Lady Jenny's Christmas Portrait tdd-5
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His eyebrows spoke volumes: he’d seen her hair down, her body naked, her face suffused with arousal. Thank God he’d sketched her in the grip of other emotions: pensiveness, a hint of humor, and something else she couldn’t name.
“You’ve caught a resemblance between me and His Grace. I can’t say I’ve noticed that before, but the likeness is genuine.”
“You have much of your father in you. Will you lend me your studio?”
He moved off, and Jenny wanted to grab him by the hand and drag him down to the carpet, there to renew his acquaintance with her unbound hair until spring.
“Who is to sit to you? I’m fond of my nieces and nephews. I assume you’ll allow me to assist again?”
He paced to the windows, which looked out over the stables and paddocks, toward Kesmore’s estate and Eve’s little manor at Lavender Corner. “My sitter is more fractious than any juvenile subject. His Grace has taken a notion to present his duchess with a portrait for the Christmas Eve open house. The light here is good.”
“I’m having a parlor stove brought up too. Her Grace will love a portrait of Himself.” Why haven’t you kissed me? Do you carry the lock of hair I gave you?
He turned and propped his backside against the windowsill, a pose Jenny’s brothers often adopted. “We never had a chance to paint together at Sidling, Genevieve. Would you enjoy that?”
Zhenevieve. “Yes. And you will critique my work.” Not better than kissing, but some consolation.
“And you will critique mine. I’ll have my equipment set up here.” He sauntered toward the door, and while that view was agreeable, his departure without even touching her was maddening.
“Elijah?”
He half turned, a listening pose as opposed to one that focused on her visually. “My lady?”
“I’m glad you’re back. Very glad.” So glad, her chest had developed a peculiar ache, and her hands had balled into fists.
“I’m glad too, Genevieve.”
He sauntered back to her, kissed her cheek, and left.
* * *
Elijah tried to read the letters sent by his remaining sisters—they’d shared paper, the better to economize—and he’d barely comprehended anything except that they missed him and hoped to see him at Christmas.
Perhaps they would, if the Academy had given him the nod by then.
And perhaps they wouldn’t.
“I should not have kissed her,” Elijah informed a cat that looked very like the one he’d seen at Kesmore’s and Sindal’s. This beast also occupied Elijah’s bed, a green-eyed feline stare tracking Elijah as he unpacked his clothes and hung them in the wardrobe. Against the green, gold, and cream appointments of the room, a black-and-white cat commanded attention.
“I could not help but kiss her. When she saw me, she just stood there, a serene smile on her face, and me, not knowing—”
Not knowing if he’d made a small mistake by coming here, or a huge mistake.
“I am here to fulfill a ducal commission.”
The cat lifted a paw and commenced to tongue-wash between its claws.
“I am here because I could not hang about London, waiting for word from the nominating committee. The other fellows would stop by, the Christmas invitations would come. I wouldn’t get any work done.” Though he was caught up on his commissions, all except for the portrait of Sindal’s boys.
The cat rose to sitting and turned its back on Elijah, then tended to its ears with particular assiduousness.
“I am here because it’s someplace my family will not casually drop by and leave hints the size of elephants that this year, I ought to join the revelry at Flint Hall.”
Though they’d stooped to letters, which was beyond hinting. The cat glanced over its shoulder at Elijah then started licking its own belly.
“I am here because Moreland’s holiday hospitality is legendary. The regent himself recommends Her Grace’s recipe for punch.”
At this, the cat started licking its privy parts. Elijah sat on the bed and put the damned beast on the floor. “Dignity, cat. At the very least set me an example of dignity.”
The cat leapt onto the bed, appropriated Elijah’s lap, and once settled in, began purring without any dignity whatsoever.
“Right. I am here because I want to spend whatever time I can around Genevieve Windham, even if it’s only a few weeks amid paint fumes and under her parents’ watchful eyes. I am here to share with her whatever support and insight I might render regarding her art before she leaves for damned France. I am here”—he brushed his nose along the top of the cat’s head—“because I could not resist the opportunity to see her, to kiss her, even once more.”
The cat appeared to consider this, then bopped Elijah’s chin.
“I am here because I am a fool.”
A knock on the door cut short these pathetic confessions. Elijah set the cat aside and opened his door to behold a mature version of Genevieve Windham.
“Your Grace.” He bowed to the duchess then stepped back, hoping he’d put his stockings and under-linen out of sight.
“Bernward, welcome. I am remiss for not being here when you arrived, but I needed a recipe from my daughter at Sidling.” She came into the room, a woman whose very posture could teach lionesses about dignity and presence. “Your mother and I made our bows together, you know.”
Though she offered him a smile that likely dazzled men half her age, she was warning him of something. His Grace’s words about the womenfolk and their espionage came back to him.
“Mother has mentioned this, as did His Grace. I enjoyed a drink with His Grace upon my arrival.”
“Timothy is welcoming you too, I see. Jenny’s cat is as particular as most of his breed. I hope you aren’t given to sneezing around cats?”
“He’s a friendly sort, and I like cats, generally.”
“Gracious, Bernward. You aren’t seeing to your own clothing, I hope?” She considered the open wardrobe and his traveling bag, where—thank ye gods—no stockings or linen were in evidence.
“My things are damp from the weather, Your Grace, and the sooner they’re hung up, the less objectionable my attire will be at dinner.”
Her inspection landed on him. “You have your mother’s pragmatism, though I’ll send along a footman posthaste. Tell me, Bernward, do you paint quickly?”
This was the woman for whom Elijah would be rendering a portrait of the duke, and so her interest in his art made some sense. And yet… the cat had stopped purring.
“Fairly quickly. Mostly, I’m disciplined. I spend hours in the studio, as any laborer spends at his work. His Grace says the portrait must be completed for your Christmas Eve open house.”
She peered into the water pitcher on his nightstand, putting Elijah in mind of Lady Jenny doing the same thing when he’d spent a night at Kesmore’s.
“Can you do two portraits between now and Christmas Eve?” While her tone was merely curious, the hairs on the back of Elijah’s neck prickled.
“I… can, if my sitters cooperate and I’m left undisturbed for most of each day.” That she might be requesting a portrait of Genevieve made his blood churn and ideas racket about in his brain—Genevieve in green or blue? With her cat? Sketching? Genevieve merry or pensive? Genevieve looking regal or slightly mussed? A portrait of Genevieve absorbed in her art?
“I assure you, Bernward, you will have full cooperation, for you see it’s my portrait I’d like you to paint.”
The disappointment this news engendered was hard to keep off his face. “It will be my pleasure and my privilege, Your Grace. Will this portrait be a surprise to His Grace?”
Her smile was mischievous, a smile he’d seen Jenny wear under circumstances her mother would not approve of. “If possible. Can you manage that?”
“I can, as long as it’s understood nobody sees what I’m working on until it’s complete—nobody except Lady Jenny.”
Fine blond brows drew down. “Sophie said you would never have gotten s
The espionage of females, His Grace had called it. “Lady Sindal misstates the case, Your Grace. I would never have gotten any rendering of those children without their aunt’s patient and clever intervention.”
The duchess’s smile turned maternal. “Jenny is very good with children. Her siblings, nieces, and nephews adore her.”
Genevieve was equally good with a sketchbook, though Elijah doubted her mother would smile if he said as much. He tried anyway. “Her assistance was also artistic, Your Grace, having to do with both composition and execution of the portrait. Your daughter has a great deal of artistic talent. I’ve asked His Grace’s leave to call on Lady Jenny’s assistance while I’m here.”
While he watched, the duchess crossed to the wardrobe and withdrew a sachet bound in cream muslin with a green ribbon. She held it up to her nose—neither the lady nor her nose would qualify as dainty—and sniffed. “These need to be replaced. We’ve a large gathering descending in a few days, all of it family, Bernward. Your late addition to the party means the staff might not have been as attentive to your accommodations, for which I apologize. Please don’t hesitate to ask for anything at all that will make your stay with us more enjoyable.”
“My thanks, Your Grace. The duke made it clear I am to consult you regarding all aspects of his portrait. When would you like to begin on our project?”
She left off running her finger down the mantel above his fireplace. “Tomorrow morning. You will meet with me first, and then we’ll summon His Grace and make haste before the rest of the family arrives at week’s end, if that suits?”
She was as accomplished at issuing orders as her husband was. “That will suit perfectly.” Particularly if he was to complete two portraits in less time than many would need for one.
“I’ll wish you good day, then, Bernward. If you’ve any correspondence to send, you can leave it on the desk in the library. We do not dress for dinner except on Christmas Day and Sundays, and of course for the open house. You will attend services with us, weather permitting.”
“Of course, Your Grace.” He bowed to her in parting, feeling as if a military fanfare should have started up as she swept from the room.
She was a gracious hostess and a woman intent on securing a holiday gift for her husband, but that she was more worried about the sage hanging near his clothes or the dust on the mantel than about a compliment to her daughter’s talent made Elijah want to… pitch his stockings at her.
* * *
Elijah Harrison was a demon, a slave-driving fiend.
“You have once again neglected the shadows, Genevieve. Here”—he gestured to the folds of the curtains in her sketch—“and here. Whether they are crisp folds or soft, whether they hang exactly straight or a trifle rumpled, it all makes a difference to the image you convey.”
She was going to clobber him with her sketchbook then dance a gavotte on his elegant, talented fingers while wearing her riding boots.
“This is a sketch, Mr. Harrison. This is not the finished portrait of my mother. Your shadows are no better defined than my own.”
Dark eyebrows rose up, and he stepped away from the table where their day’s work was displayed side by side. “What do you mean?”
She pointed to the hearth beside Her Grace’s seat in his drawing. “That is a gesture, not a rendering. The light sources in any painting are of a paramount importance, and you’ve barely hinted at the dimensions of the fireplace.”
His hands went to his hips, and he seemed to grow not just taller, but larger. “I know that, Genevieve, but having painted several hundred portraits, I also know that wasting my time in pencil on an object that can be rendered accurately only with paint is dithering.”
She closed the space between them. “And your carping on my perishing, damned shadows is the same!”
That felt good. The consternation in his eyes when she used foul language felt very good indeed, almost as good as kissing him.
“We’re tired,” he said, his gaze on their sketches. “All of this will be here in the morning. We can shout at each other further then. Better still we’ll get out the paints and inspire you to more cursing. Please promise me, however, that you won’t curse in front of your parents.”
As if she could.
She was tired, tired from spending most of the day in this room with Elijah Harrison, being close enough to catch his lavender scent, to see the way he studied his sketch as if composing a sermon for its betterment, to watch how his beautiful lips firmed when he was concentrating most closely on his work.
Jenny was also tired from trying to see her parents not as the people she’d known and loved since birth, but as subjects for portraits.
Mostly, she was tired of exercising the discipline necessary to not touch him.
“I don’t want to shout at you, Elijah.” She wanted to put her arms around him and feel his arms around her. With him in his shirtsleeves and waistcoat, his cuffs turned back to reveal his wrists and forearms, she wanted very much to touch him.
He moved the sketches aside and used the table as a bench, scooting back to sit on it. “The French shout, Genevieve. They are a pugnacious, articulate people, and not without prejudices where women are concerned, for all their talk to the contrary.”
She took the place beside him. “You are telling me Paris will not be a bed of roses. I know that. Are you hungry?”
Clearly, the question surprised him. “I am. It’s late, though. Shall I escort you to your room?”
This was not an offer to accompany her to bed. This was Elijah being proper, and Jenny nearly hated him for it.
“Come with me.” She hopped off the table and grabbed him by the wrist. “Papa is always testy when he’s peckish, and I’m no different.”
She didn’t turn loose of his wrist, but towed him along through the darkened house. The cloved oranges lent the corridors a holiday fragrance, while mistletoe dangled from the rafters.
“Is there a reason you’re not having a late-night tea tray sent up to your room?” Elijah asked.
“The staff is exhausted from the preparations for all the arrivals tomorrow. The larder is full to bursting though, and nobody will miss what we help ourselves to now.”
The kitchen was in a lower corner of the house, where access to water was assured by an ancient well in the cellars, and where the pantries and gardens were close by.
“I have always liked kitchens,” Elijah said as they gained the darkened main kitchen. “They are warm in winter, and they say a lot about a family.”
“I should have pried you loose from that studio earlier.” Jenny dropped his wrist and took a candle into the cook’s pantry. She appropriated butter, bread, an apple, and a wedge of cheese.
“You can slice us some ham,” she said when she emerged with her platter. “I’m going to make chocolate.”
She expected an argument, because for the past three days, they’d mostly argued. Twice she’d caught Elijah regarding her with an expression she could not fathom, but both times, he’d dropped right back into his art.
His damnable, excellent art.
“Who were today’s letters from?” She fetched the pitcher of milk from the window box and stirred up the coals in the hearth.
“My two middle brothers. There’s an epistolary siege underway. Is this enough ham?”
“You could eat twice that amount yourself. What is the objective of the siege?”
The knife came down on the cutting board loud enough to make a “thwack!” in the shadowed kitchen. “My pride is being besieged. I made a vow I would not return to Flint Hall until I’d gained entry into the Royal Academy. My dear siblings”—Thwack!—“would have me violate that oath.”
Jenny snitched a bite of ham. “So would I.”
“Watch your fingers, Genevieve. What do you mean?”
She held up a bite of cheese, wanting him to nibble it from those fingers. He instead took it from her and held it, his posture expectant.
“How old were you when you made your infernal vow?”
He popped the cheese in his mouth and chewed slowly. “I’d gone up to university. I wasn’t a child.”
She moved away, to the hearth, where the pan of milk was beginning to steam over the coals. “The chocolate is in that tin on the counter and the grater is right beside it.”
Elijah had made hot chocolate before, apparently. He ground off an appropriate portion of chocolate and sprinkled it into the heated milk while Jenny stirred briskly. Next came a dash of salt, some spices, and a bit of sugar.
“I’ve never had it with cinnamon before,” Elijah said, setting two mugs on the table near the fire. “Why do you think I should go home this Christmas, Genevieve?”
She followed with the tray, thinking this was a meal designed to nourish more than the belly.
“You know what folly I got up to at an age when most boys go off to university. I wanted to marry Denby.”
He took the tray from her, pausing for a moment so they were both holding it. “You wanted to marry him?” His tone suggested that a desire to contract the plague and pass it along to the regent would have been easier to fathom.
“I was sixteen, Elijah. I was even younger when I sent my brother Bartholomew off to war.”
He gestured with the tray. “Sit and explain yourself before the chocolate gets cold. You did not send your brother off to war.”
She sat at the head of the table, so they would be neither beside each other nor directly across. “I love the scent of cinnamon. Bart liked it in his chocolate too.”
“He would be your late older brother?”
Late—a euphemism for dead, but not much of a euphemism. “One of my late older brothers.”
Elijah slathered butter on a piece of bread, added ham and cheese, and passed it to her. “And you sent him off to war?”
She studied the food, studied her mug, and took a fortifying whiff of cinnamon and nutmeg. Elijah ought to go home; she knew this as clearly as she knew her destiny lay in Paris.
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