Page 1 of A Deal with an Artistic Lady (Marriage Deals #2)

Lady Hannah Haworth paused, narrowing her eyes in concentration before whipping the paintbrush in a sudden bold stroke of white oil across the sky-blue background. She leaned back, tilting her head to consider it.

The clear morning light streamed in through the third-floor window of the Haworth family London townhouse, bouncing off the polished mahogany sideboard to illuminate the area where she had located her easel.

‘A couple more perhaps…’ she leaned in to inflict another stroke of oil upon the canvas, when she was interrupted.

‘What is it?’ It was the voice of Lady Sophia Camden – her closest friend and trusted confidante, who sat upon the upholstered burgundy velvet armchair just behind Hannah, with a china cup and saucer in her hands.

Hannah clutched a palm to her chest ‘Oh, Sophia – I had quite forgotten your presence! You must pardon my neglect…’

Sophia rearranged her skirts upon her chair, ‘Come now, Hannah. The two of us are quite accustomed to your social oversight when engaged in your art.’

Hannah smiled fondly at Sophia’s generosity and returned her attention to the canvas.

‘My question went unanswered, however?’ Sophia prompted, teasingly.

‘Oh-’ Hannah gathered her thoughts. ‘A cloud formation I noticed the other day upon my afternoon walk, occurring shortly before the rain arrived.’

Sophia frowned ‘Although the image depicts sunlight?’

‘You and I both know how rapidly the world can change,’ Hannah justified.

Sophia nodded, satisfied. ‘It’s beautiful. Your paintings always are. I enjoy how the seemingly innocuous elements often have a story to tell…’

‘I appreciate your interest, Sophia,’ Hannah turned to face her friend in an effort to express how genuinely she intended this statement. She placed her paintbrush delicately down and clapped her hands together.

‘Truly – if it were not for your enthusiasm and encouragement, I should be tinkering atrociously on a piano and taking far too many walks,’ Hannah elaborated.

‘Nonsense,’ Sophia scolded. ‘If you were not to paint, you would not be Lady Hannah Haworth. A veritable rainbow of oils runs in your blood!’

Hannah smiled sadly, looking down and shrugging.

‘Does your Mother still restrict your accessibility to materials?’ Sophia queried, identifying the cause of Hannah’s reflection.

Hannah’s eyes flicked upwards as she grabbed a small malleable metal tube that was scrunched and flattened.

‘This is the final application of yellow in my collection and I cannot fathom how to convince Mother that I need more supplies. She will not hear of it.’

‘Hmm. Yellow…no more wildflower meadows, perhaps?’ Sophia suggested playfully.

‘Nor seaside scenes,’ Hannah added.

‘Nor bananas!’ Sophia giggled and the two burst into laughter.

Settling back to her art piece, Hannah concluded.

‘She will not accept my passion. I am an aberration within the Haworth dynasty.’ She sighed as she swiped another horizontal cloud across the sky.

Ever since Hannah had first been introduced to paint by her Nanny, at a tender young age, Evelyn had complained of the mess. She would roll her eyes as her daughter appeared for dinner with green smudged hands and Hannah could recall one occasion when the Nanny received a terrible admonishment when the flick of a paintbrush had bypassed Hannah’s apron and dotted her white collar that had been slightly exposed. Her mother had ranted at the poor Nanny and Hannah felt appalling as it had really been her fault. Hannah did not paint for a few days after that but became listless and sad. Avoiding art did not suit her – she needed it like flowers needed the rain.

It was not only the mess that Evelyn despised. As Hannah grew, she learned not to mention her love of painting to her mother’s friends. It seemed as a four-year-old, her hobby was celebrated by their friends, who commented how adorable and sweet it was. However, as she grew into her teenage years, the reception to her favourite pastime was colder; mention of it made people a little shifty. Hannah could never understand why, but she was perceptive and learned that it was something to be ashamed of; something she was expected to hide.

Hannah would always remember a time on a summer holiday by the seaside when a man sat along a path with an easel and paints. He wore rags and had dirt on his face and, grabbing her hand to walk along a little faster, Hannah’s mother had declared ‘You see, Hannah? Those are the sort of people who paint!’

Sophia cocked her head to one side, taking in the varying shades of green of the large blades of grass and the bright red poppies scattered about overhead.

‘May I pose a question?’

‘Always,’ Hannah confirmed.

‘Why do I feel as though I am lying in the grass?’

Hannah laughed and turned fully around on her stool to face Sophia.

‘My interpretation of the meadow is as I saw it the other day, laying down in the field – the thick stalks above my head, the sky far beyond that. Imagine how it might appear to a field mouse. This perspective is far more interesting to me than from the height of a mere man overlooking the meadow as one might expect it to be depicted.’

‘It’s terribly clever,’ Sophia blinked, impressed.

‘I’m grateful that you consider it so,’ Hannah smiled shyly.

‘You are bold on the canvas. Where is that boldness in the dinner conversations or the ballroom?’ Sophia teased her friend.

Hannah responded only with a raised eyebrow before turning back to her easel.

‘Speaking of bold personalities, I took afternoon tea with my cousin yesterday afternoon,’ Sophia continued.

‘With Nathaniel?’ Hannah clarified. She had been fond of Nathaniel since they had been children together, naturally mixing in mutual circles of friends and acquaintances.

‘Indeed,’ Sophia confirmed. ‘We dined together. You wouldn’t believe the art work he has procured!’

This piqued Hannah’s interest – she turned in her seat to give Sophia her full attention.

‘What does he have?’

Sophia relished being centre-stage, breathing deeply, her chest rising to match the proud smile upon her face, she announced;

‘An original Sir Thomas Lawrence portrait!’

‘You jest with me!’ Hannah squawked, almost falling from her stool.

Sophia shook her head rapidly back and forth causing the ringlets around her face to bob about, her lips in an amused pout and her eyes animated and bright.

‘An original Sir Thomas Lawrence!?’ Hannah exclaimed.

‘He invited me to see it one day next week – you must come along. I’ll have my maid contact his steward.’

‘Please do. I should be captivated to see it!’

‘Very well. Nathaniel also should be enchanted to see you, Hannah.’

Hannah paused at this, uncertain as to whether there was an underlying insinuation in her friend’s comment, but not deciding to interpret it straightforwardly. She smiled and nodded curtly, just once before returning once again to her easel.

Content to be in the presence of her friend, Sophia calmly watched each stroke of Hannah’s brush. It had been this way since they had been children – Hannah would be lost in her creation and Sophia was happy to witness the magic as it developed. For any other morning caller, Hannah would be obliged to step away from the canvas; abandon the oils, and engage her full attention upon her guest; only a discreet embroidery may be permitted in her hand if anything at all. But she knew that Sophia neither expected nor appreciated this. To the contrary, she had told Hannah on numerous occasions that simply watching her paint was a form of therapy that calmed her soul. Therefore, it was a mutual symbiosis they experienced as they sat in the bright drawing room, indulging in the peace.

Both Hannah and Sophia bristled as they heard the clomp of forthright footsteps approaching the room from the other side of the door, on the wooden-floored corridor. This was not the sound of a meek maid attending to some duty nor of the valet delivering a message. There was no doubt in their minds who the footsteps belonged to and in response, they both took a sharp breath and sat up a little straighter.

The solid wooden door flew open without a knock of announcement and revealed the statuesque figure of Marchioness Evelyn Haworth. She stood with an arm on either side of the door frame, observing the scene with her eyes before taking a deep breath of frustration.

‘Hannah Elizabeth Haworth!’

She’d used her full name. Hannah felt a rhythm of beating panic begin to drum in her chest.

‘Painting!?’ Evelyn shrieked in consternation.

Hannah narrowed her eyes in a gesture of acquiescence and apology.

Evelyn looked over to Sophia for solidarity but Sophia simply raised her eyebrows and shrugged, signalling that she didn’t recognise there to be a problem.

‘Have we not engaged in this conversation almost daily?’ Evelyn directed at her daughter. ‘That I must perpetually remind you of your impending debut and warn against this fanciful time-wasting?’

Hannah exchanged a glance of foreboding with Sophia. When her Mother spoke to her with such irritability, she felt the age of nine and not her fully-grown nineteen.

‘Mother, I regret that you interpret my creativity as tarrying. However, I must protest that all preparations for my debut are complete. Lucy has hung up my gown. She practised my hair, including the fitting of my tiara, which she stated was impeccable. I cannot imagine one more thing outstanding…’

‘Your dancing, Hannah,’ Evelyn asserted. ‘Truly, Sophia – have you ever seen one so inelegant as Hannah in the ballroom?’

Sophia repressed a smirk and flicked her eyes up at her friend apologetically. Hannah rolled her eyes in mock response.

‘I can dance gracefully, Mother, and I can engage in eloquent discussions as well. However when the two are not exclusive and one is expected to blend these challenging activities into one seamless motion, I find synchronicity to be compromised,’ Hannah volunteered in admission.

Sophia giggled into the palm of her hand, much to Evelyn’s disapproval.

‘You girls do not take this business seriously. But it is a serious business and I insist it must be taken so.’

Evelyn’s eyes turned between the two of them, checking if either one of them had been impacted by her ferocity. Sophia looked amused. Hannah looked crestfallen.

‘What is this painting, anyway?’ Evelyn crossed the long room in just three assertive strides and stood before the canvas with Hannah shrinking back; her shoulders hunched and eyes averted.

Her Mother never asked to see her artwork. Perhaps, Hannah conceded, this was why she regarded it with such resentment and considered it a waste of her daughter’s time – because she had never taken the opportunity to appreciate Hannah’s talent. Perhaps, Hannah wondered, if she were to be impressed by her work, she might be a little more compassionate when Hannah invested her energy in it?

There was a weighted, tense pause as Evelyn scrutinized the piece. Hannah remained staring at the floor and Sophia’s eyes widened at the potential the moment held…

‘Why do I feel as though I am lying in the grass?’ Evelyn broke the silence.

‘Because….I was lying in the grass…’ Hannah began, instantly realising this was not an intelligent response to deliver to the Marchioness.

As Hannah looked up, her Mother’s fiery eyes bore into her.

‘ Children lie in the grass, Hannah! You are a Lady! Ladies do not lie in the grass!’

Hannah could hear Sophia snigger again at the conversation, but for her, it felt the opposite of comical.

‘I was simply being artistic…’ Hannah attempted to justify her actions.

‘Do not be artistic! Be Ladylike! Be elegant, educated, eloquent, and serene.’

Hannah dropped her eyes back to the floor, thinking of all the things that she was not. Sophia’s laughter had abruptly stopped.

‘Why can’t you be more like your sister?’ Evelyn seethed under her breath as she turned to leave the room.

Hannah bit on her cheek inside her mouth as tears threatened at her eyes.

Evelyn paused at the door and turned back, her voice softer now. She took a deep breath.

‘You’re a good girl, Hannah but – please pack away your materials and have Lucy help you practise coordination of dancing and civil pleasantries.’

Hannah nodded without looking up at her Mother. Evelyn seemed to hang there in a moment of regret.

‘Thank you,’ she added curtly and left, closing the door behind her.

Hannah looked up at her painting and thought how foolish she was for having thought the perspective of the grass was innovative. It was preposterous for her to dream of her art being noticed for its eclecticism. She began to replace the tubes of paint in the polished wooden box she cherished, packing away her dreams where nobody could see them.

***

His Grace, Caleb Exley, Duke of Montwood, released a frustrated sigh as he stood waiting in the library of his London town-house. Absent-mindedly, he ran a finger along the leather-bound volumes packed into the shelves. Many belonged to his late Father, and he cherished those but most were his own and he treasured those too. It was natural that he should wander to the library to wait for his Mother and sister to be ready – the place seemed to draw him and they would know to find him there.

There were so many things he should be doing with his time – he needed to converse with his valet to arrange a carriage for the philosophy presentation he was due to attend early the next day. As he thought of this, he recalled the requirement to speak with the gardener regarding maintaining the lake on the southern edge of the Montwood Estate and checking the trees in the copse for blight. He sighed again at the prospect of the inconvenient evening ahead when he would much prefer to be advancing on his list of duties.

Caleb halted at a book with a burgundy spine – a favourite he intended to re-read; ‘Castle Rackrent’. Flipping through a couple of pages, he indulged in the musty scent of paper and leather. His fingertips were dry from the softness of the book and as he replaced it on the shelf, aligning it with other volumes of the same stature, the door to the library suddenly opened, blowing in a chill of air from the corridor. Caleb suppressed an ironic smirk as it struck him how paradoxical it was that they should be attending a party when he could instantly feel the weight of his Mother’s mood, which depicted that of somebody attending a funeral.

Caleb turned to see his Mother, Lady Anne Exley, the Duchess of Montwood, standing in the doorway, clutching a decorative bejewelled bag in both hands at her waist.

‘The Barouche-Landau is waiting,’ her shrill voice cut through the comforting stillness of the library.

‘As am I,’ Caleb bowed his head.

‘Come, then,’ Anne stood aside, holding the door expectantly for her son, who lowered his head and drew a deep breath before taking a final look at the bookshelf and striding decisively toward the door.

‘Such reluctance,’ Anne observed as Caleb held the door for her to pass through.

Caleb chose not to respond; silence was often his preference.

‘Lady Felicity requested an evening call. I was devastated in my obligation to decline,’ Anne declared, pouting somewhat.

Her heels clicked on the marble hallway as they walked side by side. Her footsteps echoed up into the stairwell as they passed the sweeping banisters.

‘I am quite sure there will be plentiful opportunities for Lady Felicity to visit,’ Caleb placated his Mother’s trifling.

She shot him a sideways glance, disappointed that – as usual – he would not rise to her baiting.

‘Such a cold evening, though,’ she blustered, ‘I must request Sally retrieve my fur. Really, how I would rather be restful by the fire,’ she attempted once again to agitate some reaction from him.

‘Fear not, the ballroom for certain will be densely populated - we can trust there will be a resulting warm environment,’ Caleb furrowed his brow, working hard to shield his irritation.

Anne clicked her tongue and turned abruptly to face Caleb, her jewellery clanging together as she did so. Caleb stopped walking and turned to her, preparing a stoic expression, anticipating her onslaught.

‘Caleb, it is not mandatory to attend.’

‘Mother, it is .’

‘You do not wish to attend,’ she insisted.

Caleb paused, breathing deeply. He was much taller than his mother and looked down his nose haughtily at her before responding.

‘Mother, we are attending.’

Caleb continued to walk toward the main entrance hallway and Anne trotted slightly after him, appealing to the weakness she swore she had identified in his resolve.

‘Alternative prospects have been presented to you, Caleb. If you would only consider-’

Caleb turned rapidly.

‘It was Father’s wish and I will honour his request.’ He spoke firmly with the intention of closing the conversation, but Anne pressed further.

‘Your Father was a stubborn man,’ Anne began.

‘May he rest in peace,’ Caleb added, knowing his Mother would not deem to waste her breath uttering it.

‘He would fixate on fancies, Caleb. I cannot imagine how he came to preoccupy himself with the Haworth family and why he might effectuate agreement on such an ill-advised union,’ she continued.

‘Lord Vincent Haworth is a good man,’ Caleb asserted.

‘I daresay the gamekeeper at Montwood is a good man – I would not have you marry his daughter!’ Anne was losing her composure and a blush rose upon her cheeks.

‘Mother, with respect, I will not query my Father’s intention. He would have me marry Lady Hannah Haworth and it shall be so.’

Anne took an intricately patterned fan from her small bag and began to flit it lazily around her face in a gesture of nonchalance.

‘Lady Lucinda Fairfax is a far superior match. Her debut season, Caleb, and she is appearing radiant with potential…’

‘Mother, I thought you were cold?’ Caleb frowned at the fan.

Anne’s eyes flicked from the fan to his face, challenging him.

‘You risk loosening your headdress with such agitation,’ Caleb warned, not actually caring one bit about her turban.

His distraction technique was successful, as she instantly stopped fanning herself. ‘Sally!’ she shrieked down the corridor and the scurrying footsteps of her long-suffering lady’s maid could be heard farther off down the hall.

Caleb nodded curtly just once and advised ‘I shall gather Emmeline.’

With that, a cheerful gust of energy whisked its way down the staircase, in the form of Caleb’s younger sister, Lady Emmeline Exley.

‘Am I exquisite?’ she laughed as she arrived on the bottom step and performed a twirl in her Grecian style pastel pink dress. It flowed out around her in a swirl, following her giggles.

‘Simply divine, dear sister,’ Caleb allowed a small smile to tweak the corners of his lips. His smiles were reserved exclusively for his sweet sibling, who seemed perpetually predisposed to infuse levity into any situation.

‘Where is Mother?’ Emmeline completed her twirling and Caleb, noticing how she had unbalanced herself slightly, held out an arm for her to steady herself.

She held on to his forearm gratefully and leaned in with a whisper.

‘Has she been stomping in the vein of a child, twiddling her pearls in the fashion of an impatient queen, or fanning herself in the manner of one who is entirely superior to the predicament laid before her?’

Caleb’s mouth twitched in amusement and he cleared his throat before answering ‘Fanning.’

‘We cannot be saved now!’ Emmeline dramatically threw the back of her palm to her forehead in jest. ‘Immediately to the capital gesture of objection! Brother, I would not stand in your coat-tails for all of Montwood Estate!’

‘How fortunate for you then, to be born a girl,’ he replied sardonically, then stilled as he considered this for the possibly first time. How different his life would have been, had he not been born a boy and not inherited such a wealth of responsibility.

Upon hearing his Mother’s footsteps returning from having retrieved her fur, he began walking towards the front entrance where the footmen stood, awaiting their attendance.

‘Your Grace,’ the footmen both bowed as he approached. Caleb nodded to them both in greeting and turned to ensure his family was following.

Anne fussed with the fur about her neck.

‘That girl Sally adorned me incorrectly. It is too much puffed up at my neck. I shall be uncomfortable and stifled for the entirety of the journey,’ she complained.

‘At least it is not far, Mother…’ Caleb placated her, standing by to allow her to pass.

‘And you have your fan…’ Emmeline added sarcastically as she shot her brother a cheeky grin. Emmeline often managed to undermine her Mother in a way only she and Caleb recognised. Anne would be furious if she made it her business to take note of her daughter’s comments – it worked in Emmeline’s favour that her Mother disregarded her so.

‘I hear she paints ,’ Anne stopped in the doorway, causing the footmen to turn back from their preliminary steps toward the waiting carriage. They were primed to open the doors and assist the ladies inside but upon realising the Duchess still had business inside the house, resumed their places by the door.

Caleb furrowed his brow, feigning ignorance.

‘Of whom do you speak, Mother?’

‘Of the girl, of course,’ Anne replied haughtily.

‘Sally?’ Emmeline interjected, playing along with Caleb’s game.

‘Heavens,’ Anne’s face contorted in impatience. ‘Lady Hannah Haworth. I believe it is obvious whom I speak of. She paints.’ Anne spat the last word with an equal measure of distaste had she been claiming the Lady danced in her underwear.

‘Does she?’ Caleb posed it as a rhetorical question, but as his gaze spun over the reception hall, he caught a brief glimpse of his reflection in an ornate gilt-framed mirror hung upon the wall. His face betrayed the apprehension he thought he had successfully masked. His pallor was slightly grey, his green eyes darkened by his heavy set brows bearing down, his jaw tense and pulsing as he considered this woman he was contracted to take as his wife.

At the very least he had hoped she would be mild and passive. He could keep her comfortable and engage minimally. She was a Painter – this inspired in Caleb’s mind somebody more spirited; a woman with more to say and more likelihood to push boundaries. He had to admit to himself that this filled him with a sense of trepidation he had not previously entertained.

His beloved father had made this arrangement with Lord Vincent Haworth years back. It had apparently begun as a business transaction which developed into a friendship. There was some vague situation -of which the details had not been dispensed to Caleb -where his father had gotten into some sort of a business difficulty and Lord Haworth had put his own reputation at stake to help the Duke out. It had happily been neatly rectified – which was, Caleb supposed, the reason he had not been made privy to details. The notion remained, however. Lord Haworth had saved his father by some generosity of spirit and so when the Haworths had a daughter and Caleb was just ten, the Duke had suggested the match and the two men shook on it.

Loving and respecting his father as he did, Caleb had not even considered the potential to back out of the arrangement. He was aware that he could . It would be relatively effortless. A simple conversation with Lord Haworth to apologise and gracefully bow out. Nobody else need ever know and Caleb could continue his life independently; surrounded by books and learning and with no distraction from his ducal duties. This would be his preference.

However, his father had made a promise and he had been taken from them so suddenly and catastrophically that there was no opportunity to visit these sorts of conversations. Caleb could not comprehend a world where he went against his father’s wishes having never had the chance to request his approval. Caleb’s upcoming nuptials were set in stone, as far as he was aware. Whether or not Lady Hannah Haworth was appealing to him, he would be marrying her.

Anne identified his hesitation and pounced upon it.

‘Lady Lucinda Fairfax is quite the pianist, did I mention? She played beautifully when last we dined together at the Fairfax residence. I daresay she does not paint…’ Anne caustically goaded.

Caleb gestured the ladies toward the Barouche-Landau, in the hope of ending the conversation. Emmeline took his cue and nodded for her Mother to pass through the entrance first, which she did, once she had pointedly raised her eyebrows at her son.

‘Perhaps Lady Lucinda Fairfax lacks the creative imagination…’ Emmeline said under her breath for Caleb’s ears only. He smiled his appreciation at his sister as he allowed her past him.

Caleb paused before exiting the town-house himself, taking one final glance in the mirror. He fixed his eyes determinedly and lifted his chin. Taking a deep breath, he strode toward the coach that awaited him.