It Happened One Season

by Stephanie Laurens

  She rose and pressed her hand to her chest. “I … are you certain?”

  “Of course. You’re immensely talented.”

  “Thank you. It’s just …” she hesitated, then said in a rush, “I cannot be less than completely honest with you, Captain, especially given your kindness to Edward, and to me. Do you know why I was relieved from my position with Lord and Lady Bentley?”

  “It doesn’t matter—”

  “I’m afraid it does. As you will hear about it at some point, I’d prefer you hear it from me.”

  “Very well, I’m listening.”

  She moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue, a flick of pink that had Alec fisting his hands inside his gloves. “I found the artwork in Italy fascinating. So fascinating, I was moved to attempt a sculpture in the, er, Renaissance style.”

  “Meaning?”

  “A nude.” She lifted her chin. “A male nude. Human sized. Of, um, human proportions.”

  An image instantly rose in Alec’s mind … of her bare hands fashioning such a sculpture … her fingers gliding over a nude male form … that looked exactly like—

  Him.

  Bloody hell! He blinked to dispel the disturbing mental picture, but its effect lingered, heating him to his core and forcing him to shift his feet to relieve the pulsing ache in his groin.

  “I kept the sculpture in my bedchamber, away from the children,” she continued, “but Lady Bentley learned of its existence from one of the maids, stormed into my chamber and flew into the boughs. She dismissed me on the spot—quite a shock as she didn’t so much as bat an eye during our visit to the Uffizi Gallery and there were more nude male sculptures in there than I could replicate in ten lifetimes. She refused to give me a reference, and informed me that she’d see to it that I was never hired again. In my own defense, I can only say that it was art—and not in any way lewd or intended to be construed as such. Still, you deserve to know the full truth—that this scandal surrounds me and that you certainly risk Lady Bentley’s wrath if you hire me.” She hiked her chin another notch. “I quite understand if you withdraw your offer now that you are in possession of all the facts.”

  You deserve to know the full truth. It clearly was humiliating for her to tell him, yet she had, doubling his admiration for her. And his guilt. Tell her. Tell her now. Give her the same courtesy she just gave you.

  But he couldn’t. If he did, she’d never consent to work for him, and then where would she be? Unemployed and lodging at Exeter House and a target for every footpad in the area. No, he couldn’t allow that. He’d tell her—after the portraits were done and he’d paid her handsomely enough to keep her financially secure for the foreseeable future.

  With his conscience as assuaged as it was going to get, he said, “I appreciate your honesty, Miss Markham, and am sorry you were dismissed from your post. But Lord and Lady Bentley’s loss is my gain and I’ve no fear of their possible wrath. My offer stands.”

  She regarded him steadily and he could almost hear her internal debate, weighing her uncertain future against an employment opportunity she clearly suspected was manufactured purely for her benefit. Finally she said in a quiet voice, “I accept, Captain Trentwell. And I thank you.”

  Relief, and something that felt suspiciously like anticipation but surely wasn’t, rippled through him. “You’re welcome. Now that that’s settled, let us make our way to the townhouse lest I’m late and truly incur some wrath—that of my brother.”

  They started down the path leading back toward the park entrance. “This party in your honor you mentioned … is it to celebrate your homecoming from the war?”

  Alec bit back the humorless sound that rose in his throat. “No. The party is to celebrate my upcoming marriage.”

  Chapter Four

  Penelope looked around the elegant grandeur of her bedchamber in Lord Crandall’s townhouse and pinched herself on the arm to make certain she wasn’t dreaming. The sting on her skin assured her the pale green silk-covered walls, ornate canopy bed with its gold velvet counterpane and lace-edged pillows, and marble fireplace where a cheery fire crackled were all real. Yet it was difficult to grasp that a mere few hours ago she’d faced dire, unemployed straits at the Exeter and an uncertain future and now she had a commission for at least two portraits and accommodations in a beautiful guestroom in the most exclusive section of the city. Indeed, she felt more like a guest than an employee.

  She’d briefly met the earl and countess. Their surprise was evident upon learning Captain Trentwell had hired her, but both had made her feel welcome. Clearly they hadn’t yet heard of the Italy debacle, for if they had her employment would have ceased before it even began. Would Captain Trentwell still wish to hire her if his brother had objected? Probably not, so she prayed he wouldn’t change his mind. For while she’d told him she wasn’t destitute, in truth her situation was quickly approaching desperate. Her funds would last her no more than two months—and only that long if she were extremely frugal and skipped meals. Captain Trentwell’s offer had indeed been a godsend.

  An image of the darkly handsome captain flashed in her mind and this time she wasn’t able to suppress a feminine sigh of appreciation. Based on Edward’s writings she’d already known Captain Trentwell to be kind and heroic—she just hadn’t realized how kind and heroic. He’d not only rescued her from that dreadful man, he’d also saved her from the financial calamity looming on the horizon. He was, in every way, a hero.

  And an extremely attractive one. Attractive? More like spectacular. Her fingers itched with anticipation at the prospect of sketching him for his portrait. It would prove a challenge to perfectly capture his expression to convey everything he was—a brave military leader, yet a kind, generous man. A man who lived with inner pain and secrets.

  A man who was getting married.

  An unexpected, utterly ridiculous and completely inappropriate sense of loss had swept through her when he’d announced tonight’s party was to celebrate his upcoming marriage. Botheration, what sort of person was she? She should be delighted for him. He deserved every happiness life had to offer. Yet rather than well wishes, her first reaction had been crushing disappointment.

  Which was laughable. Even if he wasn’t soon to be married, a man like Captain Trentwell—devastatingly attractive war hero and brother to an earl—would certainly never look at her twice. He could have any woman he wanted, so of course his future wife would be a young, beautiful society diamond, whereas Penelope knew all too well that at nine and twenty she possessed neither youth nor beauty, nor did she have any connections to recommend her. Even a decade ago, when her parents had been alive and money wasn’t scarce and she’d spent a Season in London in the hopes of attracting a husband—well, even then she’d faded into insignificance amongst all the peers’ daughters and gorgeous young women of the ton.

  He hadn’t offered any details regarding his fiancée or the wedding, and she hadn’t asked. She’d merely congratulated him, then focused on beating back the unacceptable, unwanted, and overwhelming envy she felt toward a woman whose name she didn’t even know.

  The muted strains of a waltz drifted into the room, pulling her from her thoughts. To her surprise the Captain had invited her to attend the party, but she’d demurred. Even if she’d owned a gown appropriate for the occasion—which she did not—she had no wish to court disaster by showing herself at a soiree filled with people who undoubtedly knew Lord and Lady Bentley.

  But the Captain had also invited her to explore the house and roam the corridors to peruse the extensive artwork and portraits of generations of Trentwell family members, an offer she intended to take advantage of.

  Tucking her sketch pad under her arm, Penelope quit the room and entered the corridor. The music swelled louder, mingled with the hum of conversation, laughter, and the tinkle of crystal glasses, evoking memories of the elegant soirees she’d once attended. She moved slowly along, her kid boots sinking into the thick dark blue carpeting, and examined each
painting of the former Earls and Countesses of Crandall and assorted family members lining the paneled walls. Some were formal portraits, others of gentlemen on horseback, ladies sitting in the gardens, or children surrounded by dogs, all dressed in the fashions of the time.

  As she neared the end of the corridor, the sounds of the party increased in volume. When she turned the corner, she found herself near a small gallery that overlooked the party below through a narrow stone archway. Unable to resist, she approached the wrought-iron railing and looked down. She judged that more than one hundred elegantly dressed people mingled in the spacious room, some conversing in small groups, some partaking of the refreshments set up on a long table against the far wall, while others swirled around the parquet dance floor in time to the waltz being played by the quartet of musicians near the French windows.

  Dozens of candles blazed in the gleaming crystal chandeliers, bathing the partygoers in a golden, prism-filled glow. Her gaze panned over the crowd, halting when she caught sight of Captain Trentwell.

  He circled the dance floor with a beautiful, petite, blond young woman dressed in an exquisite pale blue gown. Given the naked adoration glowing on the young woman’s face as she gazed up at him, she was clearly his fiancée—and exactly the sort of exquisite female Penelope had imagined he’d choose. Certainly no one could fault his taste, or the bride-to-be for looking so dazzled. Dressed in perfectly tailored formal black that accentuated his broad shoulders and muscular physique, Captain Trentwell looked big and dark and dangerously handsome.

  The young woman said something, and Captain Trentwell, who towered over his petite fiancée, bent his head, clearly trying to capture her words. No doubt he didn’t want to miss a single syllable of whatever pearls fell from her perfect, bowed lips. Although Penelope had long ago stopped the pointless practice of lamenting her average looks, the sight of that stunning young woman waltzing with Captain Trentwell squeezed her in a vise of envy and made her uselessly wish she’d been born blond and beautiful. What would it feel like to be held in his strong arms? To have him bend closer so as not to miss a word she said?

  You’ll never know. So stop being a nodcock and cease thinking about it. Exactly. It was one thing for hope to spring eternal for the unlikely—it was quite another to wish for the utterly impossible.

  Even as her mind commanded her to turn away and continue her perusal of the Trentwell ancestors before she was caught gawking, she opened her tablet to a fresh page and pulled her charcoal from the pocket of her gown. Her hand moved swiftly across the page, capturing the image below. The waltz ended and Penelope watched in an agony of envy that utterly irritated her as Captain Trentwell escorted his stunning fiancée from the dance floor. When they passed beneath the gallery where she stood and she lost sight of them, she turned her full attention to completing the rough outline of her drawing.

  “Idiot. That’s what you are,” she scolded herself under her breath. She blended the charcoal with a practiced finger, then blew away the dust. “Jealousy and envy are naught but wastes of time and energy.” She knew it, yet still her heart ached with a yearning she couldn’t squelch.

  Which was truly vexing. “Good heavens, it’s not like you to moon over a man,” she muttered. She frowned at the likeness of Captain Trentwell she’d drawn. “Why do you have me so unsettled? I command you to stop it at once. I’m confused and thrown off balance and I don’t like it one bit.”

  “Don’t like what one bit?”

  Penelope gasped at the sound of the quiet, deep voice that came from directly behind her. She whirled around and found herself face to face with Captain Trentwell.

  Chapter Five

  Penelope pressed a hand to her chest where her heart thumped hard and fast and pressed her lips together lest she say the words that rushed into her throat. You were attractive at a distance, but up close … Dear God, up close you are utterly breathtaking. Her gaze fastened on his and her mind instantly emptied, her last thought being a combination of reluctant admiration for his fiancée for retaining her wits enough to converse while being held in this man’s arms and a heartfelt, Oh, my.

  Answer him! her inner voice shouted. Yes, she needed to answer him, but God help her, she’d completely forgotten the question. She cleared her throat, then managed, “I beg your pardon?”

  “I was wondering what you didn’t like. The party perhaps?”

  Sanity returned with a slap, accompanied by a rush of heated embarrassment. “Of course not,” she assured him quickly. “The party looks lovely. I was, um, referring to my sketch.”

  His gaze dropped to the pad she held. “What don’t you like about it?”

  She shoved the tablet behind her back. “I … I failed to capture the mood correctly.”

  “What were you drawing?”

  “Just an image of the party.”

  Unmistakable interest flared in his eyes. “May I see it?”

  “No!” Penelope gave a nervous laugh. “I mean, it’s not finished yet.”

  “I don’t mind.”

  “Don’t you need to return to your guests?”

  One dark brow lifted. “Are you trying to get rid of me, Miss Markham?”

  Yes! “No! It’s just that, well, surely your guests are missing you.”

  He flicked a gaze toward the gathering below and an expression that looked like a grimace, but surely wasn’t, passed over his features. “I’m certain the festivities can carry on for a few minutes without my presence. And clearly you’ve forgotten that you are a guest here as well.” He craned his neck and shot a pointed look at the tablet concealed behind her back. “May I?”

  Botheration, to refuse him again would make her appear both childish and churlish. Swallowing her dismay, she handed him the tablet.

  Alec studied the image of himself and several other couples waltzing and was once again amazed by her talent. “This is extremely well done, Miss Markham. You captured the movement of the dance perfectly. I can almost hear the rustling of the ladies’ gowns.”

  “Thank you, Captain. You and your fiancée make a striking couple.”

  His gaze shot to hers. “Fiancée?” He shook his head and handed her back the tablet. “The young lady I was waltzing with is not my fiancée.” Indeed, he couldn’t even recall her name. As far as he was concerned, she’d been interchangeable with every other woman he’d met and danced with this evening. They’d all been beautiful, yet nothing about any of them had captured his interest.

  Fire raced into Miss Markham’s cheeks. “Forgive me, sir. I just assumed—”

  “I don’t have a fiancée.”

  She blinked. “You don’t? But … but I thought you said this party was to celebrate your upcoming marriage.”

  “It is.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

  Alec flicked another glance at the soiree below. While he didn’t particularly relish discussing the details of his situation, it certainly won out over the alternative of returning to the festivities right away. He returned his attention to Miss Markham and his heart skipped in the most unexpected way at the sight of her. The very welcome sight of her—a woman who wasn’t staring at him as if he were a prize to be won.

  He lightly grasped her arm and led her around the corner where they were away from the gallery, and the noise of the party faded to a quiet hum. “The purpose of the party is to find me a fiancée,” he said. “My brother has five daughters and no son. After his wife nearly died four months ago giving birth to their youngest, the doctor advised them that she cannot have any more children. He asked me to marry—preferably as soon as possible as at two and thirty I’m not getting any younger—in order to produce a male heir to inherit the title. I agreed to do so.”

  She nodded slowly. “I see. Well, based on my brief glimpse of the festivities, you have your pick of beautiful young ladies.”

  “Yes. None of whom I know, none of whom know me, and all of whom—along with their matchmaking mamas—are looking at me as if I’m
a bauble in a treasure chest.”

  “Surely that cannot surprise you, Captain.”

  He shrugged. “I suppose not, as the woman I choose will be the mother to the future Earl of Crandall.”

  She blinked, looking nonplussed. “Oh. Yes, I hadn’t thought of that.”

  “Indeed? Then what did you mean? Why else would I be viewed as a bauble in a treasure chest?”

  Even in the dimly lit corridor he could see the scarlet that stained her cheeks. A nervous-sounding laugh escaped her. “You are casting about for compliments, sir.”

  His brows shot upward. “I am?”

  “Aren’t you?”

  “No. Just an honest answer.”

  “In that case, I would say that it’s because you’re very … dashing. Any young lady would gaze at you adoringly, as she would a bauble, because you’re, well, a treasure.”

  Something seemed to shift inside Alec at her words—words he knew all too well weren’t true, yet they still ridiculously, inordinately pleased him. “I assure you I’m nothing of the sort. And no one was gazing at me adoringly—that was calculation in their eyes.”

  Miss Markham shook her head and her glasses slid down her nose. She pushed them back up, then said, “I don’t know about anyone else, but the young lady I sketched you dancing with was looking at you as if the sun rose and set upon you alone. It was one of the reasons I was moved to draw that scene.”

  “One of the reasons? Why else?”

  She hesitated, then said, “The dancers, the candlelight, the elegantly dressed guests … it was all so lovely, I couldn’t resist.” Mischief flickered in her eyes. “And of course because you looked especially bauble-like.”

  His heart sped up at her words. “I thought you said I was ‘dashing.’ ”

  “You are.” She grinned. “In a very bauble-like way.”

  He stared at that smile, at her laughing eyes and the dimples flanking her lush mouth, and felt a bit of the tension that had gripped him all evening fade away. Not that he felt in the least bit relaxed in Miss Markham’s company. No—quite the opposite, actually. But the tension he felt with her was somehow exciting and welcome—an eager anticipation of what she’d say next, if their hands would touch, if she’d smile at him, as opposed to the dread he’d felt from the moment the party began.