Page 21

A fter a cold, damp, and fruitless trip to Exeter to listen to a bespectacled man with graying skin and ink-stained cuffs confirm what Alistair already knew, the very last thing he wanted on his return was a party.

Particularly not one planned by his Aunt Josephine.

If he had to spend his evening among people, he would have preferred the noisy comforts of the family sitting room and losing a game of chess to Harry.

If he had to look at that damned portrait and be reminded of a future he’d rather not face, he would have preferred to do it with Constantia at his side.

“Absolutely not!” he scolded himself as he slipped into one of his oldest, most comfortable coats, after hesitating a moment too long over the blue one. Someone had ironed out the wrinkles and sponged away the dust. It looked just as if that afternoon had never happened.

Constantia’s message had been clear enough.

No more visits to the studio. No more indulging his desires.

No more dreaming of what might have been.

He tried to take some comfort in the fact that his aunt was too much of a stickler to have invited a person as humble as the artist tonight. Seeing her would only weaken his resolve.

The drawing room, whose elegant, rarely used furniture had still been draped in holland cloth when he left, was now ablaze with the light of wax candles he couldn’t afford—but which, he presumed, his future wife would be able to.

He glanced around at the assembled guests: four sisters—only Danielle had not yet appeared; one aunt, her trusty lorgnette already in hand; the elderly rector and his wife, whose presence at Rylemoor was a rarity, since that gentleman preferred the comforts of his other parish; and, to his even greater surprise, Forster, the long-suffering curate, whom Aunt Josephine surely thought of as unworthy of the attention. Alistair only hoped Eddie hadn’t sold her soul to wrangle his invitation.

As he approached the center of the room, he spied an easel. The small, unframed painting upon it was turned at present toward the wall, awaiting the moment of dramatic revelation.

He pressed two fingers to the center of his forehead, attempting to hold back an incipient headache.

Freddie appeared at his elbow, wearing one of the low-cut, costly gowns from Madame D’Arblay’s shop. The throbbing between his temples grew.

“Are you unwell, brother?” she asked, though her expression was one of barely suppressed amusement, rather than concern.

“Tired,” he replied. “I did not expect to be hosting a party tonight.”

“I think, technically speaking, Aunt Josephine considers herself the hostess. Which may call into question the appropriateness of the term party for this particular event.”

Alistair’s lips curved in spite of himself. “What would you call it, then?”

“Oh, I’m withholding my answer until I see your portrait.”

Unbidden came an image of everyone’s faces if the picture turned out to be the one Constantia had playfully sketched of him after...well, after . Heat crept up from beneath his collar.

“I think you are unwell,” Freddie insisted, peering at him. “I’m going to fetch you a glass of wine.”

She stepped away to be replaced by Edwina’s intended. “How did you find Exeter?” Forster asked.

“Dismal,” Alistair snapped, then inwardly chided himself for his rudeness. He genuinely liked Forster and believed the fellow would make Eddie happy. If all went according to Aunt Josephine’s plan, the two of them would not have long to wait, now. “Sorry,” he said in a chastened tone. “Legal business always makes me grumpy.”

Forster gave a knowing nod, then seemed to realize his error and shifted to shaking his head. “No, never pleasant. Though I daresay this must have been a bit better than most—planning for your nuptials, eh? Drafting marriage settlements and the like?”

Alistair pressed his lips into something he hoped would pass for a smile. “Yes, something like that. Still raining?” he asked, a transparent attempt to turn the conversation.

Weather in Devon was always a fruitful subject because it was changeable and, on the moors at least, frequently dramatic.

“Oh, aye,” the curate confirmed. “With the air this heavy, I wouldn’t be surprised if we had a storm.”

The strength and duration of this possible storm then had to be discussed, with hopes expressed that neither person nor property would be greatly harmed if it came to pass. That took up the several moments required for Freddie to return with his wine. His sister and the curate then took up the topic, while he once more scanned the room.

At the sight of his aunt bearing down upon the easel, he brought the glass to his lips and drained half its contents in a single gulp. He couldn’t decide what he hated most about the evening: viewing the portrait itself or having to face the moment in such a public fashion.

Not that he doubted it would be an interesting picture. Too interesting, he feared. After all, he knew better than most the artist’s abilities and had seen the way she had looked at him.

No, it was the prospect of the portrait being put to its intended use. The idea of his face and his title being dangled in front of young ladies, like a flashy lure to fool a fish. The prospect, in other words, that all his aunt’s plans would succeed.

Once the picture was revealed, it would be not a beginning but an end. An end to any pretext for intimacy with Constantia. An end to the strange and eventful and unexpected journey that had brought her here. An end to a dream that for one brief hour he had let himself wish could be real.

The room seemed to hold its breath as Aunt Josephine reached for the painting. “I present to you—”

Alistair screwed shut his eyes.

A collective gasp made his heart stutter in his chest, but still he refused to look. He couldn’t imagine what could have inspired such a reaction. Had Constantia been so mischievous as to have switched out the formal portrait for the, uh, considerably more informal one she’d been working on when he’d left?

Or had she perhaps painted him with a pair of devil’s horns, as she’d once depicted Miles?

Or—?

Freddie nudged his elbow, almost upsetting his glass. “Look!”

Daring to crack open one eyelid, he discovered that the reason for the uproar had not been the painting, which was still turned toward the wall.

Instead, every eye in the room was focused on the doorway, the arched shape of which perfectly framed Constantia.

“If I may, your ladyship,” she said, and the small crowd parted as she strode, head held high, toward the easel.

She was wearing a gown of ivory silk overlaid with gold net that sparked fire with every step she took. Alistair no longer regretted the expense of the candles. Her hair was piled high on her head, rich waves of honey carefully coiled and pinned, with a few soft curls around her face.

He recognized the dress as belonging to Danny, one she had worn during her first and only London Season. And the artistry of the coiffure could probably be credited to Georgie or Freddie, or both, as he knew that the lack of a ladies’ maid last spring had driven them to excel at such things. But the posture, the crooked smile, the piercing eyes...those were entirely, utterly Constantia.

She looked beautiful, breathtakingly so—but not more beautiful than she had been to him when she had been wearing nothing at all.

He took half a step toward her before Freddie laid a hand on his arm. Constantia had reached the portrait and now grasped the picture by the edge of the wooden stretcher that held the canvas taut. With a gracious tip of her head to Aunt Josephine, she turned the portrait around to face the gathered guests.

But to look at it, Alistair would have had to tear his eyes away from Constantia.

Eventually, however, he became aware of other things in the room. Conversation swelled more loudly than one would expect for a party of a dozen people. Over it all, he could hear Aunt Josephine complaining about something, though that was hardly unusual. Danny, who had entered the drawing room behind Constantia, wore an irritated expression and hurried right to Harry’s side. Harry looked unhappier still.

“Well,” said Freddie, still near his elbow, “that should do the trick.”

“Trick?” he echoed absently, his attention now captured by Danny appearing to comfort their youngest sister. “What trick?”

When Freddie made no answer, he crossed the room to join Danny in her efforts. Before he reached them, he heard Harry say in a choked voice, “You said you thought she was on our side. You said she—” She broke off when Danny laid a hand over hers, signaling for quiet at their brother’s approach.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

Harry’s mouth popped open, but Danny spoke over her with determined calm. “Nothing. Really. We all knew Miss Cooper was a talented artist. And with a portrait like that, you and Aunt Josephine will surely get what you wanted.”

He had to look at the picture then, as he was quite certain he and Aunt Josephine had never seen eye to eye on anything. Because what he wanted was Constantia.

With a squeeze for Harry’s shoulder and a nod to Danny, he turned at last to face his portrait. Constantia stood to the right of the easel and Aunt Josephine to the left. Or rather, Aunt Josephine was positioned to argue and Constantia was regarding her with detached amusement.

As for the portrait itself, well...it was not, as he’d again begun to fear, the picture of him reclining nude on the chaise. It was also not, he felt quite certain, the sort of thing his aunt had had in mind.

Most noblemen’s portraits were serious and unsmiling. The subject’s powerful eye tended to bore into the viewer’s and send a prickle of discomfort down one’s spine.

In contrast, Constantia had painted him not quite in profile, his eyes focused on something, or someone, in the middle distance, the lips quirked in half a smile, as if he’d just told a truly terrible joke and knew his listener was fighting not to laugh. His hair was tousled, his cravat was slightly askew, and he was wearing not the elegant blue superfine, but his ancient, battered greatcoat.

“When I said I didn’t want flattery,” his aunt was saying, “I certainly did not mean for you to make him look like a farmer.”

“I think he looks...dashing,” insisted the rector’s wife, who, despite her age, punctuated that statement with a girlish titter.

“Charismatic,” corrected her husband. “The sort of fellow you’d like to get to know.”

Harry, who had just joined the little group standing closest to the picture, nodded. “Yes, exactly,” she said. And she didn’t sound happy about it at all.

Was this how Constantia saw him? Was this what she’d meant when she’d spoken of painting something true?

He needed to speak to her, to ask her—

At just that moment, the rector enjoined her in earnest conversation. On the other side of the room, and much to his surprise, Georgie began agreeing vocally with their aunt’s assessment of the portrait: “Oh, indeed. Quite shocking. I would not recommend hanging such a thing in your house, Aunt Josephine. I wouldn’t show it to a soul.”

That was odd. A moment earlier, Freddie had sounded as if she thought the portrait would be successful in attracting a bride, and it was unusual for the two sisters to disagree about anything of substance. She and Georgie were less than a year apart in age and had always been like two peas in a pod.

And then there was Harry’s unhappy-sounding assessment and the scowl on Danny’s face...

Had they been hoping Constantia would make a portrait so awful, it would ensure his matrimonial efforts would fail? But that would mean they didn’t want him to—

No, that couldn’t be. If he didn’t marry, they would all have nothing.

He’d ask Eddie. She was unfailingly honest. And as luck would have it, she was headed toward him now, arm in arm with her curate.

Before Alistair could speak, Forster did. “Ryland, there’s something we should discuss.”

It could have been their plans to assist the most unfortunate residents in the village. But Alistair had the awful feeling it was their marriage plans instead. Awful not because he opposed them. Eddie’s happiness—all his sisters’ happiness—had always been his first concern. But awful because, if they were finally ready to proceed, it must mean they assumed he was about to succeed. About to bring home a wealthy wife.

Thanks to Constantia’s portrait.

“One moment,” he said to Forster, turning away even as he spoke. “Danny?” He found her nearly where he’d left her, now standing alone. “What did you mean when you said a portrait like that ? What did Harry mean when she said she thought Constantia was on your side?”

A frown wrinkled between her dark eyebrows; clearly she did not wish to answer. But after a moment, she breathed in sharply through her nose and said, “I had thought Miss Cooper might do you an injustice.”

“She would never—”

His sister spoke across him. “Because I rather thought she fancied you herself. And I—we—had persuaded ourselves you fancied her in turn.”

“Whatever gave you that idea?” he asked, even as he feared the unsteadiness of his voice must be giving away his feelings.

“Your pointed refusal to be in company with her first suggested the notion to Freddie and Georgie. I myself have observed both your and her expressions whenever the other is spoken of. And most important, you had always refused the idea of a drawing master until now. Harry told me she knew it could not be for her sake, so it must be for Miss Cooper’s—or for your own.”

In short, having five sharp-eyed sisters had been his undoing—but also, perhaps, his salvation?

“So,” he said, “you did want the portrait to be a failure, to thwart Aunt Josephine’s plans.”

Danny’s dark eyes were incredulous, pleading. “I don’t care about the portrait. Or anything else. We wanted—want—you to be happy.”

Happy? Easy enough to say. But poverty would be much harder to bear.

He had to talk to Constantia. Had to ask her—

Had to know.. .

He glanced toward the rector, but she had already moved on from that conversation. His eyes darted from group to group, and then to the corners of the room. She was nowhere to be found.

“Excuse me.” Abruptly he stepped past Danny and headed for the door. Aunt Josephine called after him, but he pretended not to hear. Nothing mattered but getting to Constantia before she left Rylemoor for good.

He raced through the house, his eyes searching everywhere he passed, just in case he was wrong. Charging up a spiral staircase faster than a marauding knight, he burst through the door. “Constantia?”

In the schoolroom, all was dark. But might she be in the governess’s quarters just beyond? He thought he saw a flicker of light. As he hurried across the floor, his thigh collided with the corner of a table and he swore, none too softly. The oath echoed in the schoolroom’s silence. No one emerged from the adjoining bedchamber, either to chide him or to see that he was all right. Still, he pressed on and pushed open the door without pausing to knock.

Except for furnishings and a single candle left burning, the room was empty. The wardrobe door was ajar—no sign of her things within. And across the neatly made bed lay the golden gown she’d been wearing. He swore again and had turned to continue his search elsewhere when something caught his eye.

A piece of paper had been pinned to the wall above the table. A drawing. He took it down and held it up to his eyes, trying to make it out. He recognized the jagged spire of the church and the long, low lines of the house. But the sketch was unfinished.

He clutched the picture in his hand, heedless of wrinkling the paper. Surely, she wouldn’t go without—

The studio.

He knew the odds of finding her there were long. The storm predicted by the curate had begun to rattle the windows. She would not have wanted any delay in setting out.

Nevertheless, he dashed back across the schoolroom, down the stairs, and through the abbey to the cloisters. Wind whipped icy rain into his face. On the door to the west wing, the padlock hung open.

She might have come and gone, he cautioned his racing heart. But if she had left for good, wouldn’t she have closed the lock behind her?

It was a slight hope, but he clung to it as he picked his way through the rubble and across the moss-slick stones to the stairs.

In sharp contrast to the blazing candelabras in the drawing room, the equally large studio was lit by a single lamp, whose glow barely penetrated the gloom. Her valise sat open on the table. She was gathering up various fragments of papers, sketches, supplies, sorting them into piles. Though his approach had been muffled by the howl of the storm, when he paused on the threshold, she looked up.

She didn’t seem surprised to see him. Neither did she exactly seem pleased.

“I thought certain your guests would distract you a little longer.”

“You can’t leave now,” he said, closing the distance between them. “You can’t leave things”—he gestured with the sketch of the abbey crumpled in his clenched fist—“unfinished.”

She glanced from him to the paper and back again. “Some pictures are like that. Sometimes you begin a work with a grand plan in your mind. Other times it seems to grow beneath your hand with a will of its own. And then, just when you’re sure you’ve got it, the perfect rendering of everything in your head...or your heart...you”—her shoulders rose and fell, as if she wasn’t sure of the right word—“you stumble. Perhaps you’re interrupted. Or a crucial line refuses to lay right, no matter how you try. The spark fizzles. You set it aside, vowing to finish it another day.” Mournfully, she shook her head. “But that day never comes.”

Then she turned away and began placing things in her bag. “You haven’t said—how do you like your portrait?”

“Is that how you see me?”

Even in profile, he could see the wicked smile that lifted the corners of her mouth. “This is how I see you,” she said, sliding another piece of paper toward him. He knew without looking that it was the nude sketch she had made on that fateful afternoon, after they had given in to their desires. “But I didn’t want to give your aunt an apoplexy.”

“I don’t want it,” he told her, pushing it back across the table to her. It would only resurrect uncomfortable memories, things better forgotten.

She put a few more items in her valise and then closed it, leaving the sketch where it lay. “A picture like that should stay with its subject, rather than risk having it fall into the wrong hands.”

“You can’t go,” he insisted again, pleading now. “There’s a terrible storm brewing.”

“I know. That’s a good thing. It will mean fewer people out and about.”

Was she still afraid she was being followed? “This is madness. We had a plan.”

“ You had a plan,” she countered, plucking up her mantle from a nearby chair and draping it over her shoulders and the simple woolen dress she now wore. “Correction, you have a plan—and it cannot include me.”

Desperate, he stepped between her and the door. “But I—I love you.”

He could see how valiantly she fought to keep all expression from her face. But hope swelled in his chest when her eyes flared, catching the meager light.

“Do you know why I went to Exeter?” he asked.

One brow arced. “Other than to avoid seeing me?” He could not help but wince at that—she wasn’t entirely wrong. “To speak with a solicitor,” she amended her answer. “Or so I was told.”

“To see if there was some other way for me to—to—” It was too much to put into words. He gestured again with the hand holding the crumpled sketch, toward the east wing of the abbey and his family.

“And was there?”

Hope sputtered, like a guttering candle. Reluctantly he shook his head. “But still, I could—”

“You could not. More important, you would not. Because to do any such thing would jeopardize the future of Rylemoor and your dear sisters. It would be selfish—and, unlike your father, you are not a selfish man.”

Then she hoisted up the bag with both hands—though she still favored her injured wrist, he saw—and prepared to go around him. She was close enough now that he could see the tears glittering in her eyes when she looked up into his.

“Do you know why I painted you in profile? Because I could not bear to think of some girl standing in front of that picture, fancying you were looking at her—looking at her the way you once looked at me.” It was, he thought, her way of confessing that she loved him too. “Goodbye, Alistair.”

Then she stepped past him and out the door.

Every fiber of his being screamed at him to stop her. But her fierce independence was one of the things he loved most.

He let her go.