Page 3 of Memories Made At Midnight (Chronicles of the Westbrook Brides #9)

Sussex Square-Kempton

Brighton, England

AUGUST 1828 ~ QUARTER TO NOON

P aintbrush and palette in hand, Cassius Westbrook retreated six paces, and head cocked, examined the stormy seascape he’d been working on with a critical eye. The lighting still wasn’t quite right. It didn’t capture the power and majesty of the churning ocean and wrathful sky at dawn.

He swung his attention to the large window looking out onto the glittering Atlantic Ocean. This summer day, the waves caressed the pebbled shoreline rather than angrily bludgeoning the beach, and the clear azure sky soothed the spirit rather than stirring dread.

Sighing, he slid the paintbrush into a jar of turpentine.

The painting would have to await his return. Landscapes and genre art were his passion, but commissioned portraits, sketches, and the occasional holy painting for a chapel or church paid his bills.

Not that he didn’t enjoy painting portraits, for he did.

However, portraits were meant to leave a lasting, positive impression. Those sitting for the reproduction of their likenesses wore their finest clothing and jewels, made certain not a hair was out of place, arranged their features into pleasant miens, and chose flattering settings to enhance their likeness and preserve their immortality.

Genre paintings, illustrating scenes and individuals from daily life, captured humanity in its true form—be it beautiful, unattractive, magnificent, impoverished, joyful, or sorrowful. These compositions offered an endless variety of subjects, freezing a moment in history for future generations to explore, analyze, learn from, and appreciate.

After Constanza’s betrayal, he’d honestly feared he’d never be able to paint again, but a few months ago, the desire to create came roaring back with a vengeance.

Thank God, for he didn’t know what he’d have done with his life if he couldn’t be an artist.

He slipped off his paint-stained smock, and after hanging it on a nearby hook, gave the stormy seascape a final critical glance. Tomorrow morning, he’d give it another go. With a shrug, he scratched his nose and made for his bedchamber upstairs.

Passing through his studio, he roved his gaze over the dozen or so finished paintings.

He needed twenty for the show scheduled in London next spring.

A show Cassius was certain his father had arranged via his many influential connections, even though Cassius had told the duke time and again, that he wanted to earn his success on his merit.

However, Father had reminded Cassius that he was but one of five young artists featured, and the committee had made the selections without the Duke of Latham’s influence. Cassius still wasn’t convinced that was truly the case. Nonetheless, he wasn’t foolish enough to refuse the exposure the British Institution would provide him.

As he ascended the time-worn stairs, he unbuttoned his shirt and reflected on his life in Brighton these past several months.

A duke’s younger sons rarely had the opportunity to earn a satisfactory living while pursuing their passions. But then, his parents, the Duke and Duchess of Latham, weren’t typical aristocrats either. They’d always encouraged their eight children to pursue their dreams, even if Society frowned upon their unconventional choices.

Just two months ago, his twin Darius had celebrated the grand opening of his bookstore in Woodhaven. Fletcher, one of Cassius’s older half-brothers, owned two clubs and a theater in London. Leonidas traveled the world. Lucius worked as a private investigator after years of spying for His Majesty. Adolphus—the future duke—operated a shipping enterprise, and Althelia, the only sister among the Westbrook siblings, could out-shoot and outride all the brothers.

Each of those bacon-brained siblings had fallen in love too.

Only he and Layton, the other half-brother and most recently of His Majesty’s Army, remained unfettered by marital obligations. Layton’s disinterest in matrimony stemmed from an unfaithful wife over a decade before. He’d sworn off women for life.

Cassius’s dreams had taken him to Italy to train under Vincenzo Camuccini, and he’d become great friends with Francesco Hayez who, in Cassius’s opinion, would become a leader in Italian Romanticism.

He’d also fallen in love with Constanza Segreti, the daughter of the man Cassius had rented his small, but quaint villa from. They became betrothed, and he convinced himself that God smiled down upon him. His two greatest passions were within reach—marriage to a woman he cherished and recognition as an accomplished artist.

Until sloe-eyed Constanza tossed him aside for a more affluent man.

Why would she want to marry the youngest son of a duke, scraping by on his commissions when she could become the wife of a prestigious and wealthy local gentleman?

Cassius had been a stupid, gullible fool once.

He’d never give his heart again.

In that, he very much understood Layton’s stance on romance.

Firming his mouth, Cassius shook off his melancholy musings as he glided his hand up the smooth handrail. The past was the past. He couldn’t change a bloody, buggering thing about it, nor did he want to.

He’d learned a valuable lesson and was free to dedicate the remainder of his life to his art without the encumbrances and demands of a wife. As for children…Well, with seven siblings, surely, he would have several nieces and nephews to dote upon. Besides, it wasn’t as if Father relied upon him as an heir.

Luck was with him the day he’d stumbled upon these accommodations. In the up-and-coming Kempton neighborhood, his house had once been a millinery and dressmaking establishment catering to Brighton’s haut ton elite and owned by the three spinster Stitchwell sisters.

Cassius strongly suspected Stitchwell was not their actual surname.

When the eldest sister, suddenly and unexpectedly passed, the two remaining sisters sold their shop and decided to spend the remainder of their years doing whatever they blasted well pleased.

That was the way to live life.

Each day felt like a rare treasure that would not come again.

Once Cassius had donned a cream and charcoal striped waistcoat, he expertly tied a pale gray neckcloth into a mail coach knot, then slipped on a dove-colored jacket. He examined himself in the cheval mirror.

Tasteful and reserved, but not severe and unapproachable.

Appropriate for a noble-born portraitist, but his attire didn’t scream privilege.

His lineage wasn’t a secret in Brighton; however, Cassius preferred to gain clients on his worth, not Father’s influence and station.

Swiping his dark hair with a boar-bristle brush, he considered today’s patron.

Lord Highbury was a peculiar chap.

An acquaintance of Father’s, his lordship had sought Cassius and commissioned him to paint a miniature of his niece, offering to pay him double his usual portrait fee.

“I’ve heard good things about you, Westbrook, though why a noble with your estimable lineage would choose to work, I cannot fathom.”

Of course, the likes of Highbury couldn’t.

Work was beneath nobles and aristocrats who believed themselves superior to commoners.

Cassius had quirked an eyebrow, already disliking the pretentious bore. “Oh?”

“Indeed.” Highbury had nodded, not quite able to keep the disdain from his expression.

As if Cassius cared one whit what the pompous prig thought of him. Still, Highbury was a generous patron, and Cassius had a mortgage to pay, for he refused to accept any financial support from his father.

“No one would ever mistake my niece for a diamond of the first water or a fine English rose.” Highbury had shaken his head, his tight expression suggesting he’d either sucked a lemon or passed wind. “Regardless, Beatrice’s youth and inheritance ought to entice a desperate chap or two. Her figure is also passable, I suppose.”

So the rotter wasn’t even dowering her, and he’d spoken of her as if she were cattle.

Cassius had almost asked if the earl had inspected her teeth.

Highbury had clasped his lapels, while gazing condescendingly around Cassius’s studio, before curling his upper lip. “She’s part Italian, but you’d never know it with that garish red hair of hers. Still, I’m confident with your skill you can create a flattering likeness.”

Interesting.

Beatrice Fairfax had red hair.

Coppery red?

Strawberry-blonde?

Flaming orange, chestnut, or auburn?

“Might I ask why you wish me to paint a miniature?” With his forefinger, Cassius had nudged a painting of a seaside café upward on one side. “I normally only paint full-sized portraits.”

“I mean to marry the chit off as expeditiously as possible.” Highbury had smiled, a thin, cunning upward sweep of his mouth, reminding Cassius of a fox with a hen in its jaws. “Her mother saddled me with her, and Beatrice has been a burden for two decades. I’ll hie to London with the miniature and arrange a marriage for her, posthaste.”

He didn’t need a portrait to arrange a marriage.

Upon learning Highbury’s distasteful intentions, Cassius had almost refused the commission, but something—mayhap curiosity about the young woman Highbury was so desperate to be rid of—prompted him to accept.

“More fool me,” Cassius muttered as he climbed into the curricle several minutes later. Guilt for his part in the poor girl’s fate pricked him during the ten-minute drive to Highbury House.

You could always refuse to paint the miniature .

True, Cassius could, but Highbury would merely find another willing artist.

As he descended the curricle, Cassius came to a conclusion.

I’ll wait until I meet the girl to make a final decision .