by Regina Scott
If Matilda had struck her, Genevieve would not have been as surprised. “Mattie, how can you say such a thing? I was only trying to help keep the conversation going for your sake. For a moment, you both seemed uncomfortable.”
Matilda blinked but still looked uncertain. “Then you meant nothing else by it?”
“Well, I admit I was trying to learn more about him so as to make a better determination of his character. I must satisfy myself that he’s good enough for you. A handsome face and ancient family lineage are not enough to ensure a happy marriage, and I want you to be happy.”
Pink colored Matilda’s pretty, round cheeks and she chewed her lower lip. “Oh.”
“Did I do something wrong?” Genevieve touched her arm and peered carefully into Matilda’s eyes. Where Christian Amesbury’s eyes were the crystal blue of a cloudless winter sky, Matilda’s reminded Genevieve of a deep mountain lake.
Matilda let out a half laugh, half sound of distress. “No, Jenny, you’ve done nothing wrong. Forgive me. I’m afraid I questioned your motives and became a bit jealous. I shouldn’t have.”
“Jealous? Whatever for? You know I’d never come between you and your happiness.”
Matilda’s eyes grew shiny again. “Oh, I know, but you’re so stunning. Most of the men in the room couldn’t keep their eyes off you tonight. I’d forgotten how much they always do that.”
“What a lot of poppycock! You’re a perfect china doll. You and Mr. Amesbury would have beautiful children, with blue eyes and golden hair.”
Fishing her handkerchief out of her reticule, Matilda dabbed at her nose. “You don’t know what it’s like going to balls with you, watching everyone stare at you and fawn all over themselves to talk to you.”
“Stop exaggerating. You are never at a loss for partners, and you know it. My entire reason for being here is to help you secure the proposal you desire. So, we need to have a plan.”
Matilda’s face lightened, and she put away her handkerchief. They entered the drawing room painted to appear made of sand-colored bricks, and with murals of white-clad Egyptians wearing black eye paint and posed with their arms bent at the elbows, such as one would expect to see in a pyramid.
Matilda made a dismissive wave at the decorating style. “Father’s latest passion is Egypt . . . stuff.” She led Genevieve to a settee carved curiously to resemble an Egyptian sarcophagus. “Now, then. What do you suggest?”
They sat with their heads together, discussing ways to feature Matilda’s accomplishments and personality to her full advantage. To her credit, Matilda did an admirable job of keeping her voice down despite her energy while Genevieve made every helpful suggestion that came to her.
“What are you two whispering and giggling about?” Mrs. Widtsoe approached.
They straightened. As Matilda blushed, Genevieve said, “We were speculating on what activity you have planned for this evening and what our role should be.”
Matilda’s mother smiled as if she knew the truth. “When the men arrive, I thought a game of charades would be in order.”
“How delightful,” Genevieve said. “Perhaps until then Matilda might favor us with a few pieces on the pianoforte so that the gentlemen might enjoy it as they arrive.” She shot a meaningful look at Matilda.
“Oh!” Her friend sprang up, honey curls bobbing. “Yes, of course. You’re so clever, Jenny.” She went immediately to the pianoforte in the corner, surrounded by black carved Egyptian cats, and began a sonata.
With the setting sun bathing Matilda in golden light, filtered by sheer curtains over the windows, and a dreamy smile, she created a picture of such beauty that Mr. Amesbury would be a fool not to appreciate the sight. Genevieve vowed to dedicate herself to showing Mr. Amesbury all the many ways her friend deserved his consideration and love.
Chapter Four
When Christian followed the gentlemen from the dining room into the drawing room, he glanced at his father. The earl moved slowly, his shoulders rounded.
Christian spoke softly so as not to be overheard. “Shall I take you to your room, Father?”
“No need. I’m well enough.”
“You look tired. We traveled all day; there’s no shame in wishing to rest after such—”
“Yes, well, I came to spend time with friends, not hibernate in my room like an old bear.”
Christian said nothing further, but he would get more insistent if the earl appeared to be overtaxing himself. Still, the light in his eyes was an improvement over the apathy of most of the past year. Perhaps this house party would revive him.
The sweet chords of piano music beckoned to Christian as someone played with admirable passion and sensitivity. He entered the drawing room decorated to reveal a taste for Egyptian decor. He admired the skill with which the colors had been blended and noted the technique used to paint realistic-looking clay bricks. The Egyptian people, larger than life-size, were a bit stark but a fair imitation of their original inspiration.
Father wore a half smile. “Egypt seems to be all the rage these days.”
The last rays of evening sunlight slanted in through the windows and cast a glow on Miss Widtsoe, burnishing her gold curls and making her white gown luminescent. She obviously held a great deal of emotions under questionable restraint. Seeing her in the unusual setting, bathed in sunlight, Christian paused, considering her portrait. He would have her turned sideways on the bench, not playing, but looking as if she had just completed a piece and was about to stand to receive her applause. It would reveal her talent for music and show her figure to full advantage. He’d give her face an angelic glow. Yes, that should please her and her parents.
Off to one side, watching Miss Widtsoe with an expression of almost maternal pride, stood Miss Genevieve Marshall. She exuded an aura of innocence and serenity as well as a restraint that her friend lacked. Or perhaps she were simply more mature—not in age but in sensibility. Her auburn hair lit by sunlight created a dazzling contrast to her peaceful expression. Delicate as a pixie, she belonged in a garden surrounded by flowers and waterfalls. Yes, that’s how he’d paint her, but only if he were commissioned to do so—it would be inappropriate to paint her without permission.
“Pretty girls,” the earl murmured. “Have you chosen a favorite or do you want them both?”
Christian’s face flashed hot. “No.”
“No matter. Plenty of options here, including the maids.” He winked.
Christian drifted to an empty space near a group of men who were still engrossed in a discussion over the declining health of the king and whether the Prince Regent would become less dissipated once he took the throne.
Nearby, three young ladies whose names he couldn’t remember sat discussing something about bonnets with Italian flowers, whatever those were. The piano music blended with snatches of conversation that swelled and ebbed around him like an ocean current. Miss Marshall drifted to the nearby group of girls, joining in the conversation and bringing it around to music.
She glanced over her shoulder at him but returned her gaze to the group. “Doesn’t Miss Widtsoe play beautifully?”
The girls all murmured their agreement.
“She sings like an angel as well,” she added. “Perhaps someone should play for her so she can entertain us.”
“Do you play, Miss Marshall?” asked one of the girls.
“Oh, not well enough to accompany a singer of Miss Widtsoe’s talent.”
“Mr. Amesbury plays, don’t you?” someone said.
His face flushed at being the object of so many pairs of eyes. “Er, yes.”
Miss Marshall clasped her hands together. “Oh, that’s perfect.”
He winced. There was that word. He needed to build up an immunity to that word.
“You could play, and she could sing. You will, won’t you? Please?”
The earnest pleading in Miss Marshall’s big brown eyes, not to mention her exquisite face, propelled him into action. He stood. “If that is your wish.”
She smiled, and he almost took a step back from the sheer brilliance. A dark corner of his soul seemed cleaner somehow, less dark, from that single blast of pristine joy.
As Miss Widtsoe ended the piece she’d been performing, Miss Marshall said, “Matilda, Mr. Amesbury has agreed to accompany you as you sing. Do say you will.”
Miss Widtsoe’s eyes widened, and her tooth-revealing smile appeared. “Oh, I’d be happy to. Do you know ‘The Soldier’s Adieu’?”
He nodded and took a seat at the piano bench. “Key of B-flat work for you?”
“It’s within my range.” She smiled brightly before turning her attention to humming scales, presumably to warm up her voice.
Christian glanced at Genevieve Marshall, but she’d already taken a seat nearby. She sat as if anticipating her favorite opera rather than an informal and impromptu performance in a room full of people more absorbed in conversation than music.
He played an introduction as Miss Widtsoe glanced over her shoulder at him, adoration clear in her eyes. How the deuce was he to make it clear he didn’t return her affections? Accompanying her as she sang certainly wasn’t helping his cause. His gaze strayed to Miss Marshall again. She’d set him up, the little matchmaker. He’d have to be wary of her, too. As he reached the vocal beginning, he nodded to Miss Widtsoe. She began to sing and did, indeed, have a lovely voice. He followed her carefully to give her full advantage.
He glanced about the drawing room. More and more eyes turned their way. The Widtsoes beamed in approval—hopefully of their daughter, not at him paired with her. Another young man with brown curls—Sir Reginald, if he remembered correctly—stared at Miss Widtsoe wearing a hopelessly besotted expression. Hmm. Perhaps he could be an ally in Christian’s attempt to step out of Miss Widtsoe’s favor.
Lord Wickburgh caught his attention. The viscount, whom he’d only met today, stared in fascination as well, but not at Miss Widtsoe. No, his whole being focused on Miss Marshall. Rather than the interest of a prospective suitor, or the adoration of a lover, he watched her like a hunter sizing up prey and calculating the appropriate trap. A chill ran down Christian’s spine, and he played a wrong note but covered it up with a triplet that brought the melody back in correctly.
The song came to a close, and Miss Widtsoe trilled beautifully, amid applause. She turned and smiled. “I had no idea you played so beautifully. Do you know any piano duets? Do you know Mozart’s ‘The Sonata for Two Pianos’? Or ‘Fantasy in F Minor’ by Schubert?”
Say no. Say no. He glanced at Miss Marshall. A mistake. She smiled as if he’d just handed her a longed-for gift. “I . . . do know them both.” He winced. Stupid! Playing duets with Miss Widtsoe would only raise her expectations. But he could not disappoint Miss Marshall. Why he felt that way, he couldn’t begin to guess.
“Let’s do the Mozart,” she suggested.
He scooted over on the bench and made room for Miss Widtsoe. She sat so close that their legs almost touched. His face heated. But he was already committed, for the duet, at least.
Letting her set the pace, he followed her. As the duet progressed at a satisfactory rate, his attention returned to Miss Marshall. Lord Wickburgh bowed to her. Mrs. Widtsoe gestured as if to make introductions. Miss Marshall looked up at the lord, her eyes wide and her smile forced.
Christian missed a note. “Sorry,” he murmured to his duet partner.
Lord Wickburgh eyed Miss Marshall as he spoke to her, and he fingered his cane. Miss Marshall’s glances became more furtive, her hands fidgeting in clear distress. How could Christian rescue her? He gritted his teeth. It wasn’t his place. But he longed to intervene.
They finished the duet, and Christian glanced at his partner. “I believe your friend is in need of company.”
Miss Widtsoe blinked, hurt and confusion in her eyes. He nodded his head meaningfully at Miss Marshall and Lord Wickburgh. She followed his direction.
“Oh. Oh!” She leaped to her feet and all but rushed to Miss Marshall’s side.
Christian sauntered to the group as if out for a stroll when his muscles raged at him to race to Miss Marshall’s rescue. “Good evening,” he said to one and all.
Christian took a closer look at the viscount. When they’d first been introduced, Christian had only made a cursory glance at the slender, elegant older gentleman with a taste for fashion and an air of cold superiority worn by most peers. Now, a deeper chill revealed itself. The lord glanced at Christian dismissively, as adults often do to children, and returned his focus on Genevieve. He looked her over from head to toe, but instead of with appreciation for a fine piece of art, or even a leer for a desirable woman, something akin to puzzlement crossed his expression as if unable to determine what he was doing speaking to a girl half his age.
“Suffolk?” he said as if repeating something Miss Marshall had said. “Yes, I have land in Suffolk, among other places. I don’t spend a great deal of time there, more’s the pity. I divide most of my time between my county seat and London.” He smiled coolly. “I assume you’ve been to London for the Season, bowed to the queen and all that?”
“Er, no, my lord,” she said in subdued tones. “I’ve been to London—once—but not for the Season, and I’ve never taken my bows to the queen.”
Miss Widtsoe moistened her lips and wound her arm through Miss Marshall’s. “Miss Marshall and I have only been ‘out’ a few years, you see, my lord, so even if she had been to London for the Season, it is unlikely her path would have crossed with such a mature lord as yourself.”
Christian almost smiled. Touché. A clever way to remind the man he was too old for Miss Marshall.
Lord Wickburgh’s eyes narrowed. “Our paths have crossed, child, you recall.”
“Well, yes,” returned Miss Widtsoe, practically quailing under his unnerving stare, “but only because you know my father.”
Miss Marshall dropped a hasty curtsy. “If you will excuse us, my lord, I believe—”
He brought up his cane, blocking her path. “Stay.” He tried to soften his sharp command with a smile. “I beg you.”
Christian’s hackles rose. “Actually, I was just coming to ask Miss Widtsoe and Miss Marshall their opinion on something. If I may show you both what I have in mind, I’d welcome your input.”
He nodded a farewell to Lord Wickburgh and held out an arm to the ladies. They each took an arm, with expressions of gratitude and relief as he led them to a far corner of the room.
“Thank you,” Miss Marshall said quietly.
“What did you wish to discuss?” Miss Widtsoe asked. She practically batted her eyelashes at him.
Christian faltered. Surely Miss Widtsoe knew he’d contrived that statement as an excuse to extract Miss Marshall from the gentleman’s unwelcome attention. Perhaps she intended to ensure the ruse appeared believable.
He scrambled for something to say. As inspiration hit, he gestured to the pianoforte. “I thought perhaps I could paint you at the piano.” He led her to the instrument. “Sit on the bench as if you are playing. Good. Now, act as if you have completed and are turning to receive your applause. Perfect. Hold that pose. Miss Marshall, if you would be so kind.” With her arm still on his, he stepped back to give her a look at the setting.
Miss Marshall glanced over her shoulder, probably at Lord Wickburgh. She drew a breath before turning her full attention to her friend at the pianoforte. She took a moment to consider before nodding. “That’s lovely. The walls painted in those subdued colors to imitate brick, and the light coming in through the windows, gives her an excellent backdrop. Matilda, you take a look.”
The ladies traded places. Miss Marshall sat surrounded by a halo of soft lighting, her mouth curved in an affectionate smile as she watched her friend. The setting sun cast fiery burgundy lights in her hair in an array of colors it would take Christian days to mix and blend to get just right. If he were to paint Genevieve Marshall, he’d move the carved black cats out of the way, drape a sheer curtain behind the
piano, and add a few vases of flowers and perhaps potted plants to invite the garden inside, accenting her fairy-like quality.
“I like it,” Miss Widtsoe announced. “It would show off my talent for music, and I think the Egyptian influence adds a touch of the exotic, don’t you think?” She beamed.
The vision of Miss Marshall filled his senses so completely that he barely managed to nod in acknowledgement.
“How soon can we start?” Miss Widtsoe asked.
He faltered, trying to remember what she wanted to start and scrambled for a reply. “Perhaps tomorrow afternoon, to catch the best light.”
“Perfect!”
She enthused about the portrait, but his attention returned to Miss Marshall, whose focus shifted to something behind him. Her peaceful countenance clouded. He glanced back. Lord Wickburgh stared at her. Miss Marshall arose and joined Miss Widtsoe and him.
“Stay close,” Christian said softly to Miss Marshall. “He’ll get the message.” If not, Christian would have to have words with Lord Wickburgh about leaving the lady alone.
She nodded. “Thank you.”
Miss Widtsoe glanced between them with a puzzled frown tugging at her brows. “Jenny?”
She offered a brave smile that failed to touch her eyes. “Don’t mind me.”
Keeping his posture casual and his steps unhurried, Christian led both ladies toward Miss Marshall’s parents, who stood conversing with another couple. “I don’t believe I’ve had the opportunity to meet your parents. Would you do me the honor of introducing me?”
“It would be my pleasure.” She glanced at him, her smile warming and reaching her eyes.
“Oh, the Marshalls are just wonderful people!” Miss Widtsoe beamed at Christian. “Did you know her father was a sea captain during the war? Why, his ship was instrumental in the victory at Trafalgar. That makes him rather a war hero, doesn’t it?”
The Marshalls turned at their approach, and Christian greeted them as Miss Marshall made the introductions to the distinguished gentleman and his diminutive wife, an older but still attraction version of Genevieve. Christian made a casual scan of the room, but Lord Wickburgh stood engaged in conversation with another gentleman and no longer focused on Miss Marshall.
