Page 8 of Memories Made At Midnight (Chronicles of the Westbrook Brides #9)

Still Sussex Square-Kempton

A QUARTER OF TWO THAT SAME DAY

B eatrice permitted herself to study Cassius Westbrook as he worked. Midnight brows drawn together in concentration, he glanced up every few minutes, skimming that riveting gaze over her like a cobalt caress, before focusing intently on the easel once more.

It shouldn’t surprise her he had once been betrothed.

A man possessing his good looks was bound to attract women like ants to honey. From the arctic coolness that had washed over his features and frozen his tone, he’d not forgiven his former betrothed for her betrayal.

He must’ve loved the woman desperately.

Sympathy engulfed Beatrice for his suffering, though why she should feel empathy for a man she scarcely knew baffled her. She supposed her ability to care for animals in distress had extended to him. A natural reaction toward any suffering creature, to be sure.

Still, she couldn’t help wondering what that kind of all-consuming love felt like. To give it and to receive it? Having lacked being loved most of her life, she had nothing to compare the powerful sentiment to.

That Cassius yet suffered for giving his heart to an unworthy wretch, only reaffirmed Beatrice’s determination not to yield to such imprudence. She would direct her affections to her pets and receive unconditional love in return.

No man would ever have the opportunity to betray her as her father had Mama.

“Did you s-study art in Italy?”

Drat her unquenchable curiosity and her stutter.

Lord Cassius must’ve been in Italy to study and train. Even Beatrice understood how unusual that was for a duke’s son.

He paused in scritching the pencil across the canvas for a half-second before shrugging. “I did. For several years.”

“But you left after your broken betrothal?” Her dashed tongue refused to be muzzled, but at least she’d managed a sentence without stuttering.

“I was summoned home by my grandmother. But I had decided it was time to leave in any event.” He kicked his mouth upward on one side, giving him a boyish appearance that in no way diminished his roguish good looks. “One does not dismiss a summons from Grandmama, particularly at Christmastide, and especially when she hints at dire circumstances.”

Beatrice had never known her grandparents.

“I’m sorry.” And she was.

However, having never loved anyone romantically, she couldn’t fathom the depths of his pain. But neither had she suffered a broken wing, a brutal beating, starvation, or her leg caught in a snare, but that didn’t prevent her from sympathizing with her pets.

A shuttered expression came over Lord Cassius’s features, and he returned to his work.

Clearly, he didn’t want to talk about his former betrothed.

It was none of Beatrice’s business in any event, and she ought not to have probed. Resigned to her curiosity remaining unsatiated, she continued her silent assessment of the man who’d intrigued her this past week.

She permitted herself the luxury of examining him at her leisure.

He certainly pleased the eye.

He ought to have his likeness painted.

Today he wore unremarkable black trousers tucked into well-worn boots. He’d removed his dusky blue jacket before donning his paint-smattered smock, giving her a glimpse of finely molded shoulders, chest, and back. His simply knotted neckcloth and blue and black striped waistcoat suggested quality but not ostentatiousness.

“Are you an identical twin?”

There went her thoughts again, making their way to her tongue and out into the air without a by-your-leave.

He gave a brief nod.

“Darius and I used to swap places, and even our parents were none the wiser.”

Glancing over the easel, he met her gaze and a tiny little current of something thrilling zipped along her veins.

“Did you miss not having siblings, Miss Fairfax?”

His question jerked Beatrice’s attention from his long-lean legs to his contoured face.

He’d kept up a constant litany as he worked, which rather surprised her. She would have thought an artist needed silence to complete his best work.

“I didn’t know anything else.” In point of fact, Beatrice had been horribly lonely. The servants were kind, but except for Millborn who was assigned to watch her, they had other tasks to see to.

“What about you, Lord Cassius? Have you other brothers or sisters b-besides your twin?”

He chuckled, a pleasant and resonating rumble in his broad chest.

Uncle Cedric expressed humor so seldom—and when he did, it was usually snide and at her expense—she found herself mesmerized by the simple sound.

For surely that was what caused her deepening interest in Cassius Westbrook—how very different he was from her dour uncle.

What else could it be?

“Indeed, I do.” Affection creased the outer corners of his eyes. “ Five older brothers and one younger sister. Two of my older brothers are half-brothers, and my sister is unlike any other woman you’ve ever met.” He met her gaze, a twinkle in his. “I think you’d like her. She also loves dogs, and shoots and rides better than most men.”

“How wonderful.” Beatrice twitched her nose back and forth.

“Is there a reason you’re imitating a rabbit, Miss Fairfax?”

Again, an undercurrent of humor belied his somber expression.

“Might I scratch my nose?”

“Of course.” Grinning, Lord Cassius nodded and circled the pencil in the air. “I’m not an ogre. If you need to get up and stretch, get a drink, scratch your nose, or have a bite to eat, just let me know. I’d prefer a contented subject. Any discomfort will manifest in your bearing and features.”

Beatrice longed to stretch her muscles, use the necessary, and a bite to eat would be welcome too. She’d remember to bring a snack next time. Nonetheless, something held her in place.

No, not something .

Someone.

Him.

Prior to this, no man had caught her attention, let alone one that looked as if he’d stepped straight from heaven. Normally, she didn’t indulge in girlish musings and infatuations.

But then, she’d never met the likes of Lord Cassius Westbrook.

It wasn’t just his stunning masculine good looks, either.

She liked him .

Yes, he was serious, perhaps some might call him solemn, but humor frequently shone in his eyes and quirked his mouth. But it was his kindness and gentleness that beckoned her. She thought he might be as nice as he appeared—a rare and unusual quality amongst the peerage.

Even younger sons of nobles, particularly privileged dukes’ sons, believed themselves above everyone else. No one could measure up to their inflated opinions of themselves.

She’d witnessed that first-hand with Uncle Cedric.

Lord, the man was a pompous arse.

Beatrice hadn’t detected a hint of snobbery about Lord Cassius, not even when he’d introduced himself as the Duke of Latham’s son. She hadn’t heard of the duke, but then again, she didn’t travel in fashionable circles—not even in this resort township favored by aristocrats.

It brought her pleasure to observe Lord Cassius, and sitting still these past hours gave her ample opportunity. Soon enough, she’d have a chance to cause an accidental mishap.

A stab of guilt speared her.

She almost felt remorse for her plan to destroy his work. Almost. However, self-preservation allowed her to push her guilt into a corner of her mind and slam the door on any regret.

She skimmed her attention over the other paintings on display.

Uncle had been correct.

Though she was no expert, even she could see that Cassius Westbrook possessed talent—exceptional talent.

In her cozy corner, Millborn softly snored, having fallen asleep as Beatrice had predicted, but only after consuming every single biscuit. Uncle rarely permitted Cook to bake sweet treats, claiming they would ruin his figure.

He fussed more over his appearance than any woman Beatrice had ever met. She vowed he plucked his eyebrows too.

“I think we are done for today.” Cassius took one last glance at the easel and set the pencil aside.

As if on cue, Millborn snorted and startled herself awake. She yawned and blinked. “Did I hear you say we are finished for today, Lord Cassius?”

Nodding, he spared a quick glance to her corner. “We are.”

Millborn stood, her movements stiff and slow.

She really ought to retire, but she had no family either. Uncle Cedric—the inconsiderate miser—had never mentioned pensioning the elderly woman. Therefore, necessity compelled her to continue to work.

Another reason Beatrice must have control over her inheritance. She could set Millborn up in a cozy cottage with a monthly stipend. Or even allow the dear to travel with her if she so wished. Since Mama’s death—from a broken heart and shame, Beatrice was convinced?—

Millborn had been the closest thing to a mother Beatrice had known.

Beatrice unfolded from the chair, almost grimacing as her muscles objected to the movement. She gave the back of the easel a pointed look. “May I see?”

“No.” Lord Cassius gave her a sideways smile, even as he draped a cloth over the easel. “You may not. I never permit a patron to see my work in progress.”

There was a finality to his answer, and she didn’t press him.

As he unbuttoned his paint-stained smock, he crossed the room. After he’d hung it on a hook and shrugged into his jacket, he faced her. “I should like you to return in three days for another four hours.”

“As you wish.” Beatrice collected her silk cloak. “Are you certain I should bring Nala and Teddy?”

If Uncle Cedric hadn’t directed Millborn to chaperone her, Beatrice could simply walk to the studio with her dogs. That wouldn’t raise suspicion, for she walked about Brighton all the time with her pets. She would have simply worn a morning gown and changed when she arrived for the sitting.

After sliding the cloak over her pretty new blue gown, she tied the ribbon at her throat.

“Yes, bring them.” Lord Cassius nodded. “You have a different demeanor about you with your pets nearby. I’d like to capture that in your likeness. Once your uncle sees the portrait, he’ll understand.

“The master won’t like it,” Millborn said, crossing to them, unable to hide a slight limp, no doubt caused by stiff knee or hip joints. “Not a bit.”

“Leave the matter to me.” Unlike most people who encountered Uncle Cedric, the earl did not intimidate Lord Cassius. “I shall take full responsibility.”

Once again, his confidence impressed Beatrice.

It probably infuriated Uncle.

In truth, it wasn’t just Lord Cassius’s confidence or self-assurance that raised him in her estimation. Uncle Cedric was confident to the point of arrogance and mulishness. No, it was Lord Cassius’s fearlessness combined with diplomacy and compassion.

Uncle lacked the latter qualities.

Beatrice didn’t try to dissuade Lord Cassius from including Nala and Teddy in her portrait. The worst that could happen was Uncle would demand a second go at the painting.

If not rendered by Lord Cassius, then by another artist. And that would take time. Not two and a half years, but she welcomed anything that delayed the painting’s completion and subsequently, forcing her to trudge down the aisle against her will.

Not that she intended to let the painting progress to the point of Uncle Cedric ever seeing the finished product. How fortuitous that Lord Cassius wanted her to bring her pets to his studio. All manner of accidents might occur.

Hadn’t dear Nala already proven that?

Beatrice raised her gaze to Lord Cassius, startled to find him observing her intently. He saw much more than he commented upon. She understood the power of observation, for she practiced it too. It was, however, rather uncanny to be the object and not the observer.

“Two pence for your thoughts, Miss Fairfax.”

Chagrin almost made her drop her gaze, but avoidance would certainly give her away.

She managed what she hoped was a winsome smile rather than a guilt-ridden one. “I assure you, they are not worth t-two farthings.”

“Why is it I doubt that?” He cast a side-long glance toward the easel. “I think you’ve forgotten I’m an artist. We can see what most people try to hide.” He pointed to his eyes—so striking, so blue. “The eyes speak—windows to the soul and all that.”

“Quoting Shakespeare?” She didn’t much care for the famous bard’s works. A fact she kept to herself since so many revered the playwright.

Lord Cassius shook his head, a dark shock of hair falling over his high forehead. “Actually, I referred to the Roman philosopher Cicero, when he said, ‘The face is a picture of the mind as the eyes are its interpreter.’”

“So you think you can read my mind?” He couldn’t possibly know her thoughts—her devious scheme.

He cocked an aristocratic eyebrow.

“You, Miss Fairfax, are far more complex than you let on.”

Beatrice cast a worried glance at Millborn, who had perked up at the conversation’s strange turn.

“I have n-no idea what you mean, Lord C-Cassius. I am simply and dutifully sitting for a portrait.”

Beatrice purposefully widened her eyes to appear innocent, except her blasted stutter gave her away. Up to now, she’d barely stuttered in his presence today.

Eyebrows pinched together, Millborn wavered her attention between them, obviously confused and suspicious. “Did something happen while I napped?”

The coach rolled to a stop in front of the studio, saving Beatrice from having to answer. Instead, she took Millborn’s elbow.

“We’ll see you Friday, Lord Cassius.”

“Don’t forget the dogs,” he reminded with a good-natured smile.

Was he teasing her?

Once settled inside the coach, Beatrice leaned forward and peered out the window.

Lord Cassius stood in the doorway, a bemused smile bending his mouth.

On a naughty impulse, she stuck her tongue out, and he threw his head back and laughed.

As she settled back into the seat, her blood rushing through her veins, the truth hit Beatrice with such force that she slumped against the seat.

That was what flirting felt like.

And she liked it.

Liked it very much, indeed.