Page 45 of The Earl's Reluctant Artist

They had been the only part of him untouched by scandal, debt, or duty.

And now, they too would be sacrificed in favour of his duties to his estate, his tenants, and to his godmother.

And to a future bride, it seems, he thought with a shudder.

The future Lady Something Blackthorne, and Lord Nathaniel Blackthorne …

All hail the Earl and Countess of Loxley …

He stared at the folio for a long moment before tucking it away again and then sent orders for his valet to meet him in his chambers.

Then, he reluctantly left his desk and his work to make ready for that evening’s salon, which was to be the first of many dreaded social events to come for him.

His only hope was that his godmother might recant her demand for marriage when she saw how utterly he failed to attract a bride during the Season.

***

The Pemberton townhouse stood on Bruton Street, its windows blazing with candlelight.

Conversation spilled from the drawing room to the hall, muffled only by the velvet draperies and the soft rustle of silk.

Nathaniel and the countess entered the townhouse, greeted with the polite indifference reserved for those newly returned to Society after too long an absence.

The spinster Lady Pemberton, resplendent in peacock blue, welcomed them with effusion and immediately turned to secure their presence in what she called “the literary circle.” In truth, it was an uneven collection of titled men and ladies whose intellect ranged from keen to ornamental.

After a brief, cordial exchange with Lord Penbrooke, who looked as if his outfit had been tailored directly from the dress of his hosting wife, Nathaniel took his place near the hearth, schooling his features into mild interest. He had no desire to speak and even less to be spoken to.

But then a voice cut through the civilized hum.

“I say again, the anonymous essayist’s proposals are dangerously na?ve,” a man said, his voice bellowing as Nathaniel turned to identify him. “To suggest that legal reform must serve the tenant farmer as much as the landowner is a pleasing fantasy, but one born of inexperience.”

Nathaniel recognized the speaker as Lord Reginald Beckett, a man with more titles than convictions.

He knew the essay in question as well. It had been his.

The essay had been published under the heading Conscience and Common Law: Reflections from the North and had circulated modestly among reform-minded gentlemen.

It had also received no small share of derision.

“Perhaps the experience of which you speak is what is na?ve,” he said. His godmother gave him a warning look, one which he ignored.

Lord Beckett looked at him with a raised eyebrow.

“Naivety implies a belief in something impossible or untrue,” he said. “And I believe that I speak for every businessman here when I say that our experience with such matters is very real.”

Nathaniel nodded. He knew he should continue the debate with care, lest he give himself away as the author. He contemplated his point while another gentleman chimed in to agree with Lord Beckett.

He might have chosen to remain silent, had a young lady not spoken.

“Forgive me, Lord Beckett, but I believe you misread the essay entirely,” she said. “The author does not propose that landowners surrender their rights. He argues that justice must consider the balance between duty and power.”

The room turned, falling eerily silent. Nathaniel looked at her fully.

She was seated just beyond the circle, near a table of pamphlets and periodicals considered to be ambitious reading materials for noble women.

Her gown was a modest green silk, serviceable but well-fitted, with no excessive ornament.

Her hair was arranged without affectation.

Her expression, however, was earnest, intelligent, and utterly unrepentant.

Lord Beckett narrowed his eyes.

“You have a generous view of the matter, My Lady,” he said. “You must allow that essays written anonymously often disguise their author’s true purpose. This one, while prettily phrased, strikes me as the product of youthful rebellion.”

Nathaniel watched as her chin lifted.

“Or moral clarity, My Lord,” she said. “One need not be a revolutionary to believe that stewardship includes responsibility to those who live and labour on one’s land. If the laws fail to account for that, they are not just.”

Silence followed once more. Even Nathaniel’s godmother looked briefly uncertain whether to reprimand her or applaud.

Nathaniel cleared his throat, intrigued to observe such a seemingly intelligent young woman.

“Have you read the author’s other works, My Lady?” he asked.

She turned towards him.

“I have,” she said with a confidence that enthralled everyone present.

Nathaniel smirked, taking a casual step towards her.

“Then allow me to ask you something,” he said. “Do you believe the essays to be persuasive?”

She nodded.

“They are,” she said. “Though I confess, I prefer his earlier work. There is less polish but more urgency. One feels he is writing from lived experience, not ambition.”

Nathaniel tilted his head.

“And what of the more entertaining offerings in the periodicals?” he asked. “I understand The Witty Widow of Wycliffe continues to enjoy some popularity.”

A few ladies tittered. Someone mentioned a scandalous third instalment. The woman looked unimpressed.

“I have read it,” she said. “It is amusing enough. Light fare. But the author does not understand love.”

A murmur passed through the group. Lord Beckett smothered a laugh into his brandy. Nathaniel studied the young woman with raised ire.

“Indeed?” he asked. “That is a bold declaration.”

She met his eye.

“It is a bold premise to presume that love may be reduced to farce and flourish,” she said with disconcerting confidence. “Wit alone does not make a heart true.”

His lips curved.

“Perhaps the author meant only to amuse,” he said, knowing perfectly well that the young lady had a point.

She shrugged, looking utterly impassive.

“Then he has succeeded,” she said. “But he has not persuaded his audience. Nor has he moved them.”

Nathaniel bristled, but he forced his expression to remain unmoved. Lord Beckett raised his glass.

“A fair critique, My Lady,” Nathaniel said coolly. “And, I might add, more civil than the ones published in the reviews.”

Nathaniel bit down on his tongue. Never had he heard such public criticism of his work.

He was not a friend of Lord Pembrooke, and he did not know the young lady.

He was not adverse to constructive criticism, but he felt as though he himself was being assessed.

He pushed aside the thought that perhaps he deserved such harsh judgments on a subject he was sure he did not understand.

He was proud of his writing, and it was his pride that reacted to the words of the people around him.

Beside Lady Pemberton, who was hosting the salon that was rapidly becoming the most interesting event Nathaniel had ever attended, another older lady rose hastily, as if someone had just lit her dress ablaze.

She rushed to the young woman’s side, and her scolding eyes could have burned directly through the younger lady.

“Juliana, darling, I would like to introduce the Earl of Loxley,” she said, with a pointed glare at the young woman. “Lord Loxley, this is Miss Juliana Harcourt, daughter of myself and the Baronet Sir Lionel Harcourt.”

Before she could offer a pleasantry, her mother took her arm. Only Nathaniel could see how fierce the older woman’s grip was. Before he looked away, he noticed the resemblance. It was clear that the older woman had once been very striking. Much like her daughter was, despite her crimson cheeks.

“Juliana,” she said in a voice sharp enough to pierce satin. “We are leaving. Now.”

Miss Harcourt nodded without protest.

“Good evening,” she said, more to the room than to him.

He watched them go. They paused at the foot of the stairs.

While the rest of the room began buzzing with gossip, Nathaniel found himself eavesdropping.

The baronet’s wife spoke in a low voice, but not quite softly enough to keep the words from echoing off the walls and filtering back to Nathaniel’s ears.

“You have humiliated yourself in front of half of London,” her mother said, not troubling to lower her voice.

“You speak like a bluestocking and make yourself ridiculous. No one wants a wife who argues with titled men in drawing rooms. That man is a peer. You are the daughter of a baronet with an unfortunate talent for being overheard and a curse of speaking too bluntly. You will be silent when spoken to and agreeable when asked. That is the way of things.”

The voices faded down the stairs. Nathaniel remained in his chair, still holding his untouched glass.

He did not know why her words had wounded him, but they still stung.

She had dismissed his romantic writing with a precision that left no room for complaint.

She had praised his political work with sincerity.

Yet it was her remark about love that remained. He had written the Widow of Wycliffe series to amuse. He had delighted in the banter, the clever twists, the romantic contrivances. He had never claimed to understand love. But now he wondered if there was any credence to Miss Harcourt’s words.

His father had spoken of love only when drunk, calling it a woman’s trap. His mother had treated it like currency, exchanged for jewels and influence. Nathaniel had always believed both were wrong.

Yet he had never considered what might be right. He leaned forward, bracing his arms on his knees. She had called his essays urgent. She had called his stories shallow, and he did not know which mattered more. Even so, he found that he hoped to see her again.