Anne Barbour (6 page)

She was interrupted by Zoë's giggle. "Some might call it painting. We, however, usually refer to her efforts as flinging paint at a canvas."

Lord Beckett's laugh brayed forth. "Yes, you could say our Eden paints with more enthusiasm than talent."

Lady Beckett's bracelets clinked in distress. "Now, dearest, I'm not sure that's true. Why, I could clearly recognize the work she showed us yesterday as a bouquet of, um, daffodils, I think they were."

Seth absorbed these comments in some astonishment, particularly as it became apparent that Miss Beckett seemed in no way discommoded by this rude disparagement of her efforts. Instead, her engaging smile once again lit her face, and Seth noted with some surprise that the elder Miss Beckett could put her younger sister in the shade were she to dress more becomingly and learn how to flirt, just a bit—and display that magical smile to the world more often.

"In answer to your question, sir, yes, I do enjoy painting— and sketching. As you can see, my genius is not universally acknowledged, but I find it relaxing."

It seemed to Seth that a certain hidden excitement flashed in her expressive eyes, but the next moment, it was gone.

"Do you—?" he began, but apparently Miss Beckett did not wish to continue the subject.

"Do you reside in London all year, then?" she asked, before he could form his question.

Seth stared into her gaze, determined not to reveal any more of himself. What the devil had possessed him to babble on about his relationship with the duke? He usually kept such information buttoned deep within himself, yet tonight he had spilled his most sensitive memories to her and her whole damned family. He was uncomfortably aware that it was the gaze of a gray-eyed witch that had prompted his unwonted monologue, and it was to her that he had been speaking. He had the uncomfortable feeling that she had gleaned much more from his ramblings than had the rest of her family. Much more, in fact, than he intended.

He drew a deep breath. "Yes—I make my home in London, for the most part. When His Grace leaves to spend the summer months at his seat in Wiltshire, I usually accompany him, and spend a few days at The Priory. However, since most of my work takes place in London, that is where I spend the bulk of my time."

"Then, I hope you will take advantage of your sojourn in the country," said Eden. "To be sure, this is a rather slow time. It is too early for fairs and festivals, and too late for sleigh rides and ice skating and other winter fun, but I believe the trout are running in our brooks, are they not. Papa?" She glanced toward her father.

"Aye." Lord Beckett nodded. "And if you would care to take a gun out, sir, I think we can promise you some bird shooting, as well—wood pigeons, perhaps, and a rabbit or two."

"It all sounds enticing," replied Seth, "but I shall not be here for much outside a week, so that—"

"Oh, no!" exclaimed Lady Beckett with a quaver. "I have planned two dinner parties and a musicale, and I have promised several people that I would bring you—that is, we have been invited to gatherings at neighbors' homes, to which I am sure you would like to accompany us."

Lord, thought Seth ruefully, the Becketts were indeed planning to show him off, as Moppe had predicted, like a prize pig. To his surprise. Miss Beckett spoke up at that point.

"Now, Mama, I'm sure our friends will survive without Mr. Lindow's presence at their dinner parties. We cannot expect him to leave His Grace's affairs dangling just to rusticate here."

Seth glanced at her gratefully and nodded his head in agreement. "No matter how pleasant the rustication," he added dutifully.

After dinner, following a mercifully brief session with the port decanter in Lord Beckett's company, Mr. Lindow was entertained musically by the Misses Beckett. Zoë sang in a light, sweet soprano, accompanied by her sister on the pianoforte, after which their positions were reversed. Eden's voice was neither so sweet nor so high as Zoë's, but her tone was true, and she sang one or two country songs with a simple sincerity that greatly enhanced at least one listener's enjoyment.

Afterward, Seth refused Lord Beckett's genial offer of a hand of piquet, pleading the rigors of a long journey and the afternoon's excursions. Embroidering on this theme, he yawned once or twice, and soon declared that it was time he took to his bed.

"Well!" exclaimed Zoë when he had departed. "I had no idea Mr. Lindow was a gentleman of such importance. Fancy his being a duke's son—almost. It's too bad he is not the heir," she added, "for I think he was rather taken with me."

"Of course he was, dearest," said her fond mama. "And if you ask me, you could do worse. While he doesn't have a title and does not give the appearance of a wealthy man, it stands to reason, if he's made himself so useful to the duke, that he will come in for a tidy inheritance."

"Yes, but—" Zoë pouted.

"Yes, but you'd rather have the heir," finished her papa matter-of-factly. "Well, let me tell you, if you have any intention of sniffing after the marquess, you may as well put that notion in your bonnet and leave it there. The heir to the Duke of Derwent can look as high as he pleases for a bride—even in the royal stable."

"Dearest!" cried Lady Beckett, scandalized.

Lord Beckett shifted uncomfortably. "Well," he mumbled, "I believe in calling a spade a spade. In any event," he continued, his little eyes glittering shrewdly, "if I was you. Puss, I'd set my sights a little lower. An earl would do nicely, and if I'm not mistaken, the Breecham sprout is fair taken with you. Now, wouldn't that make the nobs sit up and take notice? Old Beckett's chick wed to an earl. And with a tidy settlement to go with it."

Eden gasped at the crudeness of her father's remarks, but Zoë merely giggled demurely. "I'll do my best, Papa."

At this, Eden rose to make her way to her bedchamber, reflecting that none of them had heard the last from Zoë on the subject of the Marquess of Belhaven. Zoë was rarely thwarted in her desires, and after meeting a gentleman so closely connected to a duke's heir, it was obvious that she meant to milk the association to the last drop.

Eden found herself ruminating at length on the mysterious Mr. Lindow. During the evening, she had again been struck by the notion that he posed some sort of threat to her well-being— or that of her family. Was it simply because he was so different from any man she had ever met before, with his harsh features and air of authority? Yet, she felt, inexplicably, that she knew him in a strange, impossible way. He had not looked at her often, but when he did, his gaze seemed to penetrate the center of her being. She was sure he was not in the habit of discussing his background or his relationship with the duke, as he had done tonight. All during his discourse, she had the oddest notion that he was speaking just to her.

She was being absurd, of course ... and yet... To her mind, his horse-buying story was a patent fabrication. According to her father, Mr. Lindow was reasonably knowledgeable in equine breeding and knew one end of the animal from the other. However, even if he were an acknowledged expert in the field, it seemed beyond the realm of possibility that a man of his responsibilities would have dropped everything for a week's holiday in the country.

At least, she thought, as she blew out her bedside candle, he would be leaving Clearsprings soon. Once he departed for his home in Grosvenor Square, they would not be likely to see him again and their lives would resume their routine.

Climbing into bed, she resolutely turned her face against her pillow. A harsh, arrogant face seemed to float just under the canopy, however, and it was many moments before her eyes closed in sleep.

Chapter Five

Seth came down to breakfast the next morning to discover that he was to hold center stage at a dinner party planned by his hostess for four days hence.

"But, I do not know if I shall be here then," Seth protested.

"Oh, dear!" exclaimed Lady Beckett. "We have invited all our friends and neighbors."

"Do please stay," said Zoë with an inviting pout.

"O'course, you must stay," put in Lord Beckett. "I forgot to tell you yesterday, but in addition to the stock I showed you, we have some fine Cleveland Bays. You won't see any finer carriage horses in the country."

"Surely, a few days won't make any difference in your schedule." Zoë smiled coquettishly, as though beckoning him to an assignation in the bushes. Lord Beckett beamed jovially.

"Um," Seth replied. He glanced around and, in an effort to turn the subject, asked, "Where is Miss Beckett this morning?"

"Oh." Zoë sniffed. "She probably breakfasted hours ago and is no doubt riding. She always sets out at a frightful hour, while everything is still damp and nasty." She rose from her place to move toward Seth. She fluttered her incredible lashes and wound a golden curl about her finger. "Since my father showed you most of our estate yesterday, Mr. Lindow, would you allow me to give you a tour of the house this morning? After you have breakfasted, of course."

"Ah," replied Seth, perspiring profusely. Lord, he should welcome an occasion to become better acquainted with Zoë, but the minx apparently intended to make full use of him as a path to the upper altitudes of the
ton.
He was not at all sure her methods would not stretch to a full-blown seduction. He rather thought that placing himself in such isolated proximity to her, particularly since they would no doubt be in and out of every bedroom in the house, might prove hazardous in the extreme.

"Actually," he said swiftly, "I usually go for a good gallop myself before breakfast." This was perfectly true, of course, and he blessed the impulse that had caused him to don riding breeches and top boots this morning. "May we postpone the tour until, say, later this morning?"

"Oh." Zoë seemed rather nonplussed. She was no doubt unused to refusals by gentlemen invited to spend an hour or two in her company. "Y-yes, of course. Perhaps later, although by then I may be otherwise occupied." She flounced from the room with a swish of her skirts, followed by her mother, as usual, stirring the air with her hands.

Lord Beckett, still at his place at table, took a noisy gulp of coffee and with a genial nod to his guest, immersed himself in his copy of
The Birmingham Inspector.

With some relief, Seth left the dining room and walked to the stables. There, the head groom personally saddled the bay gelding Seth had used for his outing the day before. Upon leaving the stable yard, Seth rode toward a forested area he had seen outlined against the horizon yesterday and within some minutes entered the little glade. It was quiet here, the only sound that of birds busy about their routine.

But no, someone was singing—a woman. Not one of the gentle songs she had sung last night, but a rollicking and not-altogether-proper sea chantey. As he moved farther into the woods, the sound stopped. Making his way toward the direction of the song, Seth soon came upon Miss Beckett. She was seated at a small easel upon which rested a square of canvas. In her hand, she held a palette, and her apron of coarse linen was liberally stained with the contents thereof.

She looked up at his approach and jumped to her feet.

"I thought I heard someone." She scrambled to collect her utensils.

"No, please," said Seth, "do not let me disturb you. I was just passing through."

He had intended to retreat gracefully and leave the embarrassed Miss Beckett to her efforts, but, his curiosity getting the better of him, he paused and urged his mount closer. The lady had evidently spoken the truth when she said she pursued her art with some seriousness. Did she have any talent? he wondered, or was her painting merely one of those avocations indulged in by spinsters to give some meaning to their lives?

Miss Beckett, evidently taking him at his word, turned back to her work. When he dismounted and moved toward her, she stiffened and placed a protective hand over the canvas.

"I don't mean to pry," said Seth reassuringly, though that was, he admitted to himself, precisely what he intended, "but I would very much like to see how you occupy yourself in your bower."

Miss Beckett, whom he had previously thought of as eminently self-possessed, blushed furiously and dropped a handful of brushes.

"Oh, no! I am the merest dauber. I'm sure you would not— That is, I do not like to show my work to others, and ... I was just about to leave." With trembling fingers, she tucked brushes into cases and paints into containers. When she stood to remove the canvas from the easel, however, Seth stayed her hand by the simple expedient of placing his own over hers. He glanced down in surprise. Her fingers, warm and slender, were unusually strong.

He laughed softly. "Now, dear lady, I am not a critic from the Royal Academy. I did some painting myself in my misspent youth, and simply wish to see the work of a fellow dabbler."

So saying, he gently turned the canvas toward him. The next moment, he drew in a startled breath.

"You painted this?" he whispered. He caught himself immediately. "Well, I mean, of course you did, but... Miss Beckett, this is positively astonishing."

Reverently, he examined the canvas. The painting depicted a single branch of a young tree. It was gracefully delineated by a shaft of sunlight against the darker green behind it. He turned to Eden. "But you are possessed by a truly remarkable talent."

For a moment, Eden gaped at him, nonplussed. She blushed again, feeling absurdly pleased at his encomium. "Do you really like it?"

Seth examined the sensuous curve of the branch, the swollen buds about to burst into new life.

"One can almost feel the rebirth taking place," he breathed. He swung once again to Eden. "With whom did you study, Miss Beckett? Your use of cyan is somewhat reminiscent of Constable, but your style seems to me unique. The tree is bare and stark, yet so tender."

"Yes, that is the feeling I was trying to convey," she said eagerly. Very few people had seen her paintings, and even fewer seemed to grasp the moods she endeavored to create.

"I have never studied under anyone," she added. "Well, I had a drawing master, when I was young, of course, but he usually laughed at my efforts. Kindly, of course. I have studied the work of others, though, and I purchased several books over the years on the theory of art and painting, which I perused most earnestly."