by Lynne Barron
“Simon, I’ll tell you everything I know about the lovely Miss Morgan, but I’m warning you now, I don’t know much.”
“You met in Paris months ago and now she is in London.” Let Henry think him suspicious.
“That is a bit odd,” Henry agreed.
“What is she doing in London?” Simon asked although he thought he knew the answer.
“I’ve no idea.” Henry’s eyes lit up. “But what a pleasant surprise.”
“Tell me you did not send for the lady.”
“I did not send for the lady.”
“So she followed you quite on her own?”
Henry paused to consider Simon’s words. “I doubt she followed me,” he finally responded.
“You meet a mysterious woman, an artist apparently, in Paris months ago, and as if by magic she just happens to appear in London not two weeks after your return?” Simon did not believe in coincidence.
“When you put it like that,” Henry responded around a chuckle, “I’d have to agree. She followed me. Well, I’ll be. I didn’t think she was interested in me beyond as an amusing fellow countryman with whom to flirt and dance. Leave it to you to figure it all out in less than five minutes, Simon.”
“You had no indication in Paris she might be interested in forming an attachment?” Simon asked, ignoring Henry’s sarcastic response.
“I had hoped so upon first meeting her,” Henry replied. “After all she is quite friendly, and clever and worldly. And she did bestow marked attention upon me. I hinted at deepening our friendship. Repeatedly. Subtly, of course. She has the most charming way of ignoring a man’s amorous intentions. She simply pretends she is unaware of them. Or perhaps she really is unaware of them. She’s damn hard to read. She laughs and smiles at everyone. I saw the way she held on to your hand and caressed it that way.”
“I think it is safe to say everyone saw that.”
“It’s just her way. She touches your arm and leans in close when she speaks to you. She says whatever pops into her mind. She teases near strangers in a way most people reserve for their family or closest friends.”
“So when the subtlety didn’t produce the desired effects?”
Henry turned to look out the window, but not before Simon saw the blush on his cheeks. “I attempted to kiss her one night. Well actually I did kiss her one night. She had asked me to accompany her out onto the terrace after we had danced a set.”
“She asked you to escort her out into the night alone?” Simon asked.
“She only wanted a bit of air. She has an aversion to crowds, says she can’t breathe with too many people about her.”
“And she encouraged you to kiss her?”
“I don’t know as I’d say she encouraged me. I leaned down, she didn’t move away. So I kissed her.”
“And she?”
“She took my kiss and turned it into a—well, she turned it from a kiss between a man and a woman into a kiss between friends.”
“I have quite a number of friends and I don’t think I’ve ever kissed a one of them,” Simon pointed out.
“I know, but that’s what she did. I kissed her, she kissed me back, a great big smacking kiss, like I’d give my niece. Then she took both my hands in hers, smiled at me and told me how happy she was that we had met and she was certain we were going to be the very best of friends.”
“What was that business about her giving me leave to call her by her given name?” It had seemed to Simon as if she were warning Henry that should he fail to attend her on her morning ride, she would turn her attentions to him. And that wink! What did she mean by winking at him?
“Oh, I had warned her she would cause damage to her name by inviting a young gentleman to use it. She merely smiled. She has this way of smiling as if she knows a secret no one else is privileged to know, and said—and I remember it exactly as it was such a strange thing to say—‘one of the most wonderful things about living outside Society is that I need have no fear of damaging my name, as no one knows it.’”
Simon said nothing, for what was there to say to that. Living outside Society indeed. Where did she think she had been tonight? She had been at one the ton’s leading hostess’s annual ball. Where did she think she went when she attended Anna Forsythe’s salon in Paris? Even Mrs. Forsythe, for all her sordid past and banishment to the continent, still traveled on the fringes of Society.
“They’ll know her name after tonight,” he finally said.
“They knew it all over Paris,” Henry replied.
Simon lifted one dark brow in question.
“They were clamoring for her to paint them,” Henry answered the unspoken question.
“So she is a well-known artist then?”
“You don’t know?” His cousin was clearly surprised. “I thought you had put that much together at least. But of course not, or else you would not wonder how she knew your father.”
“What?” Simon asked.
“Beatrice Morgan,” Henry prompted. When Simon did not reply he added, “Bea Morgan.”
It took him a moment and then, “B. Morgan? The portrait artist?”
“The same,” Henry assured him.
“But— I had no idea he, I mean she, was a woman.”
“She is.”
So that was how she knew his father. His father had bought a number of her early works. He had even commissioned her to paint his portrait. The portrait still hung above the fireplace in the dining room of his town house where it had held that honored spot for years.
“But how can that be possible? She is a young woman, what, five and twenty perhaps? My father began collecting B. Morgan’s works nearly ten years ago, before the portraits, when they were landscapes. I remember the first one he brought home, a beautiful painting of an old fountain overgrown with bright red and yellow flowers. He gave it to my mother for Christmas. Yes, ten, maybe eleven years ago.”
The carriage came to stop and Henry sat up once more. “She must have started quite young as she is six and twenty. She’ll be seven and twenty next month.”
“You know a lot about her considering you told me not half an hour ago that you know very little about her.”
“She mentioned it to me once. She dreads the month of June and her birthday in particular as her father died just before her eighteenth birthday.”
“Who was her father?”
“I’ve no idea. I haven’t asked and she hasn’t offered. Nor do I know who her mother is. But I suspect they were Mr. and Mrs. Morgan, minor gentry or perhaps well-to-do merchants, as she is clearly well-educated. Better educated, really, than any woman I have ever known.” The carriage door opened and Henry stepped down onto the street before his town house. He leaned back in long enough to say, “She is a beautiful woman, and amusing and intelligent. I enjoy her company and believe she enjoys mine. She isn’t trying to trap me into marriage, Simon. It was one time, years ago, and I learned my lesson.”
“So well that you kissed Miss Morgan on the terrace outside a crowded ballroom for the entire world to see?”
Henry slammed the carriage door and bolted up the steps, his raucous laughter fading away as he entered the front door to his home.
Simon watched his cousin as he disappeared through the door. It was not marriage Simon worried the lovely Miss Morgan was after. Even a woman who claimed to live outside Society must know that was impossible.
Henry had been correct when he said he knew little about Miss Beatrice Morgan. All Simon had learned was that she moved about in a world in which the Earl of Hastings had no business visiting.
Who was she?
Portrait of Passion is available now on Amazon
Taming Beauty
ISBN 978-0-9863663-7-6
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Taming Beauty Copyright © 2016 Lynne Barron
Edited by Whitney Mihalik
Cover design by Melody Mulvey
Electronic book publication July 2016
This book is a work of
fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are creations of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.
The author acknowledges the trademark status and trademark ownership of all trademarks, service marks and word marks mentioned in this book.
With the exception of quotes used in reviews, this book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any means without written permission from Lynne Barron
Warning: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal and punishable by up to 5 years in federal prison and/or a fine of up to $250,000. http://www.fbi.gov/ipr
