Rogue Grooms

by Amanda McCabe

  A perfect instant, captured forever.

  Georgina loved it, this scene of her dearest friends. It cheered her immensely; yet it also made her feel rather wistful. Lonely, even.

  “It is truly exquisite,” a man said from behind her.

  Georgina looked over her shoulder, and gave a small cry of delight. “Alex! You have come.”

  “Yes. I do apologize for my lateness.” He moved up beside her, peering closely at the painting with his quizzing glass. “I am just an old army man, of course, and know little about art. But I can truly say that that is one of the loveliest paintings I have ever seen.”

  Georgina had received many compliments on her work over the years, many of them from more knowledgeable critics than this one. None, though, had ever made her feel like crying with utter joy.

  Just as his compliments on her beauty had made her feel like giggling and blushing.

  “I thank you,” she said. “This is my favorite painting I have ever done; it brings me great happiness.”

  He nodded. “A scene of great beauty. I can see why it would make you happy just to look at it.” He looked down at her, and smiled. “Though I do wonder, Georgina, why you looked so sad as you examined it a moment ago. Was there a flaw that you just detected?”

  Georgina’s gaze flew up to his. “I did not—how did you... ?”

  “Oh, I have a rather embarrassing confession to make,” he said with a rueful little laugh. “When I first came in, I stood over there and watched you in secret for a moment.”

  Georgina looked away, flustered. And very pleased. “Alex, how silly! Why would you do that?”

  “Because you looked so very pretty,” he said softly. Then his jaw tightened. “That was a very clumsy compliment. Forgive me.”

  “What is there to forgive? First you admire my painting, then you say I look pretty. Such calumny!” she teased.

  He smiled, and turned rather awkwardly to the portrait of Carmen. “Is this your only other work displayed?”

  Georgina nodded, letting him change the subject. “Yes. Do you know the Countess of Clifton?”

  “I have met her once or twice. She was of invaluable service to us during the war.”

  “She is a very fascinating person, and a joy to paint. I think she has passed on her beauty to Isabella!”

  “So she has. But I am rather surprised, and disappointed, not to see more of your work.”

  “Oh, Elizabeth would have covered the walls with my paintings if I had let her. I did not want to appear ostentatious, though.”

  Alex threw back his head and laughed extravagantly, a deep, warm sound that caused heads to turn in their direction. “Georgina,” he said, “I fear you cannot help but be a bit ostentatious! Your beauty will always make you conspicuous.”

  “A-ha!” she cried. “Another compliment. That is three in one evening.”

  “I seem to be quite the poet tonight.”

  “So you are. Well, Lord Byron, if you would truly like to see more of my work, and are not just being polite, I would be happy to show it to you. I am sharing Elizabeth’s studio while I am here, and I have several pieces in there.”

  Alex glanced around uncertainly.

  “You needn’t worry about my reputation,” she said. “I am no young miss you will be forced to wed if you’re found alone with me! I am only going to show you my paintings; it’s all quite respectable, and we will not be gone long.”

  He grinned. “You will think me quite old and fusty.”

  “Not at all! But maybe you should be wary of your reputation, being seen with a lady rogue like me.” She caught up some glasses of champagne from a footman’s tray. “We will just take these with us.”

  The studio, faced on two sides with windows and with a skylight overhead, was flooded with moonlight. Silvery shadows were cast around props and easels; satin drapes seemed to undulate from the corners. It all seemed terribly romantic, a perfect spot for secret trysts and whispered, passionate words.

  Georgina forced such fanciful thoughts from her head, since it was obvious that Alex had no such intentions on this night. She lit a lamp that sat on a small table, and set about taking holland covers down from her finished paintings.

  “These are mine,” she said.

  Alex stepped closer to examine them. They were mostly portraits, of course; two of a duchess and a baroness that were waiting to be sent to their subjects, and one of Isabella. There was a wedding portrait of Elizabeth and Nicholas, and several small studies of Lady Kate.

  He spent the longest time on the last three works. He even drew out his quizzing glass to look at them, turning his head this way and that.

  Georgina could hardly stand it. She hated it so when people looked at her work and did not say anything; she always imagined the worst, that they disliked it.

  “What do you think?” she asked at last.

  “Beautiful,” he breathed. “You are truly gifted, Georgina. Even I can see that.”

  She laughed in profound relief. “Did you think I was just some fluffy-headed female, dabbling about with watercolors?”

  “Certainly not! No one ever buys fluffy watercolors. But to see them—thank you, Georgina, for giving me this privilege.”

  “I am the one who is privileged, to share what I love so much with someone who appreciates it. Which do you like the best?”

  “Well, your portraits are certainly fine. You have quite captured your subjects, both their outward appearance and their personalities. Why, I can almost see the mischief in Isabella’s eyes!”

  “Yes! It was quite a struggle to make her sit still for longer than two minutes.”

  “They are lovely. These, though—I feel I am there, in all three of them.”

  Georgina examined the paintings under discussion. “Landscape is rather new to me. I have always sketched the places I have been, but I never tried it on a larger scale until recently.”

  He gently touched the painting hanging in the middle. “This is your villa in Italy?”

  It was a sun-drenched scene of a white stucco villa, crowned with red tiles and iced with wrought-iron balconies. In the distance could be seen the azure expanse of Lake Como.

  “Yes,” said Georgina, “that is Santa Cecilia.”

  “And the others?”

  “This one was painted in Scotland when we were there on holiday last year.” She indicated the vision of a ruined castle, set atop a hill covered with purple heather. Then she turned to the last, a small, cramped, dark-stained house, set back in a tangled garden, with a storm breaking over it. “This is the house I grew up in.”

  Alex looked from the painting to Georgina, his blue eyes serious. “Not a very cheerful aspect.”

  “No. Never go to gloomy Sussex, if you can help it!” Georgina forced a light laugh, and turned away from the painting. She went to sit down on the chaise she used for her models, and poured herself a glass of champagne.

  “Is Sussex so gloomy?” Alex leaned back against the wall, watching her.

  “Perhaps not so very, all of the time. Perhaps just the home of the Reverend and Mrs. Smythe.”

  “Your parents?”

  She shook her head fiercely. “Never! My aunt and her husband. I painted that when I went back there a few years ago, for my aunt’s funeral.” She held up the glass. “Care for some champagne?”

  “Yes, thank you.” He came and sat beside her, taking the glass she handed him. “Would you tell me about them? About your childhood?”

  “It is very dull.”

  “I don’t care,” he answered, surprisingly intent. “I find I want to know everything about you, Georgina Beaumont.”

  Georgina studied him carefully, longing to see the truth of those words in his eyes. Longing to trust this man, this perfect man, with the truth of her less than exalted past.

  Then she nodded.

  “My parents, Gerald and Maria Cheswood, were carried off by a fever when I was just ten years old,” she began. “My father was the young
est son of a baronet. His family disowned him when he married my mother, the daughter of a merchant from Bristol. They refused to take me in when my parents died, so I had to go to my mother’s sister, my Aunt Hortense, and her husband, the Reverend Smythe.”

  “They of the gloomy house.”

  “Yes. It was not very much like living in my parents’ home! My mother was a very joyful woman, and so affectionate. She was always devising games and parties, so we were very merry, even though there was not much money. And she and my father were very much in love.” Georgina paused to take a deep sip of the champagne. “In the vicarage there was no joy, no affection. Only sermons and housework. Endless housework. They deeply disapproved of me, you see; disapproved of my red hair, and the fact that I laugh at things that are funny.”

  “It sounds dismal,” Alex said quietly.

  “So it was! It certainly showed me what I did not want my life to be like. But then, when I was fourteen, a miracle happened.”

  “What was it?”

  “My aunt decided it would be best if I was sent away to school.”

  “School was a miracle?”

  “To me it was. You see, three things happened to me there. Mrs. Bennett, who taught art, was the first. I had always scribbled, you see, but she taught me technique, color. She made me see what a wonder art could be, what a salvation.”

  “The art world owes a great thanks to Mrs. Bennett, then!” he exclaimed. “What were the other things?”

  “When I was sixteen, Elizabeth came to the school. She also loved art, and we became bosom bows. As we remain to this day.”

  “And the other?”

  Georgina looked down into her glass, deep into the golden bubbles. “When I was almost eighteen, the brother of a schoolfriend came to visit her before his regiment went to the Peninsula. His family did not approve of me, just as my father’s did not approve of my mother, but Captain Jack Reid and I went to Gretna Green a month after we met, and then I followed him to Portugal.” She looked up at Alex. “He was killed almost two years later.”

  “I am sorry, Georgina. So many good men were lost there.”

  “Yes.”

  They were quiet for several minutes, wrapped in moonlight and champagne and thoughts of times past.

  “I have bored you quite enough, I think!” Georgina said at last, with a laugh. “I want to hear about your childhood now.”

  “Oh, no!” Alex shook his head. “That is a dull tale.”

  “I want to know everything about you,” she said, echoing his earlier words to her.

  “Then you shall. Another time.”

  “Yes,” Georgina sighed. “We have been gone rather a long time, and I did promise you there would be no scandal.”

  Alex took her hand and raised it to his lips. “Thank you for sharing your paintings with me, Georgina. And for talking with me.”

  Georgina stared at their joined hands, expecting to see sparks shooting from them, or perhaps even moon-beams, so delicious were the feelings that emanated from his skin on hers. Alas, that heat was all in her mind; there was only her pale fingers in his sun-bronzed ones.

  She wished, with all her being, that they could just sit that way, together, forever.

  “Thank you for listening to me,” she whispered. “Alex.”

  Now kiss me; she added silently.

  But he did not. He only drew her to her feet, and smiled down at her.

  “We should rejoin the others,” he said.

  “Oh, yes,” she murmured. “Yes, we really should.”

  Chapter Nine

  By Jove, but he had wanted to kiss her!

  Alone in his quiet lodgings, Alex ruminated on the evening, on missed opportunities.

  She had been so very lovely, the lamplight turning her hair to pure flame, her green eyes wide as she looked up at him. Her hand had been soft in his, and she had smelled so very tempting with her rose perfume. He had never been so tempted by anything in all his life. Had never wanted to do anything more than he had wanted to kiss Georgina Beaumont.

  She had wanted to kiss him, as well. She had leaned gently toward him as they talked; had watched him carefully, quizzically. She was no green girl; surely she had sensed his own desire.

  Probably she was wondering now what had made him run away so cravenly.

  Just as he was wondering himself.

  Alex threw himself back into his armchair with a deep groan. The truth had to be acknowledged now, if only to himself.

  He did want Georgina Beaumont, in the physical sense. He found her beautiful, and desirable beyond belief. But he also wanted much more from her than her body. Her confidences in the quiet studio had proven that beyond a doubt.

  He was so proud, and pleased, and moved that she would tell him of herself, of the woman behind her glittering Society self. He wanted to know more, to know everything. To know about her marriages, her friendships, her home, her favorite food, her favorite color.

  More than that, he wanted to confide in her. To tell her of his troubles, ask for her advice. Relate all his happy childhood memories, his life in the army, his hopes for the future. He had always been a great one for keeping his own counsel, for there had never been anyone he felt he could talk to. Now he found himself wanting to tell all to this woman.

  This woman he had known only a few days, but who it felt as if he had known forever.

  Alex sighed, and closed his eyes. Yes, the veriest truth was that he was no hardened rake like his brother had been. He could not take Georgina as his mistress, no matter how great his desire for her was. He wanted her for his wife, his duchess, his love.

  So, a small voice said at the back of his mind. You ask her to marry you, you have a wife you adore, and plenty of money besides. Where is the rub?

  Ah, he answered that voice, as a wise man once wrote, therein lies the rub. Money.

  If he asked Georgina to marry him, he would have to tell her all. That his brother had squandered his family’s fortune, and they were left with little more than Alex’s army pension. That they would need some of her money to rebuild.

  She would surely laugh him out of her life, being the independent spirit that she was! She thought well enough of him now, when she thought him a distinguished, self-possessed, self-made man. What would she think of him then?

  Truly, he had never had a luckier, or more disastrous, moment than when Lady Kate decided to take a swim in the river.

  He would just have to take things slowly with Georgina, and bide his time until he could see his way clear to what he should do.

  “It was a lovely salon, was it not?” Elizabeth said happily, wriggling her stockinged toes where they lay on her husband’s lap, being rubbed.

  Georgina lolled on the chaise, warm with champagne and happy memories of those moments in the studio. “Umm, lovely. A great success.”

  “Yes. So many people came there was scarce room to move. And even more will come to the next Friday evening, I am certain.”

  “Is a salon not a chance for great conversation, my love?” Nicholas asked with a teasing grin. “One can hardly have a fascinating conversation if one cannot even breathe.”

  “There was a great deal of conversation!” Elizabeth protested. “Was there not, Georgie?”

  “Hm? Oh, yes. Certainly.”

  “But I noticed that you quite vanished, for nearly an hour,” said Elizabeth. “You minx.”

  “Yes!” Georgina cried merrily. “I do freely admit to minxdom. I was showing Alex my paintings in the studio.”

  “Oh-ho!” said Nicholas, waggling his eyebrows comically. “Alex is it now?”

  “He asked me to call him Alex.”

  “What happened in the studio, Georgie?” Elizabeth asked in desperately curious tones.

  “Nothing happened,” answered Georgina. “At least not in that way. We talked.”

  “Talked? For all that time? What about?”

  “Lizzie!” Georgina protested, laughing. “Such curiosity. We only talked
of this and that. Nothing of consequence. I find him very pleasant company.”

  “Pleasant company, eh?” said Nicholas. “Well. Nothing wrong with that, is there, Lizzie my love?”

  “Of course not,” Elizabeth answered slowly. “I find him to be quite a pleasant gentleman myself. Does that mean that nothing of a more—serious nature is happening, Georgie?”

  Georgina took the last sip from her champagne, then looked down into the empty glass, puzzled by Elizabeth’s question. How could she answer something that she herself did not know? “I—well, honestly, my dears, I am not sure. Perhaps there is. He is not the sort of man one can just flirt lightly with, is he? I do like him, very much. I am not sure, however, what his feelings are toward me.”

  Elizabeth and Nicholas stared at her in obvious shock.

  “Oh, my,” Elizabeth said finally in a small voice. “Well, of course he must be in love with you. Almost every man you meet is in love with you! He is very fortunate to have your affection in return.”

  “People would say I am the fortunate one,” Georgina answered. “To have the interest of a duke. If indeed I do have his interest, which I am not at all sure of.”

  “Are you saying you are feeling—uncertain, Georgie?” Elizabeth said, her eyes growing even wider. “You?”

  “Yes, me! I am—oh, I just don’t know. I do not know what my feelings are for him, or his for me, or what is happening at all.” Georgina placed her empty glass carefully on a small side table and stood. “I do, however, know one thing. I am tired, and I am going to retire now.”

  “Would you like to drive my curricle tomorrow? Get in form for your race with Pynchon?” said Nicholas. “We could all go into the countryside for the morning, and have luncheon at the White Hart Inn.”

  “That sounds delightful.” Georgina kissed his cheek, and Elizabeth’s. “Good night, my dears. It was a lovely evening.”