Page 5 of The Quiet Wife (Stately Scandals #2)

Startled, Frances couldn’t quite stop her hand from going up to touch the curls gathered at her nape.

“That’s… very kind of you to say.” She wasn’t sure how to respond as she felt the heat in her cheeks rising. It was a rather personal remark from someone she had only just met, but oddly, not delivered in the way of a compliment or even an attempt at flirtation, more an… observation.

Whistler grinned. “That was terribly rude, wasn’t it? I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to offend, it’s just the colour. Sometimes I get carried away with beautiful colours. I’d wager it looks stunning when it’s down.”

Frances was used to dealing with uncomfortable situations from years of playing hostess, but she had no words to reply to a comment that was so intimate it should have been shocking, yet somehow it wasn’t. She stared at the man in front of her, unable to think of anything to say.

He laughed in a self-deprecating fashion and rubbed his hand over his face. “Lord, I’ve done it again. That was beyond rude, but you really are beautiful. Leyland is a lucky man. I hope you’ll forgive me.”

Frances ventured a half-hearted laugh that was pitched higher than she would have liked.

“Nothing to forgive, Mr Whistler. What woman would turn down such a generous compliment.” She hoped her cheeks were not as pink as they felt, but as Mr Whistler’s gaze roamed her face, she suspected they were.

“So,” he said briskly, thankfully moving on to safer ground. “How do you find living near Liverpool? Fascinating city, isn’t it?”

“Indeed,” Frances murmured, wishing she could tell him she had spent the early years of her marriage in the city, but knowing her husband would have apoplexy if she did.

Mr Whistler was staring again, so Frances cleared her throat.

“Sorry! Wool-gathering. Leyland has asked me to do some sketches whilst I’m here as well as look at maybe doing his portrait.” He looked at her intently. “Do you think I could sketch you?”

“I… if my husband permits, it might be possible,” she said, not entirely certain how Frederick would digest such an idea.

He nodded. “I shall ask him.”

“Perhaps the children?”

He raised his eyebrows. “Them too.”

“Darling do introduce us,” Lizzie appeared beside her, breaking the strange tension that was thickening the air between them. Relieved, Frances did the necessaries.

“I was just suggesting that I should sketch Mrs Leyland and her children,” Whistler remarked with an impish grin. “I can see delightful looks run in the family.”

Lizzie arched an eyebrow and skewered the artist with a look. “You have an interesting accent, Mr Whistler,” Lizzie said with a wry smile. “American?”

He laid a hand on his chest and bowed. “For my sins.”

“How did you find yourself in England?” Lizzie’s curiosity seemed genuine.

Frances listened with interest.

“My father was in the military, and we travelled a lot. I spent time in Russia and then we moved here. Sadly, he’s no longer with us, but my mother loves London, so here we are.”

He turned his attention back to Frances. “Do your children have your hair?”

Thrown by the sudden change of topic, she answered cautiously. “Some of them do, though some favour their father in colouring.”

Mr Whistler cupped his chin and shook his head. “What an absolutely capital idea,” a smile crept across his face.

“Ah, exactly what is a capital idea?” Frances asked, trying not to laugh. The man’s thoughts flitted about like a butterfly.

“I should paint you all! A study of you all would be simply magnificent.”

Frances cast a helpless glance at her sister, but Lizzie’s eyes were dancing with amusement.

***

Most of the guests took their leave to their rooms to rest awhile before dinner.

Whistler set off to his own with a last, lingering look at Mrs Frances Leyland.

Leyland’s wife was as sparkling and charming as Leyland was gloomy and abrupt.

How on earth had the two become a pair? Frances Leyland was quietly playing the part of hostess, but one didn’t have to look too hard to see a vibrant, colourful, wonderful creature hiding beneath all the hard layers of societal etiquette.

It was also easy to see there was some tension between husband and wife, though he suspected Leyland was oblivious to it. According to Rossetti, Leyland’s reputation wasn’t the best in these parts, and he was noted not only for an abruptness that bordered on uncivil, but for a shocking temper.

As he turned back to look at Frances Leyland, rays of late afternoon sun broke through the cloud and streamed through the window, lighting the room and causing his breath to catch in his throat.

Her skin glowed, and her hair… oh God, her hair.

His hands itched so badly he had to put them in his pockets.

He wanted to remove every pin and unwind all the coils of ringlets to let them cascade over her shoulders.

He’d wager they would fall as far as her waist. He wanted to sink his fingers into it, running them through like a waterfall.

Bury his face in it and inhale it. Then paint her.

God, he wanted to paint her. Again, and again and again…

He shook his head and looked away before she noticed. He’d already behaved like a dumb struck schoolboy once today.

Sometimes he set his eyes upon a subject and just knew. Knew that it would work. Knew it would be superlative. Knew he could do it justice.

He knew he could paint Frances Leyland.