“Someone who can see the situation from the outside, with no personal stake.” It was a lie. He knew it even as he said it. He had a personal stake, one growing by the hour. But that wasn’t what drove his actions. In this matter, he was acting on the clearest, most rational of principals.
“How Rupert conducts his life—how I conduct my life—is none of your business.”
“Do you love him?” He felt certain of her answer, but still, he held his breath as her mouth snapped shut and her eyes flared wide.
“That’s a personal question.”
“Yes, I know, but if you assured me you had formed an attachment to Rupert based on a great passion, then perhaps I could look at it differently.”
Grace huffed and looked away, folding her arms over her chest. “Marriages are formed based on all kinds of attachments. I like him very much. He’s kind.”
“Yes, Rupert is kind and generous to a fault and exceedingly trusting, which is why I feel compelled to act on his behalf.”
“I thought you said you no longer thought of me as a villain. So why do you feel he needs to be yanked from my grasp?”
“Because you’re not his equal and he’s not yours.”
She turned back to him. “Excuse me? Because he stands to inherit a title one day? I’ll have you know, my father was a viscount. I knew you were proud, Lord Knighton, but I didn’t think your snobbery extended this far.”
He shook his head. “You don’t understand me. Yes, you’re a viscount’s daughter, but without a fortune and without family, it leaves you rather at a loss.”
Color bloomed across the tops of her cheekbones and he felt terrible for the embarrassment he had to inflict. But it was important she understand him clearly.
“I know how he stands in relation to me,” she said tightly. “But if he doesn’t mind, why should you?”
“Because no marriage should take place where one spouse is disadvantaged to the other. The disparity only leads to misery. A man with a title and no fortune might marry a woman with a fortune and no social standing. One might think it a fair trade. My own parents entered into just such a bargain. But in time, resentment grows because one partner has been made dependent on the other. If you married Rupert, at first you would likely feel grateful he provided you the comfort and social standing you currently lack. But in time, you would grow resentful you needed it, and that you’d had to make such a marriage just to secure it.”
“You presume to know an awful lot about how I will think and feel.”
He shrugged. “It’s merely human nature. I’ve seen it play out in a million Society marriages, including my parents’ union. Miss Godwyn, you enjoy modern art and the opera. Rupert enjoys horses and good food. Your gratitude will only carry you so far in marriage, and then you’ll hate that you’ve had to tie yourself to someone so ill-suited to you to secure your survival. And though I’m sure you don’t intend to hurt Rupert, having a wife whose interests are so fundamentally at odds with his, a wife who feels so dissatisfied...he would be made unhappy. As would you.”
Grace bowed her head as she fiddled with the button closure on her glove. Her cheeks were still stained with color and her chest rose and fell with her labored breaths. He hated wounding her this way to make his point, but he had to stick to his principals where Rupert was concerned. Otherwise his friend was in for a lifetime of unhappiness. And so was Grace.
“You seem to have given this a great deal of thought, Lord Knighton.”
“I’ve had my whole life to reflect on the mistakes made by my parents, and to see the consequences of a marriage made for the wrong reasons. If a person isn’t happy in their marriage, inevitably, they seek happiness elsewhere.”
She let out a humorless little chuckle. “Of course you would think I’d take a lover. You’ve already made your opinion of my character quite clear.”
“That’s not what I think. You might not take a lover, but you would be restless, dissatisfied. And Rupert would never know how to make you happy. Consider how it might make him feel.”
She drew herself upright, her head tilting to an imperious angle. “Perhaps I might come to love him for his good qualities.”
“I think that unlikely.”
She met his gaze steadily. “It’s a pity his closest friend has such an abysmal opinion of Rupert’s worth.”
“I never said—”
“He’s kind, and funny, and passionate about the things he loves. You might think it impossible I could ever find him appealing, Lord Knighton, but you are wrong. Rupert is genuine and openhearted, which is a great deal more appealing than your cynical, jaded, way of seeing the world.”
Julian rocked back on his heels, stunned by the venom in her voice and stung by her assertions where Rupert was concerned. He hadn’t implied Rupert wasn’t worthy...had he?
Grace turned to face him, sweeping her skirts to the side with one hand. “You may be his friend, Lord Knighton, and you may feel you are acting in his best interests, but your assumptions about Rupert—and myself—are an insult to us both. If you meant to warn me off, consider it a failure.”
Then she turned and strode away across the gallery, her back ramrod straight and her head held high. How was it that every encounter he had with this woman ended with her storming away in a fury?
* * *
Grace’s accusation—that he didn’t value Rupert—plagued Julian, and his invitation to dine with him at White’s might have been tinged with more than a little guilt. He felt the need to assure himself his interests in Rupert’s future were correct, and Grace Godwyn was wrong...in many ways.
“How is your father’s estate coming along?” Rupert asked as he stretched back in his chair, making the wood joins creak. He’d just finished off a fantastically large beefsteak, plus several side dishes. Julian never ceased to be amazed at Rupert’s ability to consume food.
Julian refilled their wine glasses. “Nearly done. The villa in France has finally been sold and Lady Clevedon’s been sent off with a hefty settlement.”
“That must have been terrible.”
Terrible didn’t cover it by half. “I had my business agent deal with her, but yes, it was extremely unpleasant. However, I couldn’t risk having her turn up in London asking for funds. That would be a disaster for a great many people.”
Rupert shook his head and blew out a breath. “Her family has some nerve, cutting you, when you’ve done this just to save them the embarrassment of dealing with her.”
“I did it for my mother. And myself. It wouldn’t help my cause to have her turn up now.”
“I suppose not.”
“It’s all nearly behind me. There’s just his collection of paintings to be dealt with before it’s over and done with.”
“I know it will be a relief for both you and your mother.”
“For her most of all. He’s caused her pain for too many years. Perhaps now she might find some happiness.”
“Let’s hope. Will she return home?”
Julian scowled. “To America? Why would she?”
Rupert shrugged one massive shoulder. “You’ve got such a large family there, and here there’s just you.” He cast one quick glance at Julian and then looked back to his hands. “You’ll likely marry soon enough and then she’ll be alone.”
“Mother will always have a place with me, no matter what the stat
e of my life.”
“Of course.”
“She hasn’t been back to America for years. Hasn’t expressed much interest in going, either. I’ve been away too long, though. I should plan a visit soon.”
Rupert smiled slightly. “Perhaps a wedding trip.”
The thought had Julian shifting in discomfort, although he had no idea why. “We’ll see. I’m not quite ready to make those sorts of changes to my situation. What about you? How is the house coming along?”
Rupert’s face lit up. “Quite well. Honor’s been a terrific help. She’s doing it all, really.”
Julian’s eyebrows raised. “She’s been helping you?” He’d had an engagement the day Honor had wanted to visit Rupert’s new townhouse, and the visit had been canceled. He hadn’t realized she’d made her way there without him. It wasn’t at all surprising, though. Nothing could stand between Honor and a project.
“She’s been round half a dozen times with her mother, although to be fair, Lady Dorney spends their visits drinking tea and reading while Honor runs wild. She’s got such plans and schemes. I confess, I can’t keep up with her.”
“Few people can.” Honor was nothing if not industrious.
“She’s so clever. It was her idea to knock down the wall between the breakfast dining room and the small parlor. Both rooms were small and dark, and now you’d barely recognize the place. Quite transformed.”
“I’m glad she’s been such a help to you.”
“She’s incomparable, Julian. Truly.”
Why did everyone’s casual assumptions about their eventual marriage suddenly sit so uncomfortably with him? It was time to steer the conversation away from Honor and back to the woman who was likely the cause of his discomfort.
“I’d have thought, considering your newfound friendship with Miss Godwyn, you’d have asked for her assistance with the house.”
Rupert waved a hand. “Miss Godwyn is grand, but she hasn’t much interest in furnishings. She’s been a tremendous help with other things. She’s assembled the library. As you know, I’m not a great reader, so Grace ordered everything for me.”
A Reluctant Betrothal (The Grantham Girls) Page 12
