It's Marriage Or Ruin

by Liz Tyner

  She touched her chin, retracing the movement of his hand. She must stay away from Marcus.

  To create was one thing. To love that moment was glorious. But to be swallowed inside one piece of passion could destroy the creator.

  Look what Michelangelo had done to Moses’s head. No matter what the protuberances truly were, they hinted at a darker side of inspiration. The face warned her. The same man who had sculpted David had created Moses. Moses, with the glare, the judgemental regard and the condemnation within him.

  Marcus condemned her. His voice, his movement and his face did.

  Then she paused. He condemned her. When he was not staring at her as if she were the only woman in the world.

  But she wasn’t a woman. She was an artist. And she’d been born to be alone and to create.

  Then she thought of Marcus. But what if she must experience deep feelings in order to reflect them in her paintings? What if she must have a tortured soul in order to paint with depth...?

  Or perhaps she had heard that somewhere and it was nonsense. Perhaps she just needed a roof for her studio, an imagination and paints.

  Yes, she decided, thinking back to her struggles with paints.

  Art provides all the torture an artist requires.

  She would ask her aunt if that were true. She could imagine Beatrice’s laughter.

  For now, she wanted to observe Marcus.

  She preferred Marcus as a subject. She preferred him to speak with. She preferred him far above Mr Westbrook. But Westbrook was the safer of the two. He thought her name Amelia and she had no desire to correct him.

  * * *

  Marcus watched her as his brother twirled Emilie around the room warmed by all the people moving about. Their second encounter of the night, but neither one a waltz.

  Nathaniel appeared entranced with Emilie, but then Nathaniel was taken with every woman he spoke to. It did him well.

  The violins stopped and the musicians raised their bows with a flourish. The talk surrounding Marcus faded into nothingness while he watched his brother and Emilie. Never before had he been jealous of his younger brother, but Nate was looking at Emilie so.

  Marcus had no reason to be envious. None at all. In fact, he’d felt guilt for being the eldest and the one who would inherit the title.

  He enjoyed verbally jousting with his brother. He loved Nate. Loved him, but if his brother did not stop making eyes at Emilie, Marcus would take him aside after the evening ended and throttle him.

  Emilie was not another conquest. She was a country girl and not used to the soirées and light talk his brother excelled at.

  Both Nathaniel and Emilie went their separate ways without hesitation. Marcus exhaled. Perhaps they were both wiser than he.

  He went to his mother’s portrait now that the guests were beginning to leave and stared at it. It was a fine painting, but no different from any of the many others in the family gallery, except it was of his mother.

  ‘Lord Grayson.’ Instantly he recognised Emilie’s voice. He turned to her and saw that her mother was behind her.

  ‘It is an amazing picture,’ Emilie said.

  ‘True.’ In those seconds he meant it. His mother liked the painting. Everyone said it portrayed her well. And anything that could bring such raptness to Emilie fascinated him.

  ‘You do appreciate some art?’ she asked.

  ‘Occasionally.’ When it appeared before him as Emilie did.

  ‘Most everyone does, even if they don’t know it. Usually if they don’t like paintings or sculpture, it is because they haven’t seen the right work. Something that stirs them.’

  He took in the tendrils of her hair that trickled from her bun. He didn’t have to have a portrait painted of Emilie for her to remain in his mind. ‘I agree.’ His voice barely reached his ears.

  * * *

  Emilie was about to leave when she stopped and looked for her mother. Her mother stared at her as if Emilie had said something rude. Confusion filled her. She’d spoken nicely with Marcus.

  Surely it was not so terrible to have a conversation with a rake.

  Emilie gave Marcus a peek from under her lashes, surprised that he still watched her. He almost smiled, turned and went on his way.

  Her mother’s lips tightened and her fingers clasped Emilie’s arm. ‘Come along, Emilie Marie. The carriage is waiting.’

  Her mother marched ahead.

  The carriage ride would not be a smooth one and she had been on her best behaviour. Well, except for fetching her mother so many lemonades. And eavesdropping, but she’d not been detected. And the moments in the garden.

  Emilie hid her sigh. She was not tailored for society.

  They reached the carriage and her mother didn’t speak. Emilie was certain it wasn’t a good thing that her mother was so quiet.

  Settling on to the squabs, Emilie prepared for a recital of her errors to be repeated, but her mother remained silent.

  The carriage rumbled along, returning her mother and Emilie to her aunt Beatrice’s home.

  ‘Goodness, Emilie, Avondale’s heir was speaking to you at his mother’s portrait and you brushed him away as if he were of no consequence. You have no skills in courtship.’

  Emilie sighed inwardly and then her mind wandered to Marcus, but she forced herself to concentrate on his brother.

  Mr Westbrook had good qualities. They were hard to identify, but lurked under the surface, she was sure.

  At the soirée, she’d wandered by a group of men talking and couldn’t avoid overhearing their conversation. A gruff voice said if a man were to be lost in the desert, it would be good to be lost with Mr Westbrook because he would find the quickest path to the nearest woman and could do so without a smudge on his boots.

  Then another man claimed Westbrook’s sense of direction was sad because he could never locate a path back to the same woman twice. The other men had laughed. And one claimed Westbrook had his compass in the same place as all men carried one.

  ‘Emilie.’ Her mother snapped out the word, pulling Emilie’s concentration back into the carriage. ‘I must talk privately with you. That is why your father and sisters remained at home and we have been visiting London.’

  Emilie frowned, but she hid it before she turned to her mother, waiting. She’d known that her father had stayed home because her mother could be forceful about pushing Emilie into marriage and he preferred to stay out of the discussion.

  These motherly speeches always went on overly long and it was best to pretend interest.

  Her mother raised her chin. ‘It is not so horrible to want a family. Children. Sons...’ she raised a brow when she observed Emilie ‘...or daughters who marry.’

  ‘I’ve not found anyone who suits me.’

  Her mother pulled her wrap closer and gripped her fan.

  Emilie toed her slippers into the floor of the carriage, and let her stocking feet wiggle free while she rested her toes on the footwear.

  ‘Search about and uncover someone who suits.’ Her mother paused before raising her voice. ‘And put your slippers back on.’

  Emilie dared not meet her mother’s eyes and she pushed her feet back inside the shoes. Even her feet had to do as they were told.

  ‘Your father,’ the older woman continued, ‘and I are distressed at your stubbornness where men are concerned. It is not just your prospects you’re scuttling—you are not doing your younger sisters any favours either,’ she grumbled. ‘You are twenty-five. Twenty-five. You should have married years ago.’

  ‘Oh,’ Emilie mumbled and felt her lip tremble. She had so hoped to have her artistic talent noticed earlier. She must try harder. Elisabeth Vigée Le Brun had achieved fame with her portraits, but her father had encouraged her from such a young age.

  Emilie sighed. She should have been as dedicated, but, no, she had spent he
r youth learning nonsensical matters. Watercolours had hardly interested her at all until she discovered oils and then everything had burst into fulfilment for her. Even the watercolours became worthwhile.

  Emilie studied the dark outlines of the passing shops, wondering how a night-time drawing of them would be best accomplished.

  All she needed was watercolours, or oils and canvas. To paint was her greatest joy. To hide away somewhere with a brush and palette would be the best excitement of all.

  No one understood.

  When she irritated her sisters enough, they avoided her, which gave her a chance to sketch and enjoy her work.

  ‘You even discourage your sisters’ prospects.’

  ‘Mother, if a young man of worthiness approached any of my sisters, I would do all I could to encourage a courtship.’ Emilie crossed her arms. Her sisters were green girls. They couldn’t imagine the truth of men and needed her guidance.

  ‘You cannot fault me because no man among the ton is worthy of them.’ Emilie straightened her shoulders. ‘Except for timid Bertram Reynolds and Marthe ignores him.’

  ‘Dear.’ The seat creaked when her mother turned to Emilie. Her mother’s voice gave Emilie no option for refusal. ‘You must let them decide whether the man is worthy or not. Or me or your father. You are not to keep distressing their beaus. Don’t demand perfection in their suitors. At this point, we may consider a man of medium worthiness if he is willing for a match. You certainly should do the same. We do not aspire to be relegated to less-than-medium worthiness because the others have been scorned.’

  ‘A man of value would not let a few words of truth dispatch him,’ Emilie muttered.

  ‘I would not want my daughters to obtain a match with a man whose main quality is persistence.’

  Emilie felt the sharp rap of a fan against her fingers. Never a good sign when the fan came out.

  Her mother continued, voice rising. ‘Timid beaus can have many desirable attributes. Your father—’ she pointed the fan at Emilie ‘—was so timid, I near had to—’ She stopped, waved her hand and turned to the window. ‘Never mind. I had no trouble with your father’s reserved behaviour.’

  Emilie knew her mother and father cared too much for the state of marriage and too little about the state of men. They were happy. They didn’t observe the disastrous lives among them.

  ‘Mother, you must forget about a wedding for me. I shall never marry. I shall paint.’

  ‘Emilie Marie—you are not destined to paint. You are destined to have children. You are destined to maintain a household and serve your husband.’ She pressed her teeth into the words. ‘Forget your fanciful nonsense. No more paints will be purchased. I have told your father and he agrees with me. This trip is to locate a suitor for you. If there is no agreeable man, then I will acknowledge your spinsterhood. However, I will not accept the scent of turpentine in my home any more. The rooms reek of it. You will not be dabbling in oils there, indoors or out.’

  Emilie fell back against the seat, fingers closed tightly. ‘I must,’ she said.

  ‘No.’ Her mother turned to stare out of the window. ‘You will have to content yourself with pencils, and stitchery and gentle pursuits. There are people in the world, Emilie, besides artists. And it is time you found that out and put away that folly. This discussion is over.’

  * * *

  In bed that night, Emilie kept envisaging the colours on a palette. The joy of her hands as they mixed the colours. The scent of turpentine.

  She loved the scent of turpentine, no matter how unpleasant. It spoke of creation and love. She could not live without turpentine, aquamarine or burnt sienna.

  She sniffed. She sighed. Perhaps she was cursed.

  She would marry. She would discover a husband who would not notice if the money he’d allotted for clothing and jewellery was spent on the finer things, like easels or pigments.

  Catching a senseless male could not be difficult and she hadn’t noticed any unwilling to be led by a woman hinting at delights.

  Marriage would quiet all those titters her sisters made as they claimed Emilie was more suited to kiss her paintbrush than a husband.

  If she married, it would no longer matter how small her waist was or if she got a drop of burnt sienna—a drop so small as to be invisible—on the rug. A man surely wouldn’t notice if she received a briar scratch on her cheek from searching for perfect berries to examine their hues. Her mother had wanted to flog her—and goodness, the scratch faded away, but the drawing of the berries had been enlightening.

  Once she got the ring on her finger, she wouldn’t care what he did or where he went. Her goal was to be abandoned to her own ways. She knew she would have to survive kisses, but she would tolerate them, and knew she would have to do other things a wife should do, but she didn’t foresee that would take for ever. She would make sure it didn’t.

  Then she would devote herself to watercolours and oils.

  She must choose carefully.

  The trick was in locating a man who didn’t have the inclination to control his property. One who might leave his belongings lying about, so to speak, so his possessions could do as they were inclined.

  She would try hard to keep from overwhelming a nursery with children, but a little one would be dear to hold.

  Actually, she would be pleased to have several children, she realised. Le Brun reportedly had created the most beautiful self-portrait of herself with her daughter. It was said that the portrait reflected the love between the two of them.

  That would be a wonderful opportunity.

  Marriage could work, assuming it was not taken too seriously.

  Her husband must have money to buy all the paints she needed and an appearance to work well in oils.

  And handsome men didn’t dig beyond the surface. They had wandering attentions and admired beauty. After he had acquired her, an attractive man would tire of his wife. His eyes would flicker to the other women who fluttered near.

  She surmised the considerate thing to do would be to make certain he was a man who didn’t mind that he’d married a woman who had little use for him. If the things she’d overheard were true, it would be simple to locate such a man.

  She didn’t want a suitor who had a heart—she might break it. She didn’t want a suitor who might have motivations deeper than a bird flitting from one spot to the next.

  She examined her hand and decided a wedding ring would fit. Yes, she decided, she would accept a proposal. Now she had to decide on the date and the husband.

  A very unsuitable husband would be perfect.

  Chapter Three

  ‘Mama, Lady Cramson’s ball was divine last night and I am so anticipating Avondale’s birthday celebration.’ Emilie practised the words a dutiful daughter and a soon-to-be wife would speak. She was running out of occasions to get a proposal.

  ‘You’re attending? Of your own will? Another one? Are you considering marriage?’ She slanted her head back, studying Emilie.

  ‘Mother.’ She inhaled deeply. ‘I’m not intending to stay on the shelf. A betrothal might suit me better than I realised.’ She would get those paints back if it killed her. She had survived so far because she had been using her aunt’s paints in the night-time hours while her mother slept. And the lamplight was disastrous.

  Oils, however, those had to be mixed and she could not manage to get them by her mother when they returned home. Her mother was wise to Emilie’s ways.

  She grabbed Emilie by the shoulders and positioned them eye to eye. ‘You are not trying to trick me?’

  ‘I really should be married before the leaves turn their autumn shades.’

  ‘Emilie.’ Her mother frowned. ‘Perhaps you should go to Bath. The men of London society know you.’

  ‘They do.’ Emilie held her posture straight. ‘But they’re forgetful.’

  Her mot
her dropped her hands and turned to the candle on the table. She moved it away from the book, closer to a vase. ‘I have already written to your father about taking you to Bath in the autumn because the men there will be more unlikely to have heard tales of your awkward ways.’

  The words ran down Emilie’s spine like cold waste water from rinsing her brushes.

  Emilie squeezed her hands into fists. ‘You don’t anticipate a man will see me as attractive?’

  ‘Not the true you, Emilie. You must be giddy and flutter your eyes and act more ladylike. You must act demure.’

  ‘Of course, Mama. I love my new dress.’ She batted her eyes, then turned away.

  Emilie heard the clatter and turned back. Her mother was picking up the vase she’d knocked over. Fresh-cut roses lay on the table.

  ‘Not like that, Emilie.’ Her mother’s voice was soft. ‘You startled me.’

  ‘I am trying.’ Emilie briefly pressed her palm against her jaw and let her hand fall to her side as she examined her feet. ‘I have worn out a pair of slippers dancing, I’m sure.’

  Her mother turned to arrange the flowers in the vase. ‘Be aware, Emilie. Keep your mouth shut. Tuck your chin under. Do not discuss anything to do with sculpture. Keep your corset tight. Let him talk, while you admire his every word.’

  ‘I’ll do what I can,’ Emilie spoke softly and forced her chin high when she departed the room. How was one expected to learn how to bat one’s eyelashes? she wondered, shaking her head.

  She retired to her room, shut the door and, still holding the knob, stared at the new dress.

  The gown was lying on the bed.

  Walking forward, Emilie ran a delicate touch over the aquamarine silk enhanced by a second layer of even finer material flowing over it like a cloak of clear-spun sugar. She’d never owned a dress so feminine. So delicate. Exactly unlike her and exactly what she needed.

  After she married, she could use it to wipe her brushes with if she wanted. Well, perhaps not. She touched the silk again and pulled it to her. This was another woman’s masterpiece and she would guard it carefully and be thankful to have it.