The Sweet and Spicy Regency Collection
Page 55
“La, you’ve suffered from a headache for the past week,” Lauretta said with a long sigh.
“Ever since Mama’s and Papa’s ball,” Olivia finished.
Ever since the ball. All gathered had praised her for her strength of character. And they praised her husband for his heroism.
Elsbeth winced, and thought just how undeserving they were of those praises. But she’d accepted their words, agreed with them even though she felt by no means strong. And her husband…She shuddered at the thought of him; her husband was certainly no hero. He’d been just a man…a man foolish enough to be shot by a Frenchman a mere six months after purchasing his commission.
Thank the Lord.
“Yes,” she agreed, yet another lie forming on her tongue. “I haven’t been well since the ball.”
Her gaze strayed to the new pile of invitations that had arrived in the morning post. Her husband’s dead hero status—a by-product of a brutal war—had made her a curio, a much sought after one at that.
Despite the ton’s eagerness to include her at their entertainments, Elsbeth had discovered she was unready to face the beau monde and continue the charade. She planned to pen gracious refusals, delaying her full return to Society for at least another week.
As if a week could change the truth.
“Ask your Aunt Violet if you’re so anxious. She should enjoy the frivolities of such an art exhibition.”
The younger ladies drew long faces.
“But—but—” Lauretta sputtered.
Olivia swooped down beside Elsbeth’s chair. “But you’re ever so good at puzzles,” she said, her hazel eyes coming alive with color. “Shouldn’t you want to attend the art exhibition? Shouldn’t you want the chance to discover the true identity of Dionysus?”
Olivia inched closer. “Imagine, all those fantastic paintings. They say a nobleman paints them. But no one knows who. His identity is more carefully guarded than Sir Walter Scott and his Waverley novels.”
“Wouldn’t it be grand if Dionysus were my Donald?” Lauretta whispered. “Wouldn’t it simply be grand?”
Sir Donald Gilforth was a fine young gentleman perfectly suited to the mild Lauretta, and dull. Exceedingly so. He couldn’t possibly be this mysterious Dionysus, this new artist fueling the gossips.
Elsbeth sighed. She was curious about the paintings. She would like to see for herself if—
A sharp pain struck her heart.
Dionysus couldn’t be—
“Elly,” Olivia whined, using a pet name that set Elsbeth’s teeth on edge. “Please, please, please, come with us.”
“We don’t want Aunt Violet to come,” Lauretta said. “She never allows—”
“Ah—she doesn’t give us the company you do,” Olivia quickly said, sending her younger sister a quelling glance.
“I understand very well why you prefer me over Aunt Violet. I allow you and Lauretta to disappear with your beaus unescorted. She does not.”
Lauretta and Olivia both lowered their pretty heads. Tears sparkled in their eyes. It was the lowest trick in their arsenal. She hated to disappoint the lovely girls. Olivia, the elder of the two, had recently turned one-and-twenty, and Lord Baneshire was beginning to openly despair that she’d ever settle on a man long enough to marry. Lauretta, on the other hand, at merely eighteen was lost in love.
Elsbeth reached over to pat Lauretta’s hand. “Will Sir Donald Gilforth be in attendance?”
“Oh, yes, he’s promised to explain the finer points of the paintings.”
“Truly?” Elsbeth said, and felt the tug of a rare smile. Lauretta was something of an artistic genius and could tell Sir Donald volumes more about the paintings than he could possibly think to tell her.
“If I refuse, you will no doubt badger me the entire afternoon. At least at the art exhibition your attentions will be on something other than me.”
Both of her cousins remembered their manners long enough to thank her politely before dashing away like unschooled hoydens.
* * * *
The carriage rocked and swayed. The horses’ hooves clopped a steady beat on the pavement as they approached Montagu House, the stately building that housed the British Museum. It was located in the middle of the affluent residential neighborhood of Bloomsbury. Having visited its exhibits several times with Lauretta in the past few weeks, Elsbeth knew the building well. And she usually enjoyed the museum. But unlike her regular visits, this event turned out to be a quite a crush. She should have known it would be. Hadn’t Olivia warned her?
Her cousins led the way into the special exhibition room, their eyes wide. The three of them squeezed their way past a throng of young gentlemen and a pair of giggly young ladies with their stone-faced chaperone, stopping in the first unclaimed niche adjacent to a small painting framed with ornately carved mahogany.
The work—a lush landscape of deep purples and greens—depicted the vast expanse of the Yorkshire moors with vibrant colors and bold, broad brushstrokes.
“It’s lovely,” Olivia breathed.
“It makes me uneasy,” Lauretta said with a shiver.
It’s him. Elsbeth gripped her golden locket. Her heart thumped heavily in her chest. It’s him. She now had a name—although a false one—to put with his work.
Dionysus.
She felt herself being pulled into the scene he’d created. The desolate, uninhabited moors appeared to extend far past the horizon, as if nothing else in the world could possibly exist. The painting evoked so sharp a pang of loneliness that it threatened to bow her in half.
She barely had time to recover before Sir Donald approached, bedecked in the most outrageous pink and yellow striped waistcoat decorated with a half-dozen shiny watch fobs. He greeted them politely, flashing his teeth.
“Lady Mercer,” he said, touching her arm.
Elsbeth shuddered.
“If you would but allow me to escort Lady Lauretta over to a particular painting. It’s the pinnacle of blending color and light and realism, and I wish to point out to her its less obvious merits.”
Elsbeth warned Lauretta not to stray far, and watched Sir Donald as he led her cousin to a large painting filled with crimson and violet shades.
“Did you see those silly watch fobs he wears?” Olivia whispered, after Sir Donald was out of earshot. “I say, that large one is the most—”
“Not now, Olivia,” Elsbeth said tightly. Severin, the fifth Baron Ames was fast approaching and there was absolutely no possible way she could make a graceful escape.
“Oooo, look,” Olivia had noticed him, too. She latched onto Elsbeth’s arm. “Lord Ames is ever so handsome. Please, Elsbeth. You know him. Please, introduce me.”
Introducing Lord Ames to her innocent, young cousin was one of the last things she wished to do. Unfortunately, Olivia curtsied to Lord Ames before Elsbeth could stop her.
Ames was a powerful man with dark hair and a clever gleam to his eyes. Elsbeth prayed for strength as she stepped in between her cousin and this wicked rake. She needed all the strength she could muster, because Ames had been friends with the late Earl of Mercer—her husband. And she’d battle the devil himself to protect her cousins from men like Ames.
But hadn’t Ames, on certain occasions, stood up for her? Hadn’t he even spoken out against her husband on her behalf? Foolish man.
Rude or not, she refused to give Olivia an introduction to the wicked Lord Ames. Olivia, not one to be thwarted, blurted out her own name while batting her long eyelashes.
Ames didn’t appear the least bit shocked by Olivia’s outrageous behavior. He flashed a playful smile.
“My dear ladies,” he purred as he bowed in their direction. He then lavished Olivia with the most outrageous compliments: inquiring after her dressmaker, praising Olivia’s skills in selecting the most refined fabrics, and suggesting Olivia’s complexion rivaled the moon in its beauty.
Much to Elsbeth’s vexation, Olivia drank it all in. Blushing, the young woman started babbling o
n and on about some silly fluff of a bonnet she’d spotted in a shop window. Ames crossed his arms over his broad chest and appeared to be utterly enthralled by the conversation.
“Lady Mercer?” a soft voice from behind startled Elsbeth. She turned her back on the wicked Lord Ames long enough to come face-to-face with a beautiful woman dressed in a shimmering gold gown.
“Ah, it is Lady Mercer,” a second woman said. Several heads turned and before Elsbeth knew what was happening, she was surrounded by the very people from which she’d been trying to hide. They were closing in on her, pressing her with questions about her heroic husband.
She backed away, murmuring her answers—lies, mostly—and berating herself for being such a coward. One bold woman pressed more doggedly than the rest, insisting that Lord Mercer deserved a medal for his sacrifice while tut-tutting over the debts he’d accumulated before his untimely death.
It was really too much to take.
She pried the woman’s hand from her sleeve, only to have another take her place. She was trapped. And she had no choice but to smile, and pretend, and play the dutiful wife who had loved her husband.
* * * *
Damnation.
Severin, Baron Ames, listened with only half an ear as young Lady Olivia twittered on and on about a dress she planned to wear to Almack’s that week. He smiled and nodded at the appropriate intervals, but his attentions kept straying to Lady Mercer.
Offering his arm to Lady Olivia, he edged closer to where Lady Mercer stood, trapped by the worst of the town tabbies. He stepped closer still, but the din in the large room was too loud for him to hear a thing. He fought an urge to toss himself in front of those swarming vultures. Lady Mercer had suffered enough.
Once, several years ago, he’d overstepped his bounds and tried to rescue her from her bounder of a husband only to be rewarded with a sharp tongue-lashing from her for his efforts.
Lady Mercer was a cold woman. He watched as her deep blue eyes hardened. She was strong, much stronger than her willowy form would lead one to believe. But he knew better.
She would never allow a man to rescue her.
He smiled down at Lady Olivia and patted her hand. “And kid boots to match the dress, you say? Splendid, simply splendid,” he said absently, checking his battered pocket watch. It was past time for the circus to begin. With one final glance in Lady Mercer’s direction, he gave a shrug.
She wouldn’t welcome his assistance anyway, he assured himself.
“See that painting in the front of the room covered with the heavy sheet?” he asked, interrupting Lady Olivia’s excited nattering. “It’s time for the unveiling.”
Just minutes before the doors had opened to the public; Severin’s assistant had delivered the extra painting wrapped tightly in brown paper. His hands already full with last minute arrangements, Severin hadn’t taken the time to think about the painting, much less inspect it. But its existence had given him an idea. The added drama of unveiling a new work would only intensify the ton’s interest in the artist, increasing his demand and, hopefully, the prices of his paintings.
Not that Dionysus needed the money. He didn’t need to be selling the paintings at all. Why he felt the need to offer his paintings for purchase—or to keep his identity hidden—Severin could only guess.
True, the man was a powerful member in the House of Lords and confidant to the Regent himself, but that shouldn’t be a reason to hide his talent. But who was he to question the man’s motives?
Unlike Dionysus, Severin sorely needed the funds and was more than thankful for the sixty percent commission he earned from each painting sold. For far too many years, he lived off the generosity of wealthy friends, putting up with more than he should. He still thanked God he made that fortuitous acquaintance of Dionysus last year. He wouldn’t be alive otherwise…
“Ooo, this is ever so exciting,” Lady Olivia breathed and latched tightly onto his arm. Her eyes were alive with color as she accompanied him up to the front of the exhibition room.
His first instinct had been to return the noisy young beauty to Lady Mercer. But, he sighed, he needed to keep up his appearance as fashionable rogue by escorting a different, yet equally, beautiful woman on his arm at every event.
The crowd parted to let him pass to the tiny stage where the veiled painting sat on a wooden easel. At Severin’s prodding, the room quieted to excited whispers, and the crowd slowly closed ranks around him.
His gaze swept across the crowd. He heaved a sigh of relief when he saw that Lady Mercer had extracted herself from the gossips’ clutches and had found a place in the crowd beside Lady Olivia’s younger sister, Lady Lauretta, and the young lady’s suitor, Sir Donald Gilforth.
Lady Olivia waved from the stage to her sister, who quickly returned the gesture.
“It is my great pleasure to unveil Dionysus’s most recent work,” Severin spoke in a voice loud enough to reach the far corners of the room. “I have it on the best authority that this painting is, by far, Dionysus’s finest yet. And, I am sure, will command a steep price.”
He grabbed a handful of the sheet.
The room took a collective breath.
“I give you—” With a grand sweep of his arm, he uncovered the painting the crowd had waited breathlessly to see “—The Nude.”
* * * *
Elsbeth swayed, her vision blurring. If not for Lauretta’s steadying hand, she might have collapsed.
The throng pressed forward to get a better look, closing in on the little space afforded to Elsbeth and her cousin. Her gaze flew back to the painting. Perhaps she’d been mistaken.
She wasn’t.
Lord Ames stood frozen still clutching that sheet Elsbeth prayed he’d toss back onto the painting.
“Why Elly,” Olivia blurted loud enough for half of London to hear. “That’s you!”
Roaming eyes tore themselves from the painting to search out the lady it portrayed.
A heavy blush stung Elsbeth’s cheeks and heat quickly spread down her chest. Those around her glowered at her, judging her, damning her. She would have died, simply died if not for Lauretta’s tight hold on her hand.
“Is this some kind of punishment?” she muttered, closing her eyes. If only she could pinch them closed long enough for the fervor to die down. But such a scandal would outlast any effort on her part to hide. And worse, the scandal could tarnish the spotless Baneshire name. Olivia and Lauretta, two innocents on display in the Marriage Mart, deserved better than to be ruined by something done to her.
She drew a deep breath and forced herself to face the crowded room. She couldn’t forestall the scandal, but she could take steps to endure the brunt of it, and protect her cousins from the irreparable damage that could befall their futures.
Lord Baneshire had trusted her after all.
Freeing her hand from Lauretta’s strong grasp, she pushed her way to the front of the room. The gentlemen in the audience glared, while the ladies turned their backs to her as she made her way to the steps of the stage.
“This was done without my permission or knowledge,” she forced from behind clenched teeth. After taking one last look at the painting, her blush deepening, she ripped the sheet from Lord Ames’s hand and tossed it back over the accursed painting.
“How could you?” she said, and slapped Ames across the cheek. The sound of flesh striking flesh echoed within the now eerily silent room.
Chapter Two
Nigel Purbeck, the sixth Marquess of Edgeware, liked the sharp sting of a damp ocean breeze against his face. It made him feel alive. With a shift of his thighs, he urged his dappled gray stallion, Zeus, into a hard run along a trail that paralleled the low cliffs. The crimson morning light glinted off the turbulent waves. The sight of it made Nigel’s heart race. It had been many months since he’d witnessed such an inspiring sight. London, where he made his home for most of the year, was dank and smoky and not at all as wildly beautiful as the landscape surrounding his Dorset estate.
Zeus pulled harder to the right and danced in his step, bobbing his head.
“Easy,” Nigel soothed.
The large horse was willful and notoriously difficult to handle. Only Nigel and the estate’s head groom could consistently manage his bouts of bad temper. Under Nigel’s patient care, the stallion rarely showed his temper, almost never demanded to get his own way like he was doing on this damp, spring morning. The stallion snorted and yanked on the reigns, fighting with a ferocity Nigel hadn’t seen in years.
“Easy, boy,” he said, and reached out to pat the horse’s broad neck. “We’ll head home.” He let Zeus turn back toward the manor while he tightened his thighs over the stallion’s broad back, hoping to regain some control.
Zeus immediately screamed and reared up. While pulling up on its powerful hind legs, the horse twisted his long, sleek neck back toward his own shoulder, and nipped the back of Nigel’s outstretched hand.
Nigel cradled his bleeding hand while leaning forward, desperate to keep his seat, but Zeus had other ideas. The great beast landed with a thud and kicked up with his hind legs, sending Nigel sailing over the top of his stallion’s head.
There was nothing he could do to protect himself. His head hit the pebbly ground first. Dazed and wondering if death would soon be upon him, he landed flat on his back, staring up into the sun-kissed morning sky.
Zounds, this was not the way he imagined he’d die. He’d hoped to live at least a few more years than his father had been able to eke out. In fact, he’d rather hoped he’d live to be a very old man. At least live long enough to find a woman to love.
With the sound of approaching hoof beats thundering in his ears, he raised his head. A sharp pain struck him, and his eyesight blurred.