Page 5 of Memories Made At Midnight (Chronicles of the Westbrook Brides #9)

Highbury House’s immaculate lawns

A FEW EMBARRASSING SECONDS LATER

H is timing impeccable, Uncle Cedric had arrived.

Beatrice and Mr. Westbrook glanced toward the earl, storming across the lawns.

Clydes, the butler, and Millborn, Beatrice’s companion and ladies’ maid, trotted in his wake, their faces a mixture of astonishment, apprehension, and concern.

Mr. Westbrook offered Beatrice a genial smile and a wink. “Fear not.”

How could he have known her apprehension?

Her heart turned over, and she couldn’t prevent her answering smile and slight nod before her common sense returned. She shoved her gown down, noting with carefully hidden satisfaction the torn fabric and grass stains.

In a moment, Uncle Cedric towered above them, infuriated and fairly frothing in frustration.

Uncle did not attempt to help her up.

In a lithe movement, Mr. Westbrook rose to his feet and extended his hand to assist Beatrice.

She slipped her fingers into his wide palm, noting a hint of blue paint beneath one neatly trimmed nail.

“There’s been a slight mishap, my lord.” Mr. Westbrook didn’t appear the least intimidated by Uncle Cedric. He brushed blades of grass from his elbows.

Dark green stained his trousers and jacket, and she hid a wince.

Artists were notoriously poor, and no doubt this was the only decent suit he owned.

Naturally, she’d pay to have his garments cleaned, or if that wasn’t possible, replaced.

She bit the inside of her cheek.

How much would that cost?

Her monthly allowance wasn’t generous by any means.

“You m-must permit me to pay t-to have your clothing c-cleaned or replaced.” Beatrice refused to look in her uncle’s direction.

She would find the funds somehow.

“Nothing of the sort.” A smile hovering around the edges of his nicely molded mouth, Mr. Westbrook shook his dark head. “A good brushing and all should be well.”

He was a rotten liar.

No brushing would remove those embedded smudges.

Scrutinizing her gown, his expression turned rueful. “I fear you are much worse for wear than I, Miss Fairfax.”

“Oh, your lovely gown, Miss.” Millborn frowned and tisked as she took in the ripped, grass-stained fabric. “’Tis beyond repair, I fear.”

Hands planted on his hips and eyes narrowed in suspicion, Uncle Cedric’s face grew tauter still. “What bloody well happened?”

Beatrice bit her lip.

If she confessed the truth, she worried about what her uncle would do to Nala. He barely tolerated her dogs’ presence as it was.

Nala chose that moment to pad over to Mr. Westbrook and nuzzle his palm.

Giving the dog a good-natured grin, he patted her enormous head.

“Nala’s greeting was a trifle more exuberant than either I or Miss Fairfax anticipated, my lord. I’m flattered, in truth.”

Beatrice liked Mr. Westbrook all the more for defending her pet.

“That still doesn’t explain how you and my niece both came to be rolling around on the ground, Lord Cassius.”

Lord Cassius?

Uncle had failed to mention that important detail.

And he and Beatrice were hardly rolling around.

Well, she had rolled—twice, in fact. The first was from the momentum of her fall and the second was to ensure the gown was good and stained. She’d even pressed her bum, shoulders, and knees into the ground as she turned to insure the latter.

“Your niece feared for my safety and in her haste to reach her pet, she slipped.” Lord Cassius gave her feet a pointed look. “Satin slippers upon grass are much as skates upon ice.”

As Beatrice had never ice-skated or worn satin slippers outdoors before, she had no way of knowing if that was actually true. And Uncle could only blame himself for directing her to wear the slippers.

Nevertheless, she couldn’t regret the unanticipated implementation and success of her scheme, even if she hadn’t initiated it.

In succession, Uncle Cedric glowered at her, Nala, the neatly arranged art supplies, Teddy quietly observing the ordeal, and finally at Beatrice once more.

It was quite telling that he didn’t direct his ire toward Lord Cassius Westbrook.

“We’ll need to reschedule the portrait session, I suppose,” Uncle Cedric conceded with as much enthusiasm as a person facing a tooth pulling or a carbuncle lancing. He gave a brisk shake of his head. “Not outside next time. I don’t want another frock destroyed by her clumsiness.”

Beatrice was careful to keep her expression benign, but she didn’t miss Lord Cassius’s raven eyebrow flying high on his forehead at Uncle Cedric’s snide remark. A second later, he schooled his expression, but censure flashed in his beautiful blue eyes, the color of the ocean at twilight.

Uncle considered Lord Cassius, a speculative gleam in his cold, gray eyes. “Have you a space in your studio?”

Oh, bother .

She hadn’t considered that.

How could she have the dogs ruin the project if they weren’t with her?

“I do, or I should say, I can arrange to have.” Lord Cassius angled his head, his astute gaze taking in Uncle Cedric. “Wouldn’t you rather have Miss Fairfax painted in familiar surroundings?”

Beatrice had the distinct impression he saw beyond her uncle’s public fa?ade.

“No, I believe a neutral environment is more suitable. Less chance of another disaster.”

Or so he thinks .

Giving another decisive nod, Uncle veered his attention to Millborn. “You’ll chaperone Beatrice during the sittings. See that another gown is ordered. I’ll pay twice the normal fees if it’s finished by next week.”

He didn’t even trust her to select another gown.

“As you wish, my lord.” The elderly servant folded her hands. Millborn didn’t dare say anything else. She’d never once crossed Uncle Cedric during the many years she’d been assigned to tend to Beatrice.

He paid her well for her compliance and biddableness, but what was the aged servant to do?

Defy him and get tossed to the curb?

“Not green this time. It makes her look common…like a wood nymph or sprite. She needs to appear sophisticated and noble.” Uncle Cedric raked a critical gaze over Beatrice. “Coral or ivory, I think.”

“I recommend cornflower blue, my lord.” Lord Cassius made the suggestion as confidently as if he addressed a peer.

Perhaps he did.

Only younger sons of dukes and marquesses bore the honorific lord before their given name.

Just who was Lord Cassius Westbrook?

Giving him a sharp look, Uncle Cedric considered the suggestion. “Why?”

“That shade will pair well with her coloring, brightening her eyes, softening her freckles, and complementing her hair.” He sent Beatrice a reassuring glance. “Besides, you specified she appear noble. Blue has long been associated with regalness and royalty.”

“I c-can hear y-you, you kn-know.” Beatrice didn’t know where she summoned the gumption to be so bold, but no one enjoyed being discussed like they weren’t there or were a commodity to present to buyers.

“I’d hold my tongue, gel.” Uncle Cedric speared her with a wrath-filled glower before directing his attention back to Lord Cassius. “You’re the artist. I’d dress her in chartreuse if you thought it would make her more attractive.”

Heat scoured Beatrice’s cheeks as she signaled Nala to come to her side. The hound complied instantly. Teddy trotted over and, with his chocolate brown eyes, silently begged her to pick him up. She did at once, to hide the distress her uncle’s unkindness caused her in front of a stranger.

“You mistake me.” A steeliness entered Lord Cassius’s tenor. “I never implied Miss Fairfax needed enhancement. For I assure you, the canvas shall adore her, should she choose to wear wren brown or mourning gray. I also suggest no jewelry or cosmetics and that she wear her hair down.”

Beatrice hid a pleased smile in Teddy’s shoulder.

No one had ever championed her before, nor complimented her appearance.

“Hmph .” Uncle grunted his doubt. “I don’t want her to look like the Virgin Mary, Westbrook—not that she could with that hair.”

He flicked his hand disparagingly toward her head.

“I assure you, my lord, the likeness shall be acceptable to your strict standards.” Again, a less than deferential tone infused Lord Cassius’s flinty response.

“Next week, Friday?” Uncle clasped his hands behind his back, a hint of irritation hardening his jaw. “Same time?”

“No. Morning.” Lord Cassius collected his paintbrushes and as he wrapped them in a linen cloth, shook his head. “The lighting is much better. More flattering. Besides, my studio can get quite warm in the afternoon.”

Lord Cassius glanced at Beatrice. “Ten?”

He asked her. Not Uncle, but her.

“Yes.” She dared a nod and refused to look in her uncle’s direction, certain she’d find nothing but contempt etched upon his features. At least she hadn’t stuttered when she answered.

“Get yourself into the house and clean up, Beatrice.” Uncle Cedric raised an eyebrow. “You look like common riffraff. Millborn, return the emeralds to my study.”

“Yes, my lord,” Millborn said in her usual subservient manner.

Beatrice half-turned to go, but Lord Cassius hailed her.

“Miss Fairfax?”

“Yes, Lord Cassius?”

He swept his mouth upward into a charming grin. “We were not properly introduced.”

She darted a glance toward Uncle Cedric, who had the good grace to flush to his hairline.

No doubt he hadn’t considered her worthy of an introduction.

“I am Lord Cassius Westbrook, youngest son of the Duke of Latham.”

That answered that question.

He flashed a grin, so startling in its beauty, Beatrice couldn’t help but blink. Her heart forgot to beat for an instant, and her breath hung suspended. Surely the earth ceased rotating as well.

“Well, one of his two youngest sons,” he said. “I have a twin.”

Good Lord .

There were two of them?

She dipped into a curtsy, quite pleased she didn’t wobble in the least. “I-I look forward t-to our next meeting, sir.”

“As do I.” He grinned again, and she could almost believe he meant it.

Beatrice had barely stuttered while speaking to him.

Her heart sang all the way back to the house, which was just silly because she still meant to sabotage Lord Cassius Westbrook’s painting. Even if he was the most alluring figure of masculinity that she’d ever set eyes upon.