by Liz Tyner
The light reflected the softening of her features as she absorbed his words. ‘Paint? Truly?’
A blink gave her the assurance of his promise.
‘I suppose...’ her words started slowly ‘...that I am to be married.’ Shoulders arched, she touched her palms together. ‘Quickly. As I have missed my landscapes so.’
She skimmed the room, observing the other women who’d moved in and made a cluster around them. She repositioned herself at his side. ‘It is as if the statues in Italy inspired his form. Is he not the most pleasing man?’
Marcus heard approval from every woman in the room.
‘Oh, heavens, no,’ a masculine voice inserted, sauntering in from the hallway. Nathaniel. ‘I’m an inch taller than him and it was all put to good use.’
Nathaniel bowed to Emilie. ‘So, my Amelia has a new sweetheart.’
Marcus stared at his brother. ‘We are deeply in love.’
‘Ah, deeply.’ Nathaniel patted a hand at his heart. Tears glistened, but not tears of sadness. ‘I feel I should be the one angry.’ He sniffed, and the corners of his mouth proved he wasn’t crying. ‘As you have stolen my sweeting right from under my nose. I knew something was going on, I could not figure out what you were up to. I returned to find out.’
‘Whose name is on the special licence?’ Beatrice asked.
‘Not mine.’ Nathaniel raised both hands briefly, palms out. Then ambled over to the paperwork, picked up the licence, read it and looked around. ‘Who is Emilie Marie Catesby?’
Marcus took one stride and snapped the paper out of his brother’s hand. ‘No one you know.’ Then he peered at Emilie while speaking to Nathaniel. ‘I’d like to introduce you to the future Lady Grayson.’
‘Is this not the event of the Season?’ one of Lady Semple’s friends concluded. ‘And such a coincidence he had the licence prepared.’ She laughed. ‘And we were invited.’
‘They are deeply devoted to each other,’ Lady Semple said. ‘And have secretly been meeting for years. Years.’
Marcus’s head swivelled to her.
‘Well.’ Lady Beatrice’s bracelet jangled as she spoke. ‘All those nights she stayed with me, many, many nights, I strongly suspect Lord Grayson was collecting her by the back entrance.’
‘So romantic,’ one of the ladies said. ‘I foresee a long and happy marriage.’
Emilie agreed. ‘As do I. With much painting as Lord Grayson appreciates my art.’
‘Of course,’ Marcus said, supposing he appreciated it as much as any man did who could not see the colours of it and found it tedious.
Chapter Nine
She stole a glimpse at him and noticed the line of his forehead. He had a perfect profile. His nose sloped gently. His nostrils were not prominent. The chin was proportioned well. Even his earlobes would be good to sketch.
She stared at his earlobe. Memorising. Such perfection. She wondered if the other ear matched as perfectly as it must. Even if it didn’t, she could always draw him from this side.
She studied Marcus’s skin—gauging the hue variations. She could see the faint touch of paleness where he had shaved, mixed with the dark hint of stubble beneath the skin. The crease at the side of his mouth that hadn’t been there in the night. That would not do. He must not ruin his appearance.
He turned to her and destroyed the evenness of his features. His eyes narrowed.
She realised everyone was silent. Even the cleric.
She faced the cleric. His eyebrows were raised and he examined her as if he awaited something. He said slowly, ‘Do you take this man...?’
‘Of course,’ she insisted, loudly. ‘Of course I do.’
How could anyone who’d ever studied Marcus’s features ask such a question?
The cleric let out a sigh and continued. He spoke much too rapidly. And, she noticed a bead of sweat on his brow. The poor man was taking this much too gravely.
She did hope he would hurry. She’d been awake until encountering Marcus, then everyone had had to gather—except her father who couldn’t travel quickly enough to be there for the wedding, but she hoped he would arrive for the breakfast.
She’d never been awake until dawn, but Marcus had insisted they wait on Avondale and he’d claimed his father would take his time arriving. He’d been correct.
Her mother was dazed.
Beatrice had sketched a caricature of Emilie, her mother and Marcus before the wedding and everyone had their arms folded across their chests.
Marcus’s mother had sent a note declining to attend, saying she must scurry to provide the best wedding breakfast possible and would welcome the new couple.
Once Marcus’s father had arrived, there had been few greetings as Marcus had put everyone in their places and told the cleric to begin.
Marcus was organised. After they’d met at Hatchards, he’d known he wanted to ask her to marry him and he’d immediately left for the special licence.
* * *
Marcus heard not a stir. He felt the tension of the moment had invaded the room when Emilie was asked if she would take him for her husband.
When she had not answered the question, he had been certain she was going to reject the marriage. She was going to announce to one and all that she was going to live alone the rest of her days.
He had turned to her, expecting a demon in a woman’s dress, and instead she had been intently staring at him, lips parted. A dazed look on her face. Then she had viewed the poor cleric as if he were addled to question whether she planned to marry.
Chairs and feet shuffled behind him, along with gentle snores from one of Lady Semple’s friends. Several guests sighed and he might have done the same.
All he wished for in that instant was a bottle of wine, laughing lips and gentle arms to hold him and he felt that he had taken all those from himself, except the wine. And that was what he wanted least, but even now that would be welcome.
The floor of the sitting room should have opened and swallowed him. Or, the wine he had taken before she arrived would have put him into a deep sleep. But the biggest occurrence, he supposed, to nudge him into matrimony, was when Emilie had once suggested they duel at dawn.
The clock struck six as the cleric pronounced them married.
One of Lady Semple’s friends sniffled. ‘So lovely,’ he heard her say. ‘And I helped bring them together.’
Nathaniel began waving the group to the door. ‘Let us be on our way and everyone is invited to the breakfast. Eleven? Mother is arranging it now and sending for friends and relatives far and wide. Assuming the world is still here, we’ll meet then.’
Everyone went their separate ways, then Nathaniel returned. ‘Mother insists my help is needed and Father is rushing to make sure he gets the wedding breakfast of his dreams. You’ve placed a strain on him, big brother, but we Westbrooks are up to the task. Farewell to you both. I’m going to help Mother now. I’ll fetch my clothing later so I can stay with Mother after the wedding so the two of you may get better acquainted.’
He thumped his brow with the heel of his palm. ‘Blast it, I forgot. I forgot you two have been meeting secretly for years right under my nose in this house and all over London and it very much escaped me.’ He chortled, leaving them alone.
‘It’s the two of us now, Emilie, for the rest of our lives.’ Marcus stood in front of her.
‘Us?’ She rubbed one side of her neck, then the other. Then her shoulders wavered. ‘Us? Just us?’ She turned away, but kept her gaze on him. ‘You make that sound like a rather seriously long period.’
He put both hands out to hold her steady. ‘I fear it will be. I hope it will be.’
‘Us and art.’
Marcus remained silent.
‘But you have no trouble with my painting?’
‘None whatsoever.’ He thrust away the unspoken concerns that
flared inside him.
Her chest expanded as she inhaled. Tendrils of hair hung loose. ‘Marcus, you are the best husband I could ever aspire to. But, I wonder if you can be happy?’
He touched a kiss on her forehead. ‘I fear only one of us can be at a time.’
‘I’m not very good at taking turns,’ she said.
‘Neither am I.’
‘I’m not worried about it. You are the absolute most perfect husband for me, Marcus. I know that. So far, I have found marriage to be all I expected.’ Emilie wriggled as if trying to squirm out from her uncomfortable dress.
‘It would not take much for it to be all I expected.’
Then he moved his hands to her and held her face as he put his mouth against hers and dipped his tongue inside and tasted her. One would imagine only words of love from those lips.
She softened.
He held himself back from her and used one finger to trace her nose and the outline of her lips, and used the feeling to calm his own stormy emotions. ‘Emilie. What have we done?’
Her eyes were wide, her mouth still open from his kiss.
‘We simply married. It’s not as if I intend to cause you grief, Marcus. I plan to be a perfect spouse.’ She paused. ‘Especially as you are of the same mind that my painting must come first. I’ll get moved into your residence and direct which things I need to be moved here.’
She patted her hands together. ‘I plan to be as organised as you are, Marcus.’
* * *
Emilie tried to control the fear that kept wanting to creep in and tell her that she had done a foolish thing.
In fact, Marcus was a near-perfect man. He understood her need to paint and that it would always come first, and he didn’t seem to mind at all.
She realised they were alone and he was her husband and there were certain liberties she should grant him, but he had a gift for removing gloves and a remarkably good form. ‘I could never have married anyone if he were not as eye-catching as you are.’
‘I appreciate your honesty.’ His tone didn’t match his words.
‘You must not frown so.’ She reached up to smooth the lines he’d made beside his eyes. That would not do in a portrait, nevertheless, it could on Marcus. She doubted anyone could render an unpleasing likeness of him.
He rested his forehead against hers, his hands gently at her waist as he pulled her softly against him and his palms moved slowly against her back, caressing, moulding her.
‘Soon, I must do some shopping.’
‘What must you purchase?’ he whispered.
‘A new portfolio. Or several.’ She sighed into his shoulder. ‘I filled one to the edges, and I still have the family book and the sketchbook. Mother will not let me have such a simple purchase.’
He felt her fingertips at his sides and a tiny pull as she tugged at his waist. ‘Marcus. I must draw subjects several times before I absorb them. And I thought to get a new portfolio for the flowers of summer.’
‘Is that all you think of, Emilie?’
‘Marcus, you cannot know how much I ache for my work.’
He took a finger and traced the outline of her lower lip, watching the contrast of his skin against hers. The fullness of her lips entranced him. ‘It must feel so lonely inside. Not to have what you need most.’
‘Incredibly.’ She turned. ‘My mother burned one portfolio and would not even let me purchase a new sketchbook. I’m sure you understand. It is like wanting the taste of a confection and you can see it, and it’s right in front of you, but you cannot taste it.’
He pushed the words out of his mouth. ‘I have no idea what that would be like.’
‘Well, I must get my clothing some time today, meet you for the wedding breakfast, then I plan afterwards to buy new supplies.’ She yawned. ‘Do you mind if I rest on your sofa for a few moments? I’ve never been awake this long into the morning.’
‘We don’t have a guest room. There isn’t a bedroom unused at present. You may use my bed.’
She hesitated and he saw the realisation blast into her of what they had done. She resembled a man who’d just been shown the noose he would be wearing.
He studied her and increased the distance between them, reassuring her with the separation.
‘I’ll take Nathaniel’s room for now. Fetch what you need.’
She stilled except for a flutter of her bodice as her chest rose. ‘When I am shopping for the books, would you like for me to select any materials for you?’
‘I have no talent for it. The colours would not work out as needed.’
‘It’s a blessing few are truly graced with. That would be far too much to aspire to in one man.’
* * *
She moved to the sofa, but didn’t sit. The wedding night concerned her, but if everyone else managed, she would, too. It was a shame she could not wear gloves in bed because Marcus had a masterful method of removing them.
She imagined a drawing of her gloves draped over the arm of a chair. Or perhaps...dare she do it? In Marcus’s hand.
That would be so decadent. So indecent. So perfect.
Touching where the pulse beat in her neck, she examined Marcus.
‘I can request my mother send the things I need to me. I’m not sleepy after all.’
‘You can use the carriage and get the purchases tomorrow. All you need. Or you can send a maid for them,’ he said. ‘But we shall be at my father’s for the breakfast.’
‘I must thank you again. You have made me complete. I will never again have to worry about anyone coming between me and my talent.’ Her sisters would be so envious. And her mother would be preening more than any peahen. ‘My parents will be so happy not to concern themselves about me any more and that I have a place of my own to establish and display my endeavours.’
‘And you will be happiest of all.’
He moved even further from her reach, a determined look to his profile. ‘You have exactly what you searched for.’
He assessed her and she steadied herself by grasping the sofa. She’d never been examined so thoroughly and it wasn’t as if he were judging her, but trying to see into her soul.
‘I’ll provide for you. But never expect me to understand the hues and colours. Long ago, I discovered that I can’t comprehend pigments the same as some.’ Once more he assessed her. ‘I’ve accepted it. Or will.’
Chapter Ten
As the others began to move to the wedding breakfast tables, Marcus saw Avondale speaking with Mr Catesby. Her father leaned on a cane and everyone chatted pleasantly, although the cleric appeared to be apologising and Avondale’s smile didn’t fully reach his lips.
His mother had told him that she’d been afraid Emilie might not bear up well under the joy of the day and, from the lines at his mother’s mouth, she wasn’t bearing up well either.
Nathaniel appeared beside Marcus, sympathetic, and he slapped his brother on the back. ‘What a momentous day. For the two of you. Much like any other for me, except... I did attend a joyous occasion earlier and I have the opportunity to welcome a new sister, whom I hear from all quarters you have been courting right in front of me. You cannot imagine the number of times I’ve let it slip I was in on the secret.’
‘Watch your words,’ Marcus said.
‘I welcome my dear sister into the family. She is after my own heart as well.’
‘He keeps it under the cupboard in the kitchen,’ Marcus said to Emilie. ‘So it will not get damaged.’
‘Farewell and, to both of you, my best wishes,’ Nathaniel said and ambled away.
Marcus met her gaze and he saw past the innocence to something different beyond. Lady Semple had said Emilie hadn’t ever had a beau or ever involved her heart with a suitor.
He’d once concluded himself desperately in love with a lively actress, only to lose interest when she
performed in a play as a sorceress. Then he realised he could not trust his heart. But now he suspected that he had been unwise to trust his intellect as well, as Emilie was less suited to marriage than anyone he knew.
He didn’t know what he truly felt about Emilie, but marrying her should straighten out his thoughts on that. At the moment he wasn’t sure he liked her very much, but she’d always been a sparkle of brightness when other women had been the same shades of drab.
But now he needed to protect her and when he saw the way her lips turned up, he realised he would be protecting both of them. Him, from her. And her, from herself.
Marcus noticed his father, features immobile, watching them. He’d only grumbled a greeting to them at the wedding and been the first to leave.
His father should officially welcome her into the family. Particularly with the many relatives and guests present.
He took her hand, tucked it around his arm. ‘Emilie, last night was your turn to be happy. Today, it is mine.’
‘I will try to assist,’ she said.
When she glanced at him, the tiredness he saw softened his heart. This could not have been easy for her. And to be forced into a mould she didn’t fit would feel disastrous. Being in a mould that fit wasn’t always grand.
‘I’ll do my best to convince everyone I will be the perfect woman for you. I owe you that, Marcus, and I will rise to the task.’
‘I appreciate that.’
‘Lead the way.’ She squared her shoulders like Boudicca of old, then exaggerated a wilt of demureness. ‘I will follow and make you proud.’
‘Then let us meet my father together. He’s watching us. Avondale does not like to be overlooked and you will have a difficult time meeting his standards. I suggest you imagine yourself a Lady Macbeth.’
‘I liked that play.’ She touched his arm, then wove her hand in, connecting them, and sending an awareness of her into him. ‘Lead me to him. I am certain Lady Macbeth is an easy role to play.’ Then she patted his arm with her other hand, bringing them even closer. ‘But I shall be your fair Juliet.’
