A Season in London (Timeless Regency Collection Book 6)

by Elizabeth Johns

  Emily blinked, noticing for the first time that the drawing room off the hallway was filled with guests. Most of them stood with a glass of wine in hand. She followed her mother dutifully into the drawing room and picked out Mrs. Blackwood immediately by her deep auburn hair. Emily still couldn’t believe that her childhood friend Peter was gone. She had hardly seen him since he’d gone off to Eton, followed soon by his younger brother, Edward.

  The knowledge that he was permanently gone was hard to believe, especially with the gaiety that surrounded her now. But like her aunt had been saying for weeks, life went on, whether you were ready for it or not.

  Her mother steered Emily through the crowd, greeting others as they went. They must be quite late for the host and hostess to no longer be welcoming guests in the grand hallway. Emily studied Mrs. Blackwood. Her faded auburn hair used to be more of a red. It seemed her advancing years had darkened her hair. And next to her . . . Emily found herself staring at Edward. It had been years since she’d last seen him. He had always been the serious brother in the family and couldn’t let himself be bothered by playmates.

  Anytime the families of the neighborhood got together for a child’s birthday party, Edward would sit under a tree somewhere, his nose in a book. She could practically see in her mind his skinny shoulders hunched as he held an overly large book in his hands, intently reading page after page, hardly lifting his gaze for anything.

  And that was possibly why Emily had never noticed how blue his eyes were. Not the dull gray-blue of Peter’s, but the blue of the morning sea beneath an early golden sun.

  Emily didn’t know why she noticed this small detail, since Edward had rarely crossed her mind over the years at all, except now he was staring straight at her with a look of surprise mixed with curiosity. Emily’s skill with painting portraits and altering them had trained her to read expressions, more specifically what lay behind a person’s gaze. She almost turned around, to see whom Edward might be looking so intently at, but she knew she wasn’t mistaken. For some reason, Edward Blackwood had just noticed her for perhaps the first time in his life.

  Chapter Three

  “Be gracious, Edward,” his mother whispered to him. “The Fosters are making their way over here. You remember Emily, the dark-haired girl. And you just spoke to her cousin, Adele, the blonde woman.”

  Whatever Edward’s mother was rambling on about, he knew for a fact that the Emily walking toward him right now was no longer a girl. She was certainly Emily Foster, but the thin, awkward girl he remembered as having brown eyes too large for her face had grown into a statuesque beauty. And the ironic thing of it was, he could tell she had no idea how much she was drawing the attention of every man in the room—married or unattached.

  “Mr. Blackwood,” Mrs. Foster said. The woman was just as diminutive and mousy as Edward remembered. Her daughter had gained her striking looks from Mr. Foster. “We offer our condolences to you and your family. Our only comfort is that you have returned home safely and can now find solace with your mother.”

  Another condolence, but this time, he could see into Mrs. Foster’s eyes that she understood grief. She’d lost her own husband, and although he had lived a longer life than Peter, it was still painful.

  Edward thanked Mrs. Foster and found his gaze again drawn to Emily. She remained quiet, nodded as her mother spoke, and now he was sure she might say something, but she did not. In fact, she was entirely opposite her talkative cousin, Adele. It was with guilt when he saw her blink those large brown eyes that now seemed to fit her face perfectly that he realized her mother’s condolences should be returned. His mother was right. He was irresponsible. Clueless. Selfish.

  “Mrs. Foster and Miss Foster,” he began. “I, too, must offer my condolences to you. I hope you know that you are always welcome here if you are in need of an empathetic word.”

  “Thank you,” Mrs. Foster said, but Edward’s eyes were on Emily’s. Her lips had lifted just slightly in acknowledgment, and she was looking straight at him.

  Something unspoken passed between them, and Edward wasn’t sure he could put a name to it, not if he searched all the literature in the world. It was like they shared a kinship—not over lost members of their families, but over being survivors in their families, facing each day in a changed existence.

  And he suddenly felt an odd sense of protectiveness for her. He’d never had a sister, and wondered if this was how a brother felt toward one. But he didn’t think a man with brotherly feelings toward a woman would find it so hard to look away from her.

  Then Emily was turning away, her arm linked with her mother’s, and he wanted to somehow detain her. But of course he didn’t.

  “Well done,” his mother said. “We’ll give everyone a few more minutes, then go in for dinner.”

  Edward could only nod. He watched Emily’s departure, her mother pulling her into one conversation after another. Emily barely spoke a word. She looked as lost as he felt. She smiled politely at those she and her mother conversed with, but that smile never extended beyond her lips.

  If there was anything Edward could understand, it was that polite smile.

  “It’s time,” his mother said, nodding to Edward. “Escort Lady Gerrard and the rest will follow.”

  Edward hesitated, wishing he could escort Emily instead, if only to tell her that he commiserated with her. But formalities must be followed.

  He sought out Lady Gerrard, and as he was escorting her to the dining room, the other guests followed behind. Like her daughter Adele, Lady Gerrard was not one to shirk on her conversational duty.

  By the time he was seated, he knew most of her activities over the past month. But he listened carefully for any mention of Emily. So far, it had been all of Adele. He noted that Emily was seated halfway down the table from him, meaning there would be no chance of conversation between them.

  “You must hear Adele play,” Lady Gerrard said. “After dinner, she could play for us all, bring some cheer to this place.” As the soup was brought in and served around the table, she added in a lowered tone, “I’m ready to return to London and escape all the melancholy at the Fosters.”

  Edward felt as if he’d been slapped. He glanced over at Emily. Certainly she’d heard. Lady Gerrard hadn’t exactly been whispering.

  Emily was looking down at her soup, her spoon in hand, as if she were seriously contemplating something.

  “Will you be coming to London this Season?” Lady Gerrard pressed. “Now that you are heir, surely you are in want of a wife.”

  Edward had just spooned the first bite of soup in his mouth and nearly spat it out. Lady Gerrard was perhaps the most impudent woman he’d ever met. He looked to his mother for help; not even she would be so brash in mixed company.

  Fortunately, her eyes flashed fire, echoing his exact feelings. But when his mother spoke, it was with all the decorum that befitted an excellent hostess. “Edward will be tending to the estate this autumn,” she said. “There is much to do, and I’m afraid I cannot spare him to other frivolous activities.”

  Edward could have kissed his mother if the width of a dining table hadn’t separated them.

  “Well, the choosing of one’s wife and partner and mother of one’s children could hardly be considered frivolous,” Lady Gerrard said in an imperious tone.

  “Indeed not,” his mother was quick to concede, although her tone was equally imperious. “When the time is right, Edward will choose a most excellent bride that the entire county will be pleased with.”

  Edward picked up his glass of wine and took a lengthy swallow. “A tall order,” he said. “Any bride of mine might dread coming to our estate if word got out that she was to be measured against every lady in the county.”

  “Oh, Edward,” his mother said with a conciliatory smile. “We’ll keep that just amongst ourselves here at the table.”

  “All fourteen of us?” Lady Gerrard said.

  His mother kept her smile on her face, and Lady Gerrard had no o
ther choice but to pick another topic, which she promptly did.

  “Now, my niece Emily is not a great musical talent like my daughter,” Lady Gerrard said. “You might already know that since you are neighbors.”

  While she continued talking, Edward’s gaze strayed again to Emily. She was eating her soup, not speaking to anyone, yet he caught the faint blush on her cheeks. Edward had no doubt her blush was due to her aunt’s indelicate conversation.

  “She paints,” Lady Gerrard declared. “It’s quite unusual, if you ask me.”

  Edward couldn’t stop the words from tumbling out of his mouth. “Many ladies paint,” he said. “It can be an impressive talent.”

  His eyes connected with Emily as she raised her head. Her blush deepened, and Edward wondered if he’d just made everything worse.

  “Impressive, to be sure,” Lady Gerrard said. “If the young lady in question is painting landscapes or perhaps a vase of flowers. But Emily’s paintings are quite . . . unsettling.”

  Emily’s face darkened two shades, and Edward snapped his gaze to Lady Gerrard.

  “Explain yourself,” he said, his voice cold. The other guests around the table had grown silent, absorbed in Lady Gerrard’s newest conversation thread.

  “She paints portraits,” said Lady Gerrard, “of people long since passed and she . . . relocates the subjects.”

  Edward couldn’t even choose which question he wanted to ask. He looked over at Emily. “That sounds quite interesting,” he said, although he wasn’t sure he quite understood.

  She glanced at her aunt, and then at Edward. “Thank you.” It was nearly a whisper.

  “Can you tell us more about it, Miss Foster?” he asked, pointedly directing his question to her personally.

  She cleared her throat and straightened her shoulders. Edward found himself admiring her resolve greatly. She might be quiet, and she might be embroiled in grief over her father, but she clearly had a passion for painting. Her brown eyes were brighter than he’d seen that night so far, and the embarrassed blush of her cheeks had faded to a healthy rose.

  “I try to imagine people how they were when they were younger, when they were alive, and what sorts of things they liked to do.” Her voice was soft at first, but grew in strength as she spoke. The entire group of guests was listening now. “For instance, my great-grandmother loved to take walks along the beach and was known for her daydreaming. So I used her portrait as a starting place, then painted her looking out over the ocean.”

  Edward found himself smiling. “That sounds quite wonderful and innovative.” He slid his gaze to meet Lady Gerrard’s gaze as he said innovative. “Not unsettling at all.”

  He thought of what his mother had told him earlier, that Emily would be going with her aunt to London to take part in the Season. Compassion surged through him. How would she cope?

  “I’d love to come see your paintings,” Edward’s mother said, surprising him yet again. Although he didn’t quite think she was doing it out of interest in Emily, but more to spite Lady Gerrard.

  He was quite enjoying his mother’s handling of Lady Gerrard.

  “You are very kind,” Emily told his mother.

  “We’re afraid Emily is quite busy since she is preparing to leave for London soon,” Mrs. Foster cut in.

  Everything inside Edward deflated as he thought of Emily going off with Lady Gerrard.

  “We are hoping for double fortune this Season in the form of two proposals,” Lady Gerrard said, one side of her mouth lifted in a knowing smile. “Perhaps the two cousins will be entertaining spring weddings.” She cast a benevolent smile upon Emily and Adele.

  Edward had never been more grateful to his obligations at the estate now. His brother had told him of the London scene a handful of times, but Edward hadn’t believed much of what Peter had said about mothers parading their daughters before eligible gentlemen. Now he could fully believe it.

  Emily was looking at her plate of food again. Braised chicken with an herb sauce had been brought out sometime during Lady Gerrard’s diatribe on painting. While Lady Gerrard prattled on about eligible bachelors who might be spending the Season in London, Edward cast glances at Emily.

  She seemed to be in her own world. Perhaps her aunt’s comments didn’t bother her? Or more likely, she’d heard them often enough that she was smart enough to ignore them. Edward didn’t think he could do the same.

  “How about we organize something for all of us to do tomorrow?” his mother suddenly said. “We could have a picnic while the weather is unusually fine.”

  Before Edward could protest, his mother was collecting excited agreements from around the table. He swallowed back his frustrated sigh. He’d hoped that after this evening’s dinner party, his mother would give him some peace and quiet. Maybe before the appointed picnic time, he’d be able to come up with a good excuse not to attend. Even though he wouldn’t mind trying for another chance to speak to Emily, he really couldn’t lose his focus on the monumental task of putting the estate to rights. Besides, he didn’t think he could endure much more of Lady Gerrard’s conversation.

  Chapter Four

  It was rather silly, Emily admitted to herself. The portrait she’d started, and thought would be of her great-grandfather, actually looked nothing like the man at all. In fact, it was looking quite a bit like Edward Blackwood. She’d painted the man standing among castle ruins, but instead of examining the ancient structure, he was looking off into the distance, a book in one hand. His hair was brown, like Mr. Blackwood’s, and his shoulders broad—again, like Mr. Blackwood’s. She hadn’t put in the finer details of his face, but as she started mixing paint, she knew the man’s eyes would be blue.

  Another glance at the portrait of her great-grandfather she’d sneaked off the gallery wall confirmed that her great-grandfather’s nearly black hair and brown eyes and narrow shoulders were nothing like the man she had put onto the canvas in front of her.

  “Miss?” A knock sounded at the door of the east attic, Emily’s favorite place to paint in the mornings.

  Her hand nearly jerked the brush across the canvas. “Yes?” she said, setting her brush down as Jenny entered the room. The woman was about ten years older than Emily, but she’d become a great confidante over the years—an unusual development Emily was grateful for.

  “Your mother said the carriage is ready,” Jenny said, her eyes darting to the canvas, then to Emily’s hands that were splotched with paint. “Oh dear.”

  Emily looked down at her hands. She was sure she could be ready quickly, although the idea of going to a picnic with a great number of people didn’t appeal to her.

  “I’ll need help,” Emily said, putting her brush in a jar of spirits, then rising to her feet to take off her apron.

  Jenny smiled and shook her head. “We must hurry. Lady Gerrard is in fine form this morning.”

  Emily hadn’t even gone down to break her fast, so she hadn’t been able to detect her aunt’s moods, which usually ruled the entire household.

  “Oh, your hair,” Jenny said.

  Emily lifted her hand to search for stray locks. “Is it that bad?”

  “Don’t touch it,” Jenny said. “Your hands!”

  But it was too late. Emily lowered her hands and said, “Can you fix it?”

  Jenny narrowed her eyes. “Do you have anything that will take out paint?”

  Emily glanced at the jar of spirits and raised her brows.

  Pursing her lips, Jenny found a cloth that wasn’t too badly used and dipped a corner into the spirits, then she tried to rub out the paint in Emily’s hair.

  “Good enough,” Jenny said. “We haven’t time for anything else.”

  Emily took the cloth from Jenny and scrubbed it against her hands, getting the worst of the paint off. She’d have to stop by her bedroom to fetch her gloves.

  “Here you are, miss,” Jenny said, pulling gloves out of her apron pocket.

  “You’re a dear,” Emily said, taking the gloves
and pulling them onto her paint-splotched hands. “I’m so glad you’ll be coming to London with me.”

  Jenny nodded. “Me, too.”

  Emily blinked against the sudden burning in her eyes. Now was no time to get emotional about leaving her home for London. She’d only be gone for a few months. Her aunt had promised she could return home for the summer.

  Emily navigated her way down the narrow stairs from the attic to the third floor. By the second floor, she could hear her aunt ordering a servant to do one thing or another. When she reached the staircase that descended to the main hallway on the ground floor, her aunt had already walked out the front door.

  “There you are,” Adele said, coming out of the drawing room. She wore yellow and looked as fresh as a flower.

  Emily knew she could never compare with her dark blue dress, a half-mourning, which Lady Gerrard said she’d have to lighten up in London.

  Adele was all smiles, and Emily had the feeling it had something to do with the fact they were going on a picnic and Edward Blackwood would be in attendance. On the carriage ride home the night before, Lady Gerrard had commented more than once how Edward had paid Adele special attention.

  When Emily then pointed out that perhaps they didn’t need to go to London after all if Adele had a love interest here, Lady Gerrard had immediately gone on the defensive. “We need to keep all of our options open. Mr. Blackwood is a fine man with a fine estate, but a title would also be nice.”

  Perhaps it was with those thoughts swirling in her head that Emily found herself painting the man in question this morning. Otherwise, it would mean that Emily had been paying Edward her own special attention, which would not do at all.

  Emily was bustled into the carriage with her aunt and cousin. Apparently, her mother had pleaded a headache and would be missing this impromptu event. Sitting stiffly in the carriage, Emily watched the scenery go by as they drove to the picnic location, where they’d also explore the ruins of an old monastery.

  “Edward Blackwood is quite wealthy,” Emily heard her aunt telling Adele. “But we will see what London has to offer first.”