Anne Barbour (23 page)

"It's splendid!" exclaimed Seth involuntarily. "I would never have thought that London could provide such a colorful vista, but you have made it all entirely natural. It makes one believe that when the sun is shining, the city becomes almost habitable."

How comfortable this was, Seth thought suddenly. He could not remember ever enjoying himself so in the company of a woman. With Eden he did not find it necessary to invent conversation. It flowed naturally between them like a laughing stream, frivolous and sparkling and lifting the spirit in an effervescent spray. He was not obliged to ply her with empty compliments or the latest
on dits.
Nor did he need to guard his tongue against a word or phrase that might wound her sensibilities.

Eden, as though sensing his thoughts, sobered and lifted her brows questioningly. A faint flush rose to her cheeks, and he castigated himself for allowing his pleasure in her company to lead him into dangerous territory. Dammit, why did he, known throughout London for his composure and cool objectivity, so lose himself when he was with this perfectly ordinary, if dazzlingly talented, young woman?

"At any rate," he said briskly, "from what you say, it sounds as though you are meeting with great success in your new career."

"Mmm, hmm. I cannot believe how well my paintings are selling. Particularly when only a few months ago Mr. Rellihan was telling me there was no market for my work." She glanced at Seth from under her lashes. "I wonder if my
succes de fou
might have anything to do with an art purchase or two made recently by the Duke of Derwent?"

"I beg your pardon?" asked Seth, striving for an expression of bewildered innocence.

"None of that, now, my lad," responded Eden. "Your aunt happened to mention last night that her brother has acquired the oddest painting and insisted on hanging it in a prominent position in his library. 'Flowers!' she said. 'But, my dear, they look to me like nothing such much as a handful of fireworks stuck in a vase.' A description remarkably similar to what Mama said on beholding my
Summer Poppies,
which, I might add, was among the works I delivered to Mr. Rellihan not two weeks ago."

"My father," said Seth with great dignity, "is a great proponent of the avant-garde. He likes to search out the work of promising young artists who explore new expression. I suppose it is possible that he saw your work in Rellihan's gallery—"

Eden burst into laughter. "Oh, Seth, you are the most complete hand. Your father seems to me as likely to delve into the avant-garde as he is liable to search through the writings of Thomas Paine to augment his library. But, I do thank you, dear friend," she added, once more becoming serious. "I am not above taking advantage of the Duke of Derwent's position in the Polite World—nor of yours. I am quite sure that a judicious remark or two from the duke's perspicacious man of affairs carries enormous weight."

"In some areas, perhaps," Seth replied shortly. "Let me assure you, however, that my influence in the Polite World is nil."

So abrupt was his tone that Eden glanced at him in surprise. "Are you angry that I refer to your standing in society? I meant no insult."

He laughed harshly. "I perceive no insult on your part, but you must know that my status in the
beau monde
is only slightly higher than that of the average tinker."

Eden's eyes widened. "There you go again, denigrating the contribution you've made to the duke's family. Surely, you have earned their respect and that of the rest of the
ton."

"I am the son of an army sergeant, and I will never be allowed to forget that."

"You certainly won't," Eden snapped, "particularly if you do not allow yourself to forget." She stared at him in astonishment. Did he truly perceive himself as an outcast? Did he not believe himself to be secure in his position as family member to one of the highest-ranking peers in the realm? In addition, he had attained a comfortable degree of success on his own merit. What was he talking about? Son of an army man or no...

"I'm sorry," he said awkwardly. "I did not mean to vent my spleen in such a manner. Let us dispense with the dismal subject of my antecedents." He took a watch from his waistcoat pocket. "Actually, I must leave you now so you may put the finishing touches on your street scene. I am due in the City in less than an hour."

"Of course." Eden took up a cotton rag to remove some of the paint residue and gave him her hand. "Will I see you at the concert at Brentwood House tomorrow?" She was dismayed at the pleading tone she heard in her voice, and to her further discomfiture, she put forth a hand to touch his sleeve. "You had mentioned—"

His arm felt rigid beneath her fingers, and his face closed. "No. That is, I'm afraid I'm engaged elsewhere. I'm not sure when I shall see you again. Press of business, you know. No, don't bother," he added as Eden moved to accompany him from the room. "I can see my own way out."

With a brusque nod, he was gone, leaving Eden to stare after him.

Chapter Eighteen

Outside the house, Seth stood for a moment, gasping as though he had just gone ten rounds with Gentleman Jackson. Lord, what was the matter with him? Eden had put forth the merest tendril of invitation, and he had reacted like a maiden about to be ravished.

Slowly, he mounted his waiting curricle, greeting his tiger curtly. He had made the decision to enjoy his friendship with Eden. Had he now been driven to panic at the thought of raising the level of their relationship from friendship to something stronger? No, of course not—at least, not precisely. He told himself firmly that he merely did not wish Eden to grow accustomed to his presence in her life. He had helped her establish a position as an artist. This was not simply because he liked the young woman, but because it was a crime against nature that her extraordinary talent should go unnoticed.

By the time he started up Ludgate Hill on his journey to the Royal Exchange, he had convinced himself that his behavior just now had, under the circumstances, been unexceptionable. Actually, he had behaved wisely in disabusing Miss Beckett of any notion that, despite the intimacies they had shared, he was likely to forget his station in life. Certainly, he had impressed upon her the impossibility of any future commitment between them. He hoped he had not hurt her by his abrupt departure, and he would see her again—here and there and from time to time.

He should have felt relieved, but, searching within, he could find only a dismal, hollow sensation—a frightening loneliness that an hour's worth of negotiations with several stock jobbers did nothing to dispel.

In her studio, Eden puttered distractedly. After a futile few minutes trying to infuse an atmosphere of Mediterranean gaiety into her London street scene, she abandoned the attempt. Covering the canvas, she retired to a chair overlooking the subject of her endeavors and stared blankly at the passersby.

What the
devil
had come over Seth? She had merely asked a civil question, but one would have thought she had suggested an assignation in a brothel. Well, yes, it must be admitted that her voice had been warm with invitation, for she had come to believe that Seth reciprocated her feeling for him. She had, without thinking, assumed he would welcome her covert suggestion that she looked forward to seeing him again. Perhaps ... perhaps she should not have allowed herself to brush his hand with hers. She rose to pace the narrow confines of the garret room. How utterly humiliating to have thrust her attentions on a gentleman who did not welcome them! And how shattering, she reflected sadly, to have them so bluntly rebuffed. How could she have been so mistaken in Seth's feelings for her?

Because the dratted man had kissed her—twice—in a fashion that had left little doubt in her mind that he found her desirable. And, like a naive schoolgirl, she had busily begun grafting air castles that had no foundation in reality. How very stupid she had been. Well, she told herself briskly, Seth Lindow had just made it perfectly plain that he had no interest in a romance with a spinster of meager attributes. And, if that's the way he wanted it, so be it. Fine. Suppressing with great effort an urge to bury her head in her lap and wail like an abandoned child, she rose and returned to her easel. Ignoring the portrait of Seth, she immersed herself for the rest of the morning in her street painting, and though she was not entirely happy with the results, she congratulated herself on making progress, in more ways than one.

Seth's day progressed in much the same fashion. He felt rather like a man who has lived on the verge of starvation for some weeks—light-headed, hollow, and unable to concentrate on matters at hand. Despite the malaise that plagued him, however, he realized that he must address the problem he had refused to face for some days.

He strode into his father's study later that afternoon to find the duke perusing
The Gentleman's Magazine.
He raised his head at Seth's entrance with no great sign of pleasure.

"Well, then, I wondered when you'd come to see me."

"Sir?"

"We decided some three weeks ago that the Beckett chit was the most likely candidate for Bel's offer, yet nothing seems to be going forward. Your aunt, using God knows what method of coercion, had bludgeoned Bel into attending functions where he ordinarily wouldn't be caught dead. I've seen him talking to Miss Beckett—well, both Miss Becketts actually. I've dropped a word or two in Beckett's ear, and he seems receptive, but so far the girl—the older Miss Beckett—seems to show no interest—nor does Bel in her. I am not satisfied with the progress that is being made, and I want to know what you plan to do about this, Seth."

Seth drew a long breath and moved to stand directly before the duke. "I plan to do nothing," he said clearly.

For a moment, the duke said nothing, merely staring disbelievingly at his son.

"Nothing!" he barked, at last.

"Yes, Your Grace. Nor do I intend to in the future. I'm sorry. I regret that things are not working out in your quest to find a bride for Bel, but I must inform you now that I shall no longer take part in that quest."

During this speech, the duke seem to have swollen to twice his size. It was not often His Grace had become angry with Seth in his early years—not because he held the young Seth in particular affection, but because it was obvious he felt no obligation to take a hand in the boy's development. Now, however, his face reddened much in the same fashion it used to on the rare occasions he found it necessary to punish the lad for some childhood transgression.

"What are you saying?" the older man roared.

"Father, you know what we're doing is wrong. After our discussion on the subject of Bel, I did as you asked. I scoured the marriage man for eligible females, and when I found one, like a faithful beagle, I trotted her out for you and laid her at your feet, so to speak. When it turned out she wasn't suitable, after all, I dutifully turned to her older sister. But then ..." Seth paused. He smiled painfully. "I suppose I was struck at last with whatever is left of my conscience. Father, we cannot possibly induce her—or any other female—to marry Bel. It would be like staking a lamb to snare a beast of the forest."

The duke drummed his fingers several moments on the desk before replying. "Seth," he said at last, in a voice like splinters of steel, "we've been over this. Bel must marry. He may not make an ideal husband, but, provided she stays out of his way, he has a great deal to offer a young woman. He will have one of the most prestigious titles in the country, he's wealthy, and we're prepared to offer a more than generous settlement on her family. Lord, Beckett fairly slavers when I hint that we might find his daughter acceptable for Bel."

"Dear God, you've done that?"

"Well, I haven't made an outright offer, but I've cast out the merest lure. From what you've told me, he's none too plump in the pocket, and it's my belief he'd very much like to be."

"Yes, I think you're right, but have you considered, Father, the young woman herself? Or any young woman married to Bel? You say she'd have to stay out of his way. That's all well and good, but if Bel decrees otherwise, that course would be closed to her. Father, you know Bel. He'd be like a little boy with a new kitten. In the beginning, assuming he was pleased with his bride, he'd be all attention. But he'd soon begin tormenting her—at first playfully, then in earnest, until she became either a pitiful lunatic or dead. Only when he tired of her would she know any respite, and even then, she'd be at his mercy any time he happened to think of her."

By now the duke was white around the mouth.

"This is Bel of whom we're speaking, Seth. I think you forget that. He is my son. The heir to a dukedom, and it is not for the likes of—"

By now Seth was angrier than he had ever allowed himself to be toward his father. He stepped forward with clenched fists. "I know my place, Father. At your beck and call and service, as I have always been. I know what I owe to you, and believe me, I am grateful, but I... cannot... do this."

"Curse your impudence, boy. You
will do
as I say!"

"Not this time. Father. I regret this more than I can say, and you may wish to toss me out on my ear. Long ago, I placed myself at your service, and I believe I have been of benefit to you. I have no desire to defy you, but I cannot do this." He paused and said in a softer tone. "I think that on reflection you must see that it would be beneath you to be a part of ruining the life of an innocent young girl. You have an heir, you know. Young Jack is not—"

The duke waved an impatient hand. "Pah! Jack! My brother's son is an effeminate milksop who would bring the line to ruination. For one thing, I seriously doubt if he could bring another Lindow from his loins. In any event, he is not of my blood—although," he concluded with a certain benevolent contempt, "I don't expect you to see the importance of that."

The insult made no impact on the scar tissue Seth had acquired over the years. He merely replied wearily, "Of course, I realize its importance, and I am truly sorry that—for the first time, I think—I cannot reconcile your desires with my conscience."