by Jackie Ivie
But it did matter!
Her son deserved so much more than bribery to keep him hidden, or an uncertain life in Egypt. Both of them did. The decision was inevitable. Averill’s shoulders sagged. The earl noticed. His tone when he spoke was warm again. Almost grand-fatherly.
“We’re in accord then?”
She nodded.
“Good. I’ll order your son moved to the Hall nursery immediately. I’ll see he has the best of care. I believe I’ll even accommodate your mother’s continual requests for a party. I daresay you young people would enjoy that.”
“I have…one request, my lord.”
Averill took a deep breath and turned back to him. The knight no longer held any hidden message for her. It seemed to match the air of haughtiness the earl wielded as he smiled down at her. He exuded everything she detested about aristocrats. Their sense of superiority. Their ability to crush opposition and spirit. It didn’t matter what method they used, either. All of them seemed to manipulate and scheme to get others to do their bidding. And if those didn’t work, they’d compel and coerce, and then force. It was easy to envision the Earl of Tennison’s forebear sending a recalcitrant or two to the castle dungeons to reconsider any defiance.
Just as it was easy to see the other side of him right now; the satisfied, inwardly-gloating one. The magnanimous, almost-friendly aura he assumed once he’d gotten his way. It showed in the warmth of his voice. She knew if she painted him again, he wouldn’t enjoy viewing it.
“Ask it, my dear.”
“I’ll paint the portraits, but I refuse to attend functions. Lady Limley enjoys those. Not me. I am an artist. I will paint and then I will disappear into my room. These are my conditions.”
“Oh. I don’t think so. All young people enjoy a party. I’ll speak with the countess. It won’t be a large party…something more along the lines of a soiree. I’m certain my lady wife knows of some young men who would be delighted to attend a function at the Hall. Eligible men. You’d enjoy it.”
Her heart stalled. Restarted. How could she bear it? “I gave you my conditions, my lord.”
“True. And now, I’m giving you mine. I’m starting to look forward to this party, and I normally end up barely enduring these types of things.”
Because you can force me to attend?
“Please, my lord. Reconsider. I must decline. I...have no wardrobe for such things.” Her voice was shaking, and she knew he heard it.
His smile went wider. “We have castle seamstresses for such issues. I’ll have it looked into. Immediately.”
“I can’t accept.”
“Oh, please. Reconsider. What is one dress against your future?”
They were haggling? Over a dress? It was reminiscent of her conversation with Lady Brighten, and exactly as futile.
“I look forward to seeing your work, my dear. Thank you for attending me.”
Averill opened her mouth to argue further, and then shut it. She had more pressing things to worry over, like Petunia’s sitting.
~ ~ ~
“Averill, can I ask you a question?”
Averill glanced at her subject, and looked down again with a shrug.
Miss Petunia was sitting in a tapestry-covered chair, the blond woman’s hand resting delicately atop a chair arm. Although the light was adequate, Petunia’s dress was beautifully detailed, and the petal-strewn fabric of the chair was a nice touch, Averill wasn’t inspired. She might as well be painting a rock. At night. In the rain.
Her brush flattened the maroon color on her palette as she tried to find the chair’s background color.
“Were...? Oh! I can’t even say it. You’ll think it much too forward of me.”
Averill glanced up just as the Petunia’s cheeks went a warm peach color. That was it! The maroon could wait. What she really needed was white, ocher, and a bit of salmon pink.
Averill wiped off her brush and grabbed paints. “I’m listening,” she replied.
Petunia skittered her glance away. She didn’t move her head just as she’d been cautioned.
“I shouldn’t have said anything. I’m sorry.”
Averill wanted to slap her. The fragile-looking aloofness was back, and Averill had just got the color right. “My lady, please. You can ask me. I promise not to take offense.”
“Promise?”
Miss Petunia had olive green eyes. They’d darkened with her emotion. That would make a lovely contrast to the peach of her blush. If it came again.
“I’ve so longed for someone to talk to.”
The blush was back. Averill quickly tossed color onto the canvas, shaping cheeks. A mouth. The curve of a forehead. The woman was sweet, young and untouched. Averill almost wished it wasn’t so easy to capture.
“Have you ever been in love?”
Averill lifted the brush, catching a sliding bit of paint. If only her heart was so easily stanched.
“I know that’s a stupid question. You have a child.”
The girl’s blush was in a deeper hue this time. Averill sucked on one cheek as she forced herself to consider that instead.
“You loved your baby’s father, didn’t you?”
Averill swallowed and looked down, as if studying her palette. She didn’t dare touch the canvas. Her hand wasn’t steady enough.
“I mean...I don’t really know what happens, but when one is in love…it’s wonderful, isn’t it?”
Averill couldn’t blink fast enough. Tears slid onto her cheeks as she looked down at the floor. Then to her paint cleaning can. She moved her vision to the door to the left.
“Oh, Averill. I’m so sorry. I wouldn’t hurt you for anything. Forgive me.”
Petunia sounded ready to cry, too. Averill swiped a forearm across her eyes, drying tears and taking the impulse to cry with it. She set her jaw. She didn’t want Petunia’s pity any more than she wanted Harvey’s that time in the inn’s stable. The thought braced her, stiffened her shoulders, and eliminated any lingering shake. Averill picked up her brush again.
Miss Petunia would be better off pitying herself. That’s who needed pity. She was set to marry a faithless man. A man little better than Antonio. A man capable of promising all kinds of things just so he could conquer and move on. A man who, despite appearances and assurances, was exactly like his uncle.
“Yes, my lady.” Averill glanced at her subject and then back to the palette. “I did love him. Very much so.”
The blond sighed. “I knew you’d know how it feels!”
Her voice was filled with joy. It matched her expression. Averill quickly filled in that look, the perfect bloom on her perfect cheeks. Chin. Neck. The delicate skin of her forehead…
“I have a confession to make, but you must promise not to tell anyone. Not a soul. Do you promise?”
Averill looked up again, caught by Petunia’s earnest words as well as the girl’s expression. If she hurried, she could catch the light touching Petunia’s perfectly formed lips, pouting just now with a wistful downturn. It would be perfect!
“I’m in love, too.”
Averill’s breath caught in agony. It matched her next heartbeat. And the one that followed. She clenched the brush, the move lifting paint-soaked hairs from the canvas. She couldn’t do this. She couldn’t. And she’d been stupid. She could go to the Dona Francesca in Venice. She would sponsor Averill. She should have enough social power to counteract whatever penalty the Earl of Tennison issued. Averill wouldn’t even have trouble with Antonio anymore. She knew exactly what he was and what his words were worth.
Nothing.
“I mean…he’s not as important as Captain Tennison, but I was so certain he was going to offer for me. Oh, Averill! How can I bear it?”
Averill looked up in surprise as Petunia buried her face into her hands.
“What did you just say?” She slowly set down the palette.
“I can’t bear it! At night, when I’m alone, I cry until there are no tears left. I can’t help it. I love him, and my
parents won’t listen to me. I love him!”
“Who?” Averill’s voice croaked. She held her breath.
“Percy! He’s handsome, charming, and wonderful. I don’t care that he has no fortune, or that he’s a third son of a minor baron. Oh, Averill, what am I going to do?”
“You don’t love Captain Tennison?” Her voice was faint.
“Of course not. I haven’t even seen him since I was a girl. I probably won’t even recognize him. And nobody understands!”
She gave Averill a watery smile that should be put to canvas, while Averill reeled with surprise. Shock. And most of all, hope.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
“I was afraid this wouldn’t work!”
Petunia’s whisper was filled with anguish. It matched her expression, as well as how she’d twisted the lace ties just below her bodice into a knot.
“Don’t give up yet. I feel certain your Percy won’t fail you.”
“You really think so?”
Averill longed to reassure her on the path to true love, but that was laughable. How could she give advice?
The ball gown Petunia had loaned Averill scratched her skin where tulle decorated the neckline. The hemline was almost too short for polite company, but it was beautiful. Averill couldn’t believe her eyes when she’d looked in the mirror earlier. She didn’t recognize herself.
The front of her dress was scoop-necked, as was the style. It had fit almost perfectly. The décolletage had been fashioned for Petunia’s small bosom. It was very tight on Averill. Blush-inducing, if she thought of it. She hadn’t wanted to wear white, either. It would be too theatrical against her coloring. But Petunia’s entire wardrobe seemed to be fashioned of it. The only other choice Averill had was accepting the earl’s offer. That she’d refused had probably galled him. No. She was beneath consideration. She doubted he’d even heard that she’d dismissed the seamstress.
Her stubbornness meant she was wearing one of Petunia’s dresses, regardless of color or how it fit. Or what it revealed. The skirt even seemed designed for showing off a womanly form. It had been crafted from an immense amount of material, forming a bell shape. She had an immense amount of petticoats beneath it to give it the correct width. It made her hips appear lush and womanly, while her waist looked impossibly tiny. Petunia had helped arrange her hair, too. It was in a simple upsweep, far different from the style Petunia’s was in. The girl had spent most of the morning with a hairdresser. It wasn’t an improvement. Curls had been laboriously crafted and then arranged all about her face. While it might be the current style, to Averill’s eye, it overwhelmed the girl’s sweet face.
Petunia had added the finishing touch to Averill’s attire. She’d laced a cameo onto a vivid blue ribbon and tied it about Averill’s throat. And then she’d proclaimed Averill a complete vision, as well as voiced a bit of worry about what Percy might think when he saw how beautiful Averill was.
Averill had looked at her reflection with a bit of worry. She wanted to be beautiful…but for Tenny. Not anyone else. She was dressing like this because she was being forced. But what if the earl really had invited eligible, young men? And what if he’d intimated that she’d be available to them? The only thing she could think to do was cling to Petunia’s side. And the night was just starting.
“Are you certain he accepted?”
“Fairly sure.”
“But not certain?”
Nothing alleviated the anxiety in Petunia’s eyes, but Averill couldn’t lie. He had been sent an engraved Tennison invitation sealed with wax that carried the family crest, despite how far away he lived. The countess left out her guest list, and Averill could now add expert forger to her portfolio if she wished. Nobody had even noticed the addition. But she didn’t know if he’d accepted.
“Oh, Averill! Look! He’s here! Oh! Isn’t he handsome?”
Averill looked to where Petunia pointed. She had to admit the man approaching through the throng had a certain élan, although his foppish clothing nearly hid it. Tenny had never looked like that. Averill wondered then what he’d look like in evening dress. For a moment she quivered with the thought. She had to shut her eyes and fan herself before reopening them to the couple. Petunia hadn’t noticed. She had eyes only for her beau, and he for her.
“Percy,” Petunia gripped the hands he held out with both of hers.
“My precious! It’s been ages since you left. Years! You haven’t forgotten me?”
“As if I could.”
They spent a few moments just gazing at each other. Averill smiled. This was a look she’d love to paint on Petunia’s face. Her entire visage was aglow with love and adoration.
“I could hardly believe my eyes when the invite arrived. How did you manage it?”
“Oh, Percy, before I forget all else, I must introduce you. This is Averill Ben-Masiz, the portrait painter…and the reason you’re here. Oh, Averill…isn’t he divine?”
“Divine?” Percy stood a bit taller. “Men aren’t divine.” He pulled Petunia a bit closer to him. His voice lowered. “But you are. Oh darling…I’ve been driven mad. You didn’t even leave me a note! How can I tell you of my grief and my longing?”
“Oh…Percy.”
Averill’s brows rose. A moment later she stepped away from the wall, hoping to shield the couple. Perhaps nobody else would notice their complete engrossment with each other. While it looked like heaven to her eyes, Averill knew the earl wouldn’t have the same definition. Her eyes quickly scanned the room, locating the earl instantly since he was standing, watching over the festivities. She’d already noted his perfect posture. His bearing. He looked regal. Unapproachable. And then a manservant did just that. Averill watched as the earl tilted his head slightly and listened. And then he nodded. And then he turned and followed the man, walking with a dignified gait through the crowd and beneath an arch.
Averill’s heart instantly ticked upward, blocking her throat. She didn’t know how, but she was certain, as if it was announced aloud to the room, that Tenny had arrived. Everything in the world brightened, starting with the chandeliers far above them.
“Percy,” she heard Petunia whisper. “I’ve been so frightened. How can I tell you how wonderful it is to see you?”
Averill didn’t hear Percy’s reply. She was moving. Skirting the edge of the room, avoiding contact with dancing couples, those milling about, chatting. She took extra care with the myriad of servants, easily identified in their Tennison livery. She’d thought the ballroom enormous when she’d first seen it. Now, it was unbelievably stuffy and crowded.
The halls beyond the entrance were almost as crowded. Averill dodged a manservant bearing a tray. Then another one. There seemed to be a steady stream of them, all carrying trays laden with champagne flutes. Some with cordial glasses. Some with colorful arrays of foodstuffs. There seemed to be a lot of couples about, some viewing the paintings along the halls. Some appeared to be simply strolling. Some found more interest in shadowy alcoves. Averill rushed by all of it, barely seeing anything, while strains of music finally faded. She knew where to go, as if someone had whispered directions in her ear. Tenny’s study.
She’d just turned into that hall when Harvey stepped out, saying something to the occupants. Averill froze. She went cold. Scared. That’s when she was sure Tenny was here. But Harvey wasn’t to see her! She could imagine the words he’d say, the expression on his face. She didn’t want anyone knowing she was here…except Tenny.
And then Harvey turned in the opposite direction, rounded a corner, and disappeared. Not once had he looked back. She’d never been more grateful. There wasn’t a light source near her, but the white dress was like a beacon. She’d have been impossible to miss. She didn’t hesitate another moment. There was a shadowed recess just to this side of the doorframe. Averill pushed into the space, crushing her skirt and mass of petticoats. She didn’t care. Tenny was inside! So close!
The earl was speaking. It didn’t carry fully. She got only snippets of
words. He was using his grand-fatherly stern voice.
“…always a pleasure…you, Andrew. It’s about time… you answered…summons.”
Tenny answered something in a low rumble, changing time. The temperature. The world. Averill’s heart swelled. She put a hand to her bosom and leaned a bit closer, breathing shallowly in order to better hear.
“I expected you in evening dress. I specifically instructed—”
“I know what you instructed, sir. I don’t care. I’m not here for you or your summons. I have a ship in Dover to catch. I wouldn’t have stopped if my horse hadn’t thrown a shoe.”
“Now, see here—”
“Look. Uncle Theamus. I’m not staying. I got word of a new arrival in Paris. A true beauty. Unequaled. Exotic. Talented. I’m wasting no time.”
“You’re still chasing skirts?”
“No, Uncle. Just one.”
Averill’s heart dropped. It felt like a stone at the bottom of her belly, sitting there, pounding away, sending steady beats that twisted and pained. And then it got worse.
“It’s a remarkable likeness, dear boy. She’s a very talented girl.”
“Can we talk of something else?” Tenny asked coldly.
“I’ve invited Petunia Abbington-Withers for a stay.”
“Abbington-Withers? Why? Surely, she isn’t still available. Even in the backside of beyond, we heard tales of her dowry.”
“Actually, Andrew, I....” The earl cleared his throat. Averill had never heard him sound so hesitant and uncertain. “I intimated that she can expect an offer from you.”
“What? You had no right, sir!” Tenny’s voice rose.
“I have every right. You’re my heir. I’ve tired of your wanderings. I am deciding your future, as well as the future of the Tennison line. Petunia will make an admirable wife. Marry her and have several sons. You’d have my blessing.”
Averill didn’t feel capable of breathing…but she must be, for the next one was a gasp. And it got held, making the echo of her heartbeat even louder. But not loud enough.
