Anne Barbour (8 page)

"Zoë!" exclaimed Lady Beckett helplessly, as she seemed to do so often.

"I said," barked Lord Beckett, banging his hand on the table, "we will hear no more about it."

Zoë jumped up from her chair, furious tears glittering in her eyes. "Yes, we will, too! Much more. For, I... want.... some ... new
gowns.
And I mean to have them!"

Flushed with rage, she ran from the room, nearly knocking over her chair as she did so. In the appalled silence that followed her exit, Seth was aware that Eden's gaze had fallen to her lap. Her cheeks flamed as well, but not, he felt, with rage. He was seated across the table from her, and he knew an urge to go to her, to take her hands in his. Looking quickly away, Seth glanced at his host and hostess in some astonishment. Was it Zoë's habit to engage in such tactics to gain her own way? And were Lord and Lady Beckett in the habit of accepting such behavior?

Evidently so, as became almost immediately obvious.

"Oh dear," sighed Lady Beckett.

"Unmanageable chit," muttered Lord Beckett.

"Perhaps, dearest," said Lady Beckett after a moment, "since it seems to mean so much to her..."

"Tchah!" was Lord Beckett's response. He added after a moment. "I'll think about it."

Good God, thought Seth, was this the young woman he thought to present to Father as the future Marchioness of Belhaven?

Good God, thought Eden. She was ready to sink with mortification. Not only had Zoë treated Mr. Lindow to an outrageous display of temper, but her parents had presented themselves as completely ineffectual in disciplining their youngest daughter. It did not matter, of course, what Mr. Lindow thought of her family, but to so reveal themselves to a stranger was the outside of enough.

She glanced across the table to find Seth grinning ruefully at her. She could find no contempt in his gaze, only a smiling empathy that somehow warmed her. She supposed that the urbane Mr. Lindow must be taken aback by very little, and for this she was grateful.

After dinner. Lord Beckett bore Mr. Lindow away for a game of billiards, leaving Lady Beckett to commiserate with her oldest daughter over the behavior of her youngest.

"I just don't know what will become of her," moaned Lady Beckett. "She thinks to find a lord in London, or even a viscount."

Or a duke's son,
thought Eden acerbically.

"She treats the young men hereabouts so dreadfully," continued her mother, "that I just know many of them have already turned away. If she keeps on the way she's going, she will end up without a husband, just like—"

She caught herself, and lifted a hand to her mouth. "Oh, dearest, I did not mean—"

Eden chuckled. "It's all right. Mama. Spinsterhood suits me, but you're right. It would not do for Zoë."

"Mr. Lindow seems quite interested in her. Do you think... ?" Lady Beckett raised her colorless brows hopefully.

"I doubt if Mr. Lindow would meet Zoë's criteria for a mate, even if he were to propose tomorrow." Eden was surprised at the uncomfortable twinge that snaked through her at the thought.

Lady Beckett's shoulders sagged, but then she brightened. "But, do you not think he would do nicely for you, dearest? He is lowborn, of course, but I think perhaps we should not let that weigh with us ... in view of his, er, connections," she finished delicately.

"What!" gasped Eden. She felt herself blushing to the roots of her hair. "Really, Mama! Mr. Lindow has come here in search of horses, not a bride. I'm sure if he were seeking one, our tiny corner of the world is the last place he would think to look. He may be only the adoptive son of a duke, but I'm sure he can look as high as he pleases for a
parti."

Lady Beckett sighed. "I don't know about that, but—do you think Zoë really has a chance of snaring a peer? That is," she amended hastily, "I would not have her marry for position, but as I've heard it said, one can fall in love just as easily with a rich man as a poor man. Zoë is such a taking little, thing, I'm sure—"

"Yes, she might. She might also gravitate toward precisely the worst kind of man." Eden's thoughts again went to the Marquess of Belhaven. "You know the possibilities of getting up to no good in London are almost endless."

"There is that, of course. However, I shall be there, and you..."

"I'll do my best. Mama," replied Eden, "but I would so much rather stay here."

"Ah," spoke a voice from the doorway. "You have no desire to partake of the delights of the Metropolis, Miss Beckett?"

Eden whirled to observe Mr. Lindow enter the room, with her father close behind. The gentlemen had concluded their game, he explained, and were now ready for a spot of tea, or perhaps something more fortifying.

"You dislike London, Miss Beckett?" repeated Seth, after the game had been replayed, with vigorous commentary, for the benefit of the ladies.

"Oh, no," replied Eden. "1 enjoy the galleries and museums—as Zoë said—and the shopping and the parks. It is the endless social round that I cannot abide. One sees the same persons night after night, and the conversation is always the same, with the result that one stands about mouthing the most tedious nothings to persons who are bored with them before one even begins. I do enjoy the dancing, though," she added as an afterthought.

"Of course," he said softly, and Eden knew without knowing why that he was recalling the dance they had shared at Lady Saltram's ball. She felt her cheeks heat again and reflected angrily that she had blushed more often since the arrival of Mr. Lindow than she had during the entire previous year.

The tea tray made its appearance then, after which the Becketts and their guest sought their beds.

Morning came early, and Seth greeted it less than enthusiastically. He was beginning to have grave doubts about the suitability of Miss Zoë Beckett as a bride for his tiresome younger brother. Moreover, except for Eden Beckett, he was finding the occupants of Clearsprings more than somewhat trying. He would make a decision within a day or two, he decided, and return to London.

After dressing, he made his way to the stables and after an invigorating gallop felt his spirits rise. He rode into the wood, but did not see Eden there. On his return, surprisingly disappointed and feeling rather at loose ends, he headed for me nursery wing. When he reached the schoolroom, he tried the door, only to find it locked. He turned away to retrace his steps to the lower floors, but was stayed by the sound of footsteps approaching. He experienced an odd surge of pleasure as Eden approached. How did she always manage to look so impossibly neat? wondered Seth. Not a hair was out of place, and her simple muslin morning gown of a muted amber, while not particularly becoming, was crisp and fresh.

She lifted her glossy brows on observing him at the door to her sanctum, and Seth launched into an awkward explanation of his presence.

"... and since your father is busy with a matter brought to him by one of his tenants, I thought I would inflict my company on you for a few moments. I had hoped to observe you at your painting, if that would not discompose you. I know some artists cannot bear to be watched."

"I... I don't know," she replied after a moment. "No one has ever wished to do so. But, do come in."

She unlocked the door and ushered him inside. It soon became obvious that she found his presence unsettling. After gesturing him to a comfortable chair near the window, she fiddled with her brushes for a moment and repositioned the easel.

"I would offer you some refreshment, but there is no bellpull in this room—and in any event, I do not like to encourage the servants to come up here. However—" From a small cupboard nearby, she produced a flask half full of a murky liquid. "I do have some lemon water." She eyed it dubiously.  "It's been here awhile."

"Mm, yes. I believe I'll pass," he said solemnly. "I am not very thirsty, you see."

"No, I don't suppose you are," Eden returned with equal gravity, glancing again at the lemon water. "Well, then—"

"If you don't mind, I'll just peruse this volume on, ah,
Analysis of Beauty.
Since it was written by Hogarth, it should be worth investigating."

"Oh, yes, Hogarth is one of my favorites. The last time we were in London, I studied his
Shrimp Girl
for hours at the Royal Academy Gallery. He has the most marvelous gift for portraying the character and personality of his subjects."

She turned to arrange her subject, a bouquet of wild flowers that had been thrust with deceptive carelessness into a crude pottery pitcher. As Eden seated herself at her easel, however, an idea occurred to her.

"I wonder ..." she said to Seth. "Instead of your simply sitting there, occupying yourself with a book in which I'm sure you have little interest, would you consider posing for me?"

Seth gaped. "Me? You want me to pose for a portrait?"

"Well, yes—but I'd like it to be more of a study. In pastels, I think, since there will not be time to do an oil painting. Frankly, I rarely have an opportunity to draw males, and—and oh, the facial planes, the clothing, and even the curve of the hair."

"Of course," said Seth in some amusement. "Would you like me to remove my coat?"

Eden blushed to the roots of her hair. "Oh, no! That wouldn't be ... Or..." She almost gasped at her own temerity. "Yes, that would be most... instructive. No, leave the waistcoat," she added hurriedly as he slid out of his elegantly tailored coat of superfine and began on the buttons of a superb waistcoat of mulberry silk. "It will make a nice contrast to all that white. Now, if you will just sit right here. I think we will face you three-quarters away from the light. Yes, just right. With this piece of pasteboard as a reflector. And, if you would not mind, may we dispense with the cravat, as well?"

Once more astonished at her own boldness, she took the cravat from him, and when he put his fingers to the three buttons that closed his shirt, she nodded encouragingly. When the muscular column of his throat was exposed, she gazed unabashedly and reached to grasp him lightly by the shoulders. Seth glanced at her in some startlement, but she merely turned him this way and that until he was posed to her satisfaction.

Really, Eden thought dazedly, whatever did she think she was about—closeting herself with a gentleman not related to her? She had all but forced him to disrobe for her, and she had never been in the presence of a man in such a state of dishabille. If anyone were to come upon them—well, such a circumstance was highly unlikely, but it would be disastrous if she and Seth were discovered behind closed doors. Before seating herself, Eden moved to fling open the schoolroom door. And when, she reflected distractedly, had she started thinking of him as Seth rather than Mr. Lindow? She had been uncomfortably conscious of the warmth of his skin and the taut frame beneath her fingers, a reaction she certainly had not experienced when posing the little Stebbins boy or the Matchingham sisters.

She gave herself a shake and turned her mind firmly to the business at hand. For an hour, she worked to create a likeness of Seth on a square of drawing paper. At her suggestion, he rolled up the sleeves of the shirt, and she marveled at the strength of his forearms, so like and yet so different from the anatomy of the female arm. She even found a certain beauty in the very maleness of his musculature. How wonderfully utilitarian in form, yet how perfect. She would very much like, she confessed to herself, to see Mr. Lindow in the altogether, completely free from the encumbrance of his clothing. What a study that would make! For she was sure the rest of the body so irritatingly concealed by shirt, trousers, and boots would prove every bit as fascinating as those arms and that throat.

By now, she considered, she should have been blushing again, but she felt no shame in her musings. After all, Mr. Lindow was merely another intriguing subject for her art—admittedly a superior specimen, but still—just an object. The human body was beautiful in form. The fact that she wished to see that form whole and complete in its purity she considered in no way shameful. Had she not wished to disrobe the greengrocer's daughter—she of the creamy skin tints and lush figure? That desire, too, had sprung from the simplest of motives. As an artist she was interested in beautiful shapes, and the human body was surely the most intriguing of all.

This, of course, did not account for the sudden warmth that flooded her belly as she gazed on the particular shape seated before her at the moment. Well, she supposed she must take into account a spinster's natural unfamiliarity with a not-quite-fully-clothed male, and the social prohibitions that such a situation implied. That must be what caused her to catch her breath when the sunlight created those marvelous glints in the depths of his dark hair.

After a while, her maidenly flutterings subsided, and she was able to chat easily with her subject.

'Tell me, Mr. Lindow," she said during a pause in the conversation, "do you enjoy living in Derwent House rather than in your own lodgings? You must feel rather limited in your social activities."

"Since my social activities are practically nil, I do not notice much curtailment. Actually, I enjoy living in the duke's home. All my needs are supplied."

"I see," replied Eden, who did not see at all. Most bachelors of her acquaintance preferred living on their own. Mr. Lindow, in particular, was of an age at which he would surely wish to set up his own establishment. A thought occurred to her. "I suppose," she said without thinking, "your father must prefer to have you with him. Otherwise, it would be lonely for him, with all his family gone."

Mr. Lindow stared at her blankly for a long moment before uttering a bark of laughter. "Miss Beckett, my father scarcely knows I'm in the house, except when he wants me for some task."

He had no sooner spoken than he frowned as though he could have bitten his tongue. He changed the subject swiftly to a more innocuous topic. Eden followed his lead, but kept her own counsel.

They talked of many things after that. Mr. Lindow proved knowledgeable on a remarkable range of subjects, and did not seem to think it odd that she enjoyed talking of something other than the weather or the latest
on-dits
in London. He was also possessed with a sense of the ridiculous, and the hour passed in a companionable conversation on art, literature, politics, and the absurdities of the royal family.