Anne had intended to surprise him, walking silently along the overgrown path until she was no more than three yards behind him, but the heel of her stupid half boot had caught in a vine and she had tumbled ignominiously into the bushes with a muffled grunt. He was almost instantly beside her; reaching down to help her up, asking if she had hurt herself. How mortifying it had been! How stupid she must have seemed to him. In her embarrassment she wanted to crawl away and hide in the trees, angry with him, with herself, with the whole ridiculous expedition. And he had laughed. Just as he had now with Mr. Hatton, a silent, unerring amusement that was meant to be shared. But she had shrunk from him in her turmoil, refused the hand he held out to her.
Mr. Rogers had cocked his head to one side, eyeing her with those infuriatingly omniscient eyes of his, and said, “To think I have admired your gracefulness all these months!” And before she could think of a suitable reply, he had reached down and grasped her by the waist, lifting her to her feet with one effortless motion. She had still wanted to run away, but he continued to hold her and, to her profound confusion, bent and kissed her softly, on the lips. Instantly the anger, the embarrassment, the chagrin, fled and she clung to him shyly until he firmly disengaged himself. “You’ll want to change before breakfast,” was all he had said before he pushed her gently in the direction of the house. She did not look back.
No, he didn’t seek her out that afternoon, merely watched her. He never sought her out, really, and she found herself constantly seeking him, finding opportunities to be with him. Anne had known he would come to the gallery and she had made sure that she would be there until he did. The poor footman was probably still searching out the objects on her list, but she had known that when Mr. Rogers arrived, he would walk her home, and that was all she asked, to spend a little time in his company. Lady Anne Parsons, sought out by any number of eligible gentlemen of the aristocracy, chose to keep them at a distance, kindly but firmly. She felt, somewhere deep inside her, that Mr. Rogers returned her affection, whether or not he was willing to express It.
And he certainly was not willing to express it. That kiss had been the only lapse in his otherwise impeccable behavior. He was invariably kind, thoughtful, humorous, polite . . . and slightly withdrawn. His treatment of her differed from that of his sister, but not radically. He had never given the least indication that he aspired to be a suitor. Anne’s assumption (made with the facility of the hopeful), that he considered his position not sufficiently grand to attempt to gain her hand, had never been confirmed nor denied. She counseled herself in patience, tried to control her impulse to thrust herself before his notice, and worried incessantly that she had misjudged the case, that she was indeed merely a friend of his sister’s and not the object of his heart’s desire. Heart’s desire! Lord, what had happened to the supposedly high tone of her mind? She sounded like an infatuated schoolgirl.
Lost in her thoughts, she was not aware that Mr. Rogers expected some comment from her on his reprehensible spying activity until she chanced to look up at him. He had obviously observed her while her mind wandered, and a puzzled expression remained on his face. Anne strove desperately to achieve a light response.
“I don’t mind your having watched me that afternoon, Mr. Rogers, but I would have preferred your company. After you and Helena left there was plenty of time for solitary walks before we came to town.”
For a moment she thought he was going to say something personal, for there was that in his eyes that spoke to her but instantly it was gone and he said, probably more flatly than he intended, "But you can see that Mr. Hatton might feel uncomfortable being watched without his knowledge. Privacy is an important right.”
Mr. Hatton, so far as Anne was concerned, could go to the devil! What did he have to say to anything? “Of course privacy is essential,” she admitted solemnly, mocking him with her eyes. “I have always said that privacy is essential. You may ask my brothers and my parents. Everyone will tell you that I have made it a point to express my opinion on the subject. Very few things are as important as privacy. Cleanliness, godliness . . . and privacy. My motto, I assure you."
He looked as though he wished to box her ears, but could not resist a chuckle. “I had no idea you felt so strongly about the matter, Lady Anne. Strange how we can deceive ourselves into thinking we know someone well, and learn that we have missed a vital element of their character.”
“Did you think you knew me well, Mr. Rogers?” she taunted him. His eyes remained on hers, entreating her to—what? Retreat from this dangerous ground? But when he spoke, there was nothing but raillery in his voice.
“Did I say that? I should hope not. It would be very ungentlemanlike to declare one comprehended the character of a lady. Tantamount to expressing a knowledge of creation, I daresay, in its very outrageousness, to say nothing of being sacrilegious. A woman remains always mysterious, no matter how diligently a man endeavors to understand her. Whereas men, on the other hand, are an open book. One has but to look at them to realize the innermost workings of their minds.”
“Or their hearts.”
Mr. Rogers’s lips tightened as he guided her across Davies Street. “As to what you should tell Miss Berryman regarding the exhibit,” he remarked, as though continuing an ongoing discussion, “I am convinced that overall the reaction is favorable, despite the negative criticism. Do mention the rougher side, though, as it is impossible to predict that any newspaper fellow who took it in wouldn’t be one of the ones who disparaged her work. I should hate for her to have the shock of seeing in print a scathing review when she had been led to believe there was universal acclaim. Wigginton is satisfied, and so am I, that the show will do well, even if”—he managed to grin—”the subjects are the only ones to buy the works.”
“So Dunn did express an interest?”
"I didn’t say that,” he retorted.
“No, of course not.” Anne smiled angelically at him. “If Emma had done a portrait of you, would you buy it?”
“Probably, if it was of the quality of her others. She would find me a dull subject, I daresay, with none of Sir Nicholas’s roguery nor Lord Dunn’s aristocracy.”
“You wrong her in an attempt to underestimate yourself, Mr. Rogers,” Anne said angrily. “The portraits of Mr. Hill and. Mr. Bampton have neither and yet are quite charming studies. I should know either of them anywhere, and have some idea of what they were like. Surely you did not arrange for her show simply because of the prominence of two of her subjects. That would be despicable!”
They were about to cross to the Square when he stopped, scowling at her. “You know that isn’t so, Anne. And I was not making reference to their prominence but to the uniqueness she found in their countenances. My own is hopelessly ordinary by comparison. You cannot deny that.”
“Oh, but I can, Harold,” she whispered. They stood staring at each other and she could feel the tension in his body. Slowly, as though attempting to break a spell, he shook his head.
“Now that’s another thing I didn’t know about you,” he said grimly as he propelled her across the street, “that you are so fanciful as to allow yourself unrealistic daydreams. You have a position to maintain, Lady Anne. Believe me, I never forget that. I had thought you an eminently sensible young lady, not given to such nonsense. Doubtless this is an aberration which will pass. Let us hope so.”
Anne said nothing until they stood before her door. “Won’t you join my mother and me for tea? Jack may be in this afternoon as well.”
“Thank you, no. I have some rather pressing engagements.” When a footman opened the door to her, Mr. Rogers bowed, unsmiling, and left.
Chapter Twenty-One
Emma had intended to work on the portrait of her aunt that afternoon but she found there was no pretending that the exhibition was of only cursory interest. Mr. Rogers had suggested she not come by, since she had been there the evening before to see how the pictures were displayed and it was inevitably awkward for the artist to be in the ga
llery when there were spectators around. Still, Emma found it impossible to concentrate on the nearly completed portrait of Lady Bradwell. She wandered out into the small garden, cursorily inspecting the spring plants as she hugged her shawl more closely about her. Technically winter might be over, but the chill in the air did nothing to prove it. She slumped on a bench, her chin cradled in her hands.
“Now don’t eat me for springing on you unawares,” a voice begged, as a hand on her shoulder prevented her from rising in alarm.
"I shall have to have a word with the servants,” she grumbled. “It’s their attitude toward my painting, you know. If I were dressed in rags to—oh, polish silver or something—you may be sure they wouldn’t admit visitors.”
Lord Dunn grinned down at her. “I should very much like to see you polishing silver, ma’am. I distinctly recollect a time when I saw you seated on a footman’s stool where you might have done so.”
“Yes, well, I never have. Does that make me unutterably spoiled?”
“Probably. May I sit down?"
Emma waved a gracious hand toward the seat beside her, which was littered with fallen leaves. “Help yourself, though I don’t wish to be held accountable if you ruin your pantaloons. I never have to worry when I’m dressed to paint.”
Dunn withdrew a handkerchief and efficiently disposed of the debris. “I went to the gallery this afternoon.”
A half-eager, half-alarmed light sparked in her eyes. “And?”
“I admit to being immensely impressed, Miss Berryman. Mr. Wigginton told me the reaction has been mixed, but on the whole favorable. There is never universal agreement on a new painter's works, you know."
"What about Miss Rogers's painting? Did you like it?"
"Very much. Someday I should like to see her watercolors."
A bird sang nearby and Emma smiled. "They're exquisite. I wish she had allowed some of them to be shown."
"Give her time. Some people like to get their toes wet first."
"Not me. I had much rather do it this way. My impatience, I suppose. I shouldn't like holding my breath over a long period of time." Unable to resist, she asked, "Were there many people?"
"Quite a few. The place wasn't packed by any means, but for word of mouth it was better than I expected."
She frowned slightly, rubbing at speckles of paint on her hand. "Curiosity, I imagine. Do you think it would have been better to have concealed my identity?"
"Better for whom? For the gallery, no. For the public, no. For yourself. . . I'm not sure. It really doesn't matter now, though. You will have to expect your name to be bandied about a bit. I shouldn't have thought you would mind," he teased.
"Oddly enough, I do . . . a little," she confessed. "Last year at this time I wouldn't have, but now . . ." Emma glanced hastily away from his interested gaze. "Silly of me. Mr. Rogers assumed that I of all people would have the courage to withstand any censure. And I shall," she declared firmly, straightening her shoulders.
To her surprise he reached for her hand, all paint-spattered as it was, and squeezed it. "I don't doubt it. Remember, you have numerous friends to stand by you. I hope you will count me in that number."
"Thank you! I don't want to be an embarrassment."
He regarded her seriously, still holding her hand. "There are, I'm sure, things you could do which would be an embarrassment but exhibiting good paintings is not one of them. Do I seem so very straight laced to you?"
"No more than is in keeping with your position," she admitted, gently withdrawing her hand, "but that is quite enough! I am not, and never shall be, a model of propriety, as I am sure you are aware. You've heard Sir Nicholas. He seems intent on blackening my character, but . . . but he would not do so if I had not talked ... and acted so freely with him."
“I’m not concerned with what Nick said, so far as your character is involved. I would be the first to acknowledge that you are a spirited young lady. What does interest me is his apparent attachment to you. I wonder if he is considering a re-evaluation of his marital status?”
Emma resisted the desire to look away from his searching gray eyes. “I am certain he isn't! Everyone knows that Sir Nicholas will never marry. He has no need for a wife, would only find one a nuisance. And as to his attachment to me . . . Well, we are friends and have been since we met. I don’t believe Sir Nicholas is capable of a deep and lasting affection for anyone.”
“Hmm, possibly. That does not preclude the possibility of one’s feeling a deep and lasting affection for him."
It was a question. Absolutely no doubt about it. His brows were raised and the hands that now rested on his knees were far from casually relaxed. Why did he want to know? Was it conceivable… Emma answered carefully. “I should think it would be very difficult to feel that way about Sir Nicholas. One could enjoy his company, be amused by his wit, marvel at his scandalous style of living, even feel a sort of kinship with the liberty he has achieved, but only a very green girl would find any substance on which to attach her affection. Sir Nicholas would surely be the first to discourage such a bond.”
As though satisfied with her response, he nodded and his face relaxed. “You must be cold, Miss Berryman. I should hate to see you take a chill, as I am hoping to stand up with you at the Inglestone ball this evening. Would you save me a dance? Or perhaps two?”
Unique indeed for Dunn to request a dance in advance. To request two was coming very close to saying that he had a decided interest. Emma rose to cover the confusion, and hope, she felt. “The second waltz and the last cotillion?”
“Excellent. I shall look forward to this evening."
* * * *
As with many anticipated treats, the evening did not live up to its promise. Emma had dressed particularly carefully, choosing a white crepe round dress over a white sarcenet slip cut low all round the bust, but not so low as to cause disapproval. The white crepe apron and the bottom of the skirt were ornamented with scarlet beads that matched the ribbons wound through her shining gold hair and the armlet of gold set with rubies that she had inherited from her mother. Before she left her room she studied her reflection in the glass, assuring herself that she looked as well as she ever had, perhaps better. Amelia had taken her to Madame Minotier for the sole purpose of having the gown designed and everything about it was perfect. Not so the evening.
Emma had not anticipated the stir her exhibition would cause, nor the number of people who would flock about her to comment—not always favorably—on having seen her paintings. By the time the second waltz arrived, her nerves were so shattered that she barely realized that Dunn was her partner, despite the gentleness with which he treated her. Long before the end of the ball her face ached with the effort of smiling and her head had begun to pound unmercifully. Though she longed for the solace of her own room, she forced herself to stay and fulfill the dances she had promised, until Dunn came to claim her.
He took one look at her drawn face and snapped, "For God's sake, what are you doing to yourself? You should be in bed. Get your wrap. I'll see you and your aunt home immediately."
Even that might not have been so bad. At any other time she might have appreciated his strength, his charming presence in their carriage, but he was unaccountably tight-lipped and silent. Emma noticed several glances pass between him and her aunt but she had not the resources left to contemplate their meaning. When they stood in the hall, Emma was sternly instructed to take herself off to bed without delay, and the last thing she heard as she trudged up the stairs was her aunt's melodious voice asking, "Won't you join me for a glass of brandy, Dunn?"
Emma numbly allowed the maid to undress her and slide a nightdress over her head. Who in heaven's name wanted to be a celebrity if it meant such an intrusion into your life? She had literally not had ten minutes of peace throughout the evening except for the dance with Dunn, and then only because he had the sense to say hardly a word.
There had been cranky dowagers ready to revile her for making such an exhibit of hers
elf, stodgy old men eager to insist she knew nothing whatsoever about portrait painting, young men who thought her talent exceeded that of Reynolds (since they had not as yet been to the gallery), and young ladies who regarded her as though she had grown another head. So much for her beautiful ball gown!
Besides, Lord William had caught his foot in the hem and it would have to be repaired. Despite her aching head, she refused the laudanum her maid solicitously suggested and crawled into bed as though it were a burrow in which she could hibernate for the duration of the season.
How had Lord Byron stood the attention he received when the first two cantos of Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage were published? From all Emma had ever heard, he had absolutely lapped up the attention and idolatry. She had expected little attention, and no idolatry, but the novelty of a woman exhibiting portraits (and all of men, as had been frequently pointed out to her!) seemed to have caught the imagination of London’s bored elite. She prayed fervently as her head sunk into the feather pillow that it would be a nine days’ (or better yet, one day) wonder. As she drifted off to sleep, she reminded herself that even Byron had had his problems since be woke up famous that day. It was perhaps this unconsciously nagging thought that brought her out of a restless slumber a while later.
More likely it was the dream she had just had in which Sir Nicholas had stood in a gallery exhibiting a painting he had done of her, totally nude. He was pointing out to Dunn her various feminine allures in grotesquely intimate detail, and Dunn was following the exposition with horrified fascination, asking ribald questions with a completely serious demeanor.
Shaken, unsure what time it was, Emma sat up in bed and lit a candle with unsteady hands. She felt suddenly young and alone, a child once more who was not wanted anywhere but was constantly shuffled from one well-meaning relation to another. They had not known, any of them, that she was afraid of the dark, because she was too proud to tell them.
The Loving Seasons Page 28
