“And with my words of inspiration urging you to create, you may now select your colors and begin.” He gestured toward the fruit and made a sweeping bow.
As applause filled the room, Charley vaguely remembered how her mother had shown her to load her palette and by the time she was finished, she’d loaded it with more colors than were likely necessary.
When she could delay the actual act of putting paint to canvas no longer, she swirled one of the brushes around in the sticky red clump and then drew the outline of her apple and hastily filled it in. She wiped the red away and filled her brush with orange.
As she utilized the yellow, she wrinkled her nose when orange and red streaks ruined the color of her banana.
She might even have enjoyed herself if no one was present to witness her results.
“Ah, the light, oui, you have captured it perfectly.” The painting master had moved to observe from over Bethany’s shoulder. Charley stiffened when he moved to view her painting.
“What is this? Are you, how do you say? Making a joke?”
“A joke? Oh, Charley. That’s priceless.” Felicity covered her mouth but couldn’t keep her laughter at bay, nor could Bethany.
Heat climbed up Charley’s neck.
Frowning, the art master turned when shuffling sounds at the door inspired an altogether different sort of appreciative murmur from the young misses in the room.
And several of the older ones as well.
“My lords.” Monsieur Jean Luc dismissed Charley to stride toward the newcomers. “You have come to join the ladies, non?”
Charley didn’t turn to see which lords had stepped into the room. She didn’t have to. Even if she didn’t know by the giggles and fluttering of lashes all around, she’d know by the strange prickling that climbed up her spine whenever Lord Westerley was near. No doubt, he’d come along with his rookery of handsome lordlings.
She peered at the mess she’d made on her palette and wished she could throw one of the blasted tarps over her easel. She didn’t want him to see her lousy artwork. Or perhaps it would be best if he did. It would only require a single glance for him to realize that she would never suffice as his wife—as a countess no less.
She raised her brows as she purveyed her portrayal of the bowl of fruit. Stopping time. Ha! More likely her picture would transport the observer back to his or her childhood, when they’d first learned to paint.
Lord Westerley would take one look at it and decide that even his honor would not be worth courting her.
“A most original depiction of still life.” He’d stepped up behind her and she shivered when his breath brushed past her ear.
That sharp awareness she’d felt a few moments ago doubled when he reached around her with his right hand and covered hers, still holding the brush.
“May I?”
She turned to see if he would mock her as the Frenchman had but lost her train of thought when she found his face much closer to hers than she’d expected.
“I’ve never aspired to paint.” Her voice came out sounding a little breathless. “It’s a lost cause, I’m afraid.”
But instead of taking the paintbrush from her hands, he wrapped his fingers around hers and lifted both their hands to the canvas. Charley forced her wrist to go limp as he dabbed at the canvas and then made a few shadowy-looking strokes.
“It is hopeless.” Charley moaned a little and then squirmed as she realized that Bethany watched from where she stood, looking a little curious but also a little suspicious.
“Where there is life,” he spoke softly from just behind her, “there is hope.” He released her hand and stepped backward to reassess the painting.
Charley tilted her head to one side but honestly didn’t think he’d done anything to improve it. In fact, it might possibly look even worse. She felt him laughing behind her before she heard his actual chuckling.
Only, his laughter didn’t make her feel inferior, as had the painting master’s comments.
“I’m afraid, my lord, that even you are not capable of infusing either life or hope into my effort. I am only sorry that I’ve wasted the paint and the canvas.”
She couldn’t keep from smiling at him. How could any young lady resist such a handsome man when he gazed at her with twinkles of delight dancing in his eyes that just happened to be her favorite color of blue? In the bright and sunny room, they reminded her of the delphinium that grew in front of her father’s house in early spring.
“Your grandmother must arrange for some primary formal instruction.” Charley had not been aware of the countess’s approach. “It’s important that a refined young lady be able to show even the most basic ability where the finer arts are concerned.” She cleared her throat meaningfully. “Did you see Lady Felicity’s painting, Jules?”
“Not yet,” he said, moving away from Charley and examined the painting on her neighbor’s easel. “Lady Felicity never ceases to impress me with her talents,” he responded smoothly and then went on to compliment a few of the other ladies around them as well.
The other lords ambled along from painting to painting, and Lord Chaswick had stepped inside the circle to snack on one of the apples. Showing no reverence at all, he began tossing grapes in the direction of the viscount and Mr. Spencer, who didn’t allow a single one to fall to the floor. Mr. Peter Spencer kept a short distance away from their antics, not disapproving, but not participating either. Perhaps as a musician, he empathized with the painting master.
Charley, however, felt no sympathy for the distraught-looking Frenchman who’d lost all control of his ‘class’ for the afternoon.
In the melee, Lord Westerley had returned and touched his hand to the small of her back. “Meet me in the gallery in ten minutes. I have something I think you will appreciate.”
“My Lord, what do you think of mine?” asked a young lady whose name Charley couldn’t remember from a few easels over. He squeezed Charley’s arm and moved away.
What could he possibly have to show her? Should she be nervous?
She didn’t have time to contemplate any of that, however, when Lady Westerley stepped up to her painting again.
“Miss Jackson, I wondered if you’d like to invite your companion to join in the house party festivities. You did bring along a companion, unless I am mistaken?”
“Daisy?” The ‘offer’ rendered Charley momentarily speechless. Good heavens, if Charley—as an invited guest—felt out of place while negotiating the party, how much more so would her maid?
“It isn’t proper for a young woman your age to be on her own. When your father informed me he’d be leaving the party, I merely assumed that your companion would join you. It isn’t even necessary that she participate, only that that she be at your side in case you require assistance. And so that you never find yourself alone with any of the gentlemen guests.”
“Oh.” Charley hadn’t thought of any of this herself. Although it did give her one more reason to be angry with her father.
“And I’ve been meaning to give you this.” Charley didn’t realize immediately that the countess was handing her an envelope. Her name was written on the front, in her father’s handwriting. “He left it with Mr. Goulding.”
Rather than take ten minutes to say goodbye to his daughter, he left a note with the butler.
Even as Charley accepted it, her father’s betrayal—his abandonment of her—stung.
“If the woman you’ve brought along isn’t sufficient, I can make one of my own servants available to you. I’m certain that’s what your grandmother had in mind when she sent her along. It’s a shame she couldn’t join us herself. Ah, well. Lady Thornton keeps a busy schedule in London.”
“Oh, no, that won’t be necessary.” Charley doubted Daisy would want to join the festivities. Even so, she recanted, “I’ll ask her.”
Lady Westerley gave her a strange look but then blinked. “Very good. I look forward to meeting her at the evening meal.”
Did Lady Westerl
ey suspect the strange arrangement Jules and she had made? It didn’t require a genius to realize that the countess didn’t exactly approve of Charley. Especially after being seated beside her and making questionable conversation at dinner.
The reminder only made Lord Westerley’s assertions that he would marry her seem all the more ludicrous. Charley squirmed under the countess’s scrutiny.
“I’m not sure she has something suitable to wear but perhaps she could wear one of my gowns.” Although Daisy was considerably more endowed in certain areas.
“I will send a maid to your chamber later this afternoon.” The countess gave a tight smile. “I knew your mother. Did you know that? She would have wanted you to know the proper English ways.”
Charley swallowed hard. Of course, Lady Westerley had known her mother, Lady Miranda. Was that why Lady Westerley’s daughters had been so quick to befriend her? Out of respect for her dead mother?
“Did you know her well?” Charley’s curiosity got the best of her. Her mother had given birth to her later in life. She would have been close in age to Jules’ mother.
Lady Westerley’s response was a vague smile. “We came out the same year. She created quite the scandal, going to Paris and then running away and marrying your father.” She sighed. “She and I corresponded for a while. Poor dear. I suppose we all are destined to make mistakes some time in our lives. Lord and Lady Thornton are most forgiving to welcome you back into their family.”
“My mother never quite took to America.” An understatement of considerable proportions. “She spoke of London often. And she never failed to act in a manner that was absolutely proper.” Did her father know her mother had written friends divulging that she considered her marriage a mistake?
“Her parents were quite disappointed”—the countess winced—“that she would ever leave England.”
“And for America, no less.” Charley couldn’t help adding. How her grandparents must have hated that. It was obvious from the manner in which they’d treated her father that they blamed him. They blamed him for their daughter’s early death, and they blamed him for the behavior and appearance of their only granddaughter.
Charley’s mother had loved them as much as had been possible, but for the most part, Charley and her father had been nothing more than a mistake to her.
“I will be sure to mention your need of painting instruction to your grandmother.” Although the countess’s eyes were brown, she had the same proud tilt to her head that her daughters did. Only rather than smiling, she kept her lips pinched tightly together. The countess’s gaze turned and landed on Felicity Brightley. “Such a lovely young woman, isn’t she? If you’ll excuse me, it seems that Monsieur Jean Luc wishes to have a word.”
Charley dropped into a shallow curtsey and wished she knew if that was what she was supposed to do. Perhaps she ought to have paid more attention to the few lessons she’d had while at her grandparents’ after all.
Under normal circumstances, she wouldn’t have minded learning things. Making things.
Not necessarily painting things.
Charley glanced at her painting with one last wince, and then remembered Jules was waiting for her.
She wiped her hands on the smock, slid her arms out of the oversized sleeves, and made to exit as inconspicuously as possible. Ten minutes had surely already passed, and she was feeling more and more curious about what Lord Westerley wanted to show her.
And she admitted to herself reluctantly, as she scurried through the corridors that were becoming familiar to her, a little excited.
She forced herself to pause and leaned against the wall, removing her father’s missive from her sleeve.
* * *
Charlotte,
I wouldn’t have left in such a blasted hurry if you weren’t so damn stubborn. This is not a punishment (although I doubt you believe that now). Someday, I’ve no doubt you’ll thank me. I know you love the process of distilling, of running a company, of making your own whiskey, but opportunity is going to dodge you until you have a husband at your side. Preferably a well-connected and esteemed one. You’ll never have the respect you crave if your promotions come from your father. You are hardworking, too smart for your own good, and capable of having everything you ever wanted, but you need to be patient. And you must marry.
I’ll return in a few weeks. Be open-minded. I beg of you, foolish girl, not to turn your nose up if a respectable suitor comes along.
Be good. Do this for me.
Your father,
Daniel J. Jackson
* * *
Just as Charley wiped the corner of her eye, a maid rounded the corner and Charley stuffed the letter back into her sleeve. She was self-conscious at almost being caught crying and frustrated that her father lacked faith in her.
Be good! Keep an open mind? Surely, this was just some sort of test he was putting her through. Flustered but realizing again that she was late to meet Jules, she pushed off the wall and marched toward the gallery. She’d have to ponder all of her father’s meanings later.
The countess had been rather emphatic about this chaperone business. Charley was going to have to discuss the prospect with Daisy. She’d known young English ladies weren’t supposed to go about a house party on their own, but it hadn’t occurred to her that the same rules would apply to her. At home, she didn’t think twice about being alone at one of her father’s distilleries or even when they were visiting any of his colleagues. And now her father had asked her to be good—for him.
Did he seriously expect her to act like one of these English ladies?
Not that Ladies Tabetha and Felicity or the twins were all that different, really, but they acted in a certain manner that implied a feminine helplessness Charley could never feign. Nor would she ever desire to.
Stepping soundlessly in her slippers, she turned the corner and thoughts of her father fled as she caught sight of Jules, who was quite lost in thought and wasn’t yet aware that she’d arrived.
A shaft of light slanting across the hall illuminated him where he stood. His hair wasn’t nearly as dark as it seemed indoors. The color reminded her of a rich and fruitful soil, with browns and blacks and reds. He slouched as he leaned one shoulder against the wall where he studied his father’s painting. Away from his friends and his mother’s guests, he didn’t seem nearly as arrogant or sure of himself. She should have seen it before, but there was far more to the Earl of Westerley than she’d ever suspected.
He straightened and turned, just then, suddenly aware that another person had interrupted his privacy.
“You’re late.” He appeared all that was cocksure once again.
“Your mother wished to have a word,” she said. “She told me I’m not supposed to be alone with any of the gentlemen guests while under her protection.”
“Well then.” He slipped a hand out of his pocket. “It’s a good thing you’re only going to be alone with me.”
Charley didn’t hesitate to take his arm when he offered it and followed him with only the slightest misgivings. If anyone was to see her walking alone with Lady Westerley’s son, immediately after the countess had offered her sage advice, then it would most assuredly give her hostess all the more reason to look upon Charley unfavorably.
“Where are we going?” She hoped nowhere where they might be observed. “Perhaps I ought to fetch Daisy…”
But he patted her hand. “You needn’t worry about my mother.” He turned into a passageway that was only half as wide. “It occurred to me that since you have been denied the opportunity to taste the various Scottish whiskies, there is something I can do to abate some of your disappointment.”
Chapter 13
COCKSURE GENTS
Charley’s heart skipped a beat. What did he mean?
Rather than explain himself, Lord Westerley opened a heavy door and motioned for her to enter into an even narrower corridor.
He grasped her arm from behind, however, after she entered the dark cavern,
and slipped around her protectively. Scraping sounds echoed in the dark, and then sparks flared and then fell onto the stone floor. After a few attempts, the flint caught and fluttered to life. By now, Charley could just make out Jules’ profile as he lit a single candle.
“Stay close behind me. The stairs are uneven.”
A cool breeze floated up from below and a shiver danced along Charley’s spine. She wasn’t afraid, or cold even. No, she was excited. He was taking her into a cellar for only one likely purpose.
Whiskey was stored in such places.
She followed him closely and carefully down the rounded staircase, careful not to slip on the smooth stone. “It cannot be an easy task—bringing the barrels down here,” she commented as she imagined the practicalities.
“There is another entrance below. A secret entrance.”
Oh, this was exciting! It was just the sort of thing she would have expected, and the anticipation from a moment before turned into an almost giddy feeling.
At the bottom, he moved away from her into the dark chamber and lit three sconces and then placed the candle in the center of a long, thin wooden table that ran the length of the room. Two glasses and several bottles had been placed on the table.
He bowed. “Won’t you be seated, my lady?”
Charley cocked an eyebrow but lowered herself onto one of the benches, her mouth already watering as she noted some of the labels. If she were to guess, she’d imagine that the bottles without labels would be even more interesting.
This alone perhaps would make her journey across the Atlantic worthwhile.
“Where did these come from?” Her eyes widened. “They are yours? Your family’s?”
His low chuckle evoked an unusual warmth in her belly. “My father collected different ports.” He waggled his eyebrows. “But my granddad preferred whisky.”
Charley rubbed her hands together, noticing the varying colors of amber that went from almost clear to a dark brown. “Which one should we start with?”
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