Page 28 of The Quiet Wife (Stately Scandals #2)

She didn’t consider herself vain, but she knew men found her attractive.

Men flirted with her all the time. But no-one had liked her enough to do something thoughtful.

Something nice. Like taking her for a walk when she felt down.

Like holding her hand and smiling at her.

Like taking her to the theatre because he knew it was one of her passions.

She watched the back of Jemie’s head as he walked, admiring the set of his shoulders and his narrow hips. He wasn’t strikingly tall like Frederick, but he was compact and energetic.

A tiny voice in her head told her to stop daydreaming but her thoughts were consumed by him as they made their way back to the house.

***

Jemie continued with his sketches until the need to capture Frances in paint became too overwhelming to resist.

He also needed to tell her some things about him. He wasn’t sure why; he rarely shared details of his life. He just knew that he did. It seemed wrong not to, especially when she had confided in him. He just needed to work out how best to approach it.

Ever since the walk with the sandwiches and lemonade a few days earlier, she had regarded him differently.

There was a quietness to the way she watched him.

A gentle longing in her gaze when she thought no-one was looking.

It seemed she was touched by small, thoughtful gestures like taking her to see a play she loved or taking her for a walk because she seemed downcast.

He prepared his paints and the easel, waiting anxiously for her to arrive.

Part of him wondered if he wouldn’t be better returning to London and finishing the portrait there to take Frances out of the scandal that was clearly brewing in Liverpool, thanks to her husband’s antics.

Leave him to fight the battles that loomed before him.

Let him ride like some kind of shipping Colossus over the businesses of Liverpool.

At least in London, she would be away from his outbursts and could enjoy more freedom.

But he worried that would only make things worse.

Frances and Lizzie arrived like giggling schoolgirls and disappeared behind the screen.

He tried as ever, in vain, not to imagine what she looked like beneath the garments that covered her so thoroughly and wondered why on earth he had chosen this particular kind of torture, having her undress mere inches from where he sat.

He’d long since dispensed with leaving the room whilst she disrobed behind the screen, so he waited patiently.

When Lizzie emerged with Frances clad in the gown he’d designed, she gasped.

“An easel!” A smile lit her eyes. “You’re ready to paint me?”

He bowed. “I am.”

“This is awfully exciting,” Lizzie hugged her sister and shocked him by rushing back, throwing her arms around him, and hugging him too before she took her leave.

He cleared his throat and looked at Frances, astounded by Lizzie’s actions.

“Oh, Jemie, you should have seen your face,” she teased between gales of laughter.

“It was a shock. I’m not used to well-bred young ladies throwing themselves into my arms.”

“I should think not,” she tutted, then burst out laughing again and Jemie had to laugh with her, the sound of her happiness was so infectious.

“Come,” he said after a while. “Let’s get started.” He led her by the shoulders and positioned her where he wanted her. Through the fine fabric, he could feel the tender warmth of her body.

He tilted her head and lifted her chin with one finger.

Neither of them were laughing any more. He wasn’t a great deal taller than she was, and their faces were close together.

So close he could smell her delicate perfume, the subtle scent of her skin.

He ached to stroke a finger down the softness of her cheek.

He hesitated for a moment. A moment filled with such promise as though Frances was waiting for him to do something. Neither moved for a heartbeat.

He was the one to break it. He stood away and cleared his throat and heard her catch her breath. In a strange way, it helped to know that she felt it too.

He busied himself with preparing the paints. Squeezing tubes onto his palette, mixing, daubing… messing. He glanced up at her, afraid of what he might see, but she smiled and he duly relaxed.

Inhaling deeply, he dipped the brush into the pale rose paint, standing before the blank canvas, and spreading the paint in a long, straight line. After that, he worked quickly, resolutely, and the first blocky image of Frances emerged before him.

A few strokes of the brush caught the line of her jaw, her eyes, and the tumble of her hair. He glanced at her, and his gaze tangled with hers for a moment before he broke it once more and returned to work. He’d no idea how long passed before she shifted and cleared her throat.

“Do you need a rest?” he queried.

“I thought you’d never ask. Have you seen the time?” She teased him with a wry smile.

He looked at the clock on the mantel. It had been over two hours.

“Christ, I’m sorry. You should have said something.” He put down the brush and hurriedly wiped his hands on a cloth.

“You appeared so deep in thought and so involved in the painting. I didn’t want to disturb you. Is it going well?”

He considered his work so far, a smile growing. “It is. It really is. It will be a glorious painting.”

Frances beamed at him and rang for tea.

“At this rate, you will have me finished in no time.”

He raised his eyebrows at that. “I sincerely doubt it. I foresee months of work in this.”

“Really? Am I so complicated?”

“Are you fishing for compliments?”

She looked shocked for a moment, but then she laughed.

When the tea arrived, they sat in companionable silence. Frances stroking one finger over the chair arm. He’d never met a woman with whom he could just be quiet and feel so contented with.

She broke the silence eventually. “Do you think our social standing will ever improve? After Frederick’s behaviour, I mean.”

Jemie knew she was conscious of her lack of social standing, having not been born into this kind of life. “I suspect things might be tense for a little while until he sorts it all out,” Jemie ventured.

“I fear you may be right,” she agreed.

He sipped his tea. “We could always return to London and leave him to fight it out. I can paint you in London just as easily as I can here.” He held his breath whilst she considered it.

The suggestion was dangerous, but he wanted her out of Leyland’s way for a while.

She clearly needed some respite from him because she was lighter when she wasn’t weighed down by his presence.

“I couldn’t leave with just you,” she said after a moment.

“True, but with Lizzie, my mother, and the girls, perhaps? Maybe Aunt Agatha and Miss Woodgrove could be persuaded?”

She bit her lip as she thought. “It would be awfully quiet in London, and hot.”

“And blissfully lacking in shipping magnates,” he added boldly.

For a moment, he thought she might agree, but the light dimmed, and it looked for a moment like her eyes might fill with tears. His heart clenched tightly in his chest.

“What? What is it?”

“I can’t leave him here alone. He’ll need me to act as his hostess whilst he tries to persuade everyone to his way of thinking. Besides, all the grand families leave the city for the countryside in the summer. It wouldn’t be the proper thing, so he’d never allow it.”

He knew it was true, but that didn’t stop the truth hurting. He swallowed down the words he wanted to say.

“You are too good to him,” he managed. Leyland didn’t deserve her. Not in the slightest.