Page 6 of Memories Made At Midnight (Chronicles of the Westbrook Brides #9)

Sussex Square-Kempton

Brighton, England

ONE WEEK LATER ~ A COUPLE OF MINUTES TO TEN IN THE MORNING

C assius adjusted a cushion on the used royal blue velvet Gillow armchair he’d purchased that week, along with a cast-off Aubusson carpet, a tapestry, draperies, and a marble-top half table. Items he’d sell as soon as he completed Beatrice Fairfax’s portrait—in about six weeks, if all went well.

Head tilted, he adjusted the chair’s angle a few inches to ensure the natural light would complement her.

That is better .

In truth, he itched to paint Miss Fairfax…to see if he could recreate the ribbons of gold, copper, bronze, and sienna in her hair. To dapple her ivory skin with those precocious freckles. Then there was that adorable dimple in her chin that he longed to put to canvas.

He’d considered writing to his parents to request they send similar items from Hefferwickshire House, the ducal country estate in Cumberland, but the furnishings would likely not have arrived in time for today’s sitting. Besides, he didn’t want his parents speculating about the urgent request for elegant decor.

They worried enough about him.

Barely a week ago, he’d received a letter from Mother and Father.

Mother missed him—she’d seen him but two months ago.

A visit was in order soon, Father had declared. Cassius expected the duke and duchess to present themselves in Brighton within the next fortnight.

Both prayed all was well, which Cassius interpreted to mean they fretted he might need financial assistance but was too proud to ask.

Yes, he was proud but also determined. Of all his siblings, at almost eight and twenty, he alone had yet to establish himself. Actually, that wasn’t entirely accurate. After two decades, his eldest half-brother Layton had left His Majesty’s Army and had yet to decide what to do with the rest of his life.

Honestly, Cassius had believed Layton would die, an army officer. This change of plans took the family by surprise, but as always, the Westbrooks rallied around their kin, offering support and encouragement.

This past week, Cassius had neglected his seascape painting, directing all his attention toward creating a pleasant setting for Miss Fairfax’s portrait sitting. Foolish by far, since he hadn’t time to spare if he meant to finish the required paintings for the exhibition.

Still, he wasn’t overly concerned.

He would manage.

Hands on his hips, he surveyed his workmanship.

Would she like the scene he’d staged?

Why he should care what a woman thought he’d met but once for less than thirty minutes, Cassius could not fathom. Had he an ounce of sense, he would have refused Lord Highbury’s request to paint her in his studio. He had never done so before, preferring to reserve his workspace for private use.

He had no intention of doing so again.

Regardless, something about Beatrice Fairfax beckoned to him. Her expressive hazel-green gaze assessed him with a refreshing openness and lack of artifice. At her uncle’s caustic rebuke the other day, pink had blossomed across her heart-shaped face.

Highbury’s callousness toward her rankled Cassius.

The earl treated her like a nuisance—a smelly beggar or a pesky, stray dog.

Cassius cast a glance at the picture window at the front of his studio as a gleaming burgundy coach rumbled to a stop before his establishment.

Right on time.

His pulse skipped in anticipation, but he quickly subdued his excitement.

This was a job.

Nothing more.

There was no room in his life for a romantic interest in any female. Constanza had successfully rendered his heart as cold as stone. It was simply the anticipation of creating a miniature, he repeated to himself for the hundredth time.

It took particular skill to paint a miniature, and he welcomed the challenge.

Arranging his features into a neutral expression, he exited the front entrance just as the coachman swung the carriage door open.

Wearing a light ivory cloak with the hood pulled up over her head, Miss Fairfax appeared in the opening. She offered him a shy smile as the coachman lowered the step.

Coming to his senses, Cassius approached the vehicle and offered her a hand down. “No dogs today?”

She placed her gloved hand in his and alit from the conveyance, nimble as the wood sprite her uncle had compared her to last week. “I wasn’t sure if y-you would welcome them in your s-studio.”

“I can see no harm. I like dogs. We have Dalmatians at Hefferwickshire House—my family home. In truth, I’d like to include them in the portrait. Teddy in your lap and Nala lying beside the chair.”

“Uncle doesn’t want them in the painting.” Disappointed resignation darkened her eyes to the shade of the ocean before a pending gale.

“Ah, but he said he would agree to whatever I suggested, did he not?” That was a stretch, but Highbury wouldn’t likely appreciate the delay starting the portrait process over would entail if he remained adamant about no pets in the painting. Cassius could see how much her beloved dogs meant to Beatrice, and they should be immortalized with her.

Miss Fairfax gifted him a brilliant smile. “I shall bring them next time.”

Millborn poked her head out, and after glancing up and down the lane, permitted Cassius to assist her from the coach as well.

“Welcome to my humble studio, ladies.”

Miss Fairfax granted him another cheerful smile, but her chaperone merely inclined her graying head. She plainly did not want to attend Miss Fairfax for the sittings.

“When should Hampton return, Lord Cassius?” Millborn asked.

Hampton must be the coachman.

“Four hours.” Cassius should have a rough sketch completed by then.

“I’ll be back to fetch you at two, then.” Hampton touched his hat and, after climbing onto the driver’s seat and calling, “Walk on,” flicked the reins.

The matched grays dutifully moved forward, their hooves clip-clopping pleasantly on the cobbles.

“Shall we?” Cassius extended an arm toward his studio.

Millborn entered first, surveying every inch of the interior with admirable diligence.

Miss Fairfax followed, her eyes round with pleasure.

“Oh, I’ve n-never been inside an artist’s studio before.” She grinned up at him, excitement sparkling in her eyes as she pulled the ivory silk cloak from her head. That curtain of sunrise-colored curls swung loosely about her shoulders, down her back, and just skimmed the top of her derriere.

When she untied the ribbon at her throat and let the cloak slip from her shoulders, Cassius nearly gasped aloud and was hard put not to stare.

Breathtaking .

Her uncle was wrong.

Bloody sodding wrong.

Beatrice Fairfax was an incomparable.

Not an English rose, to be sure. No, this vibrant beauty was a canna lily, striking and elegant.

What a delight putting her features on canvas would be.

If only Cassius were painting a full-sized portrait.

Why can’t I ?