Lady Jenny's Christmas Portrait (25 page)

Elijah turned his back on the duke, which was rude, but necessary if civilities were to be observed and His Grace’s Christmas decorations admired. “Her Grace would do better to show off Lady Jenny’s talents, my lord.”

A chair scraped back. “Jenny enjoys her dabbling, but I was rather hoping she might enjoy your company more. Was I mistaken?”

Behind the genial bonhomie of a doting father and relaxed host, Elijah heard a thread of ducal steel.

A cloved orange was beginning to turn brown in the middle of a wreath on the back of the study door. “We enjoy each other’s company, Your Grace, but you have to know your daughter is not content.”

Moreland came around the desk to stand beside Elijah at the window. “You’re not going to ask my permission to court her, are you?”

The honesty was unexpected, also a relief, like the cold radiating from the window provided relief from the fire’s cozy blast. “She would not welcome my suit. You underestimate your daughter’s devotion to her art.”

The duke snorted. “You’ve spent what, a couple of weeks with her, and you presume to tell me her priorities? I’ve known that girl since she first drew breath, Bernward. She’s no better at hiding her discontent from me than is her mother. The holidays are hard on them both is the trouble. Come calling when spring is nigh, and you’ll be well received. Both ladies are preoccupied now, with all the family underfoot and entertaining to be done.”

His Grace’s voice had dropped with that observation, revealing sadness and possibly bewilderment. The latter made him less a duke and more like a man who had many children to love but only a father’s resources with which to solve their problems.

“I expect to leave on Christmas Day at the latest, Your Grace. It’s time I went home to Flint Hall.” Outside, in the sprawling back gardens, a snowball fight was in progress. One was probably under way at Flint Hall as well.

“Your mother will be pleased to see you.”

His Grace had the most arrestingly blue eyes Elijah had ever beheld, also the most shrewd. “My father will not be glad to see me?”

“Oh, of course, though Flint will likely refer to it as relief rather than sheer joy—if he refers to it at all. You took Jenny out to the family plot the other day.”

Moreland was reputed to leap about like a March hare in his conversation, but Elijah grasped that the duke did little without premeditation—witness the impact of a complete verbal ambush on Elijah’s wits. “Lady Jenny and I went for a walk. I believe we were in view of the house for most of it.”

Though not when they’d come to the graveyard and Jenny had wept silent tears against Elijah’s chest.

“Her Grace and I remark the occasion of Victor’s passing with a visit to his grave, and we do as much for Bartholomew, my parents, and late brothers too. You mustn’t allow Jenny to feel obligated to make the same effort.”

The footprints Elijah had seen in the snow made more sense. Not servants, not even a duke and duchess, but rather, two parents whose heartache would never entirely abate where two of their sons were concerned.

“I sought to get her away from the paint fumes, Your Grace.” A lame answer, but the older man merely regarded the melee beyond the window, in which the women and children were administering a sound drubbing to the gentlemen.

“Jenny is lonely, Bernward. With all her family around her, she is yet lonely. To the extent your painting afforded her a distraction, you have my thanks.”

For a moment, Elijah considered the possibility that he’d been commissioned to paint the duke and duchess solely to distract Lady Jenny as the holiday approached and the Windham horde descended.

Not even Moreland could be that calculating, could he?

“You’re in correspondence with my father, Your Grace.”

“I am. He and I do not see eye to eye on the Catholic question. I am a staunch Tory but cannot find much threat in allowing Catholics to vote when so few of them hold land or wealth adequate to qualify them for the privilege. Moreover, the entire debate has gone on too long and taken up far too many resources, and Wellington both agrees with me and has a grasp of Irish politics that eludes many an English lord. Your father’s views are to the contrary.”

And for ten years, Elijah had been allowed to breathe paint fumes, when as successor to the Flint title, he ought to have been paying attention to issues such as this.

“Do you have any artistic inclinations, Your Grace?”

The duke turned back to his desk. “Her Grace is in charge of sweetness and light in this household, if that’s what you’re asking. I cannot sing, draw, paint, or otherwise account for whatever airs and graces my children claim. I plot and scheme to safeguard the realm, and that suffices to justify my existence in Her Grace’s eyes—also in the eyes of the Almighty, one hopes.”

The duke was apologizing for Flint in some way, or distracting Elijah from the fact that Victor Windham’s brothers had not remarked the anniversary of his death, but Jenny and Their Graces had.

And for that reason, because she still remarked her brother’s death, Elijah owed Jenny one more charge on the citadel of His Grace’s paternal obliviousness.

“I’ve enjoyed my time here, Your Grace, but I cannot caution you strongly enough that Lady Jenny’s abilities should not be ignored. Talent such as hers deserves to be supported, not humored.” Any more blunt than that, and His Grace would likely eject Elijah from the premises bodily.

Moreland resumed his seat, his expression amused. “My thanks for your words of advice, Bernward. Now hadn’t you best be joining the battle outside or that game of nine pins in the portrait gallery? One hears the entire mad idea originated with you, though I caution you that the young ladies will find a way to cheat if they can.”

Nine pins in the portrait gallery—how apt. “My thanks for your patience, Your Grace. I think you’ll be pleased with the portrait you commissioned.”

Though if Jenny’s plans came to fruition, Moreland would probably burn the thing, and his duchess would send the ashes to the Academy’s nominating committee.

“You look as if you’ve just lost your best friend.” Eve took a place beside Jenny on this observation, which leavened Jenny’s sense of desolation with a spike of resentment.

“With all my family around me, how could I possibly be in want of companionship?”

Eve watched their mutual siblings stepping through a minuet while their brother Valentine held forth at the piano. “The same way I can long to dance while the minuet plays all around me.”

Marriage had settled Eve, and impending motherhood had only honed her already formidable instincts.

“You’re admiring your husband, Lady Deene, even when you can’t dance with him.”

“He’s promised me a waltz, though Valentine will probably find one to play at the speed of a dirge.” She fell silent for a moment as the dancers one-two-three’d around the space created by the music room and an adjoining parlor. “You would make a wonderful mother, Jenny.”

The worst pain was not in the words Eve offered, but the combination of pleading and pity with which she offered them.

“Becoming a mother usually contemplates becoming a wife first, and I’ve no wish to wed some man for the sole purpose of bearing his babies.” Not the sole purpose… As the dancers twirled and smiled, it occurred to Jenny that Victor had made her promise not to stop painting, but he hadn’t said anything specific about eschewing motherhood.

Had he?

Another pause in the conversation, while the music played on. Eve, however, was notably tenacious, so Jenny waited for the next salvo, and Eve did not disappoint.

“You look at Bernward the way I look at Deene, the way Maggie looks at Benjamin, the way—”

“Louisa looks at Joseph, I suppose.” And Sophie at her baron too, of course. They needn’t start on how the Windham brothers regarded their respective wives.

“Louisa’s gaze is a touch more voracious. I was going to say, the way Mama looks at Papa.”

Ouch. Ouch, indeed. The duke and duchess turned down the room with the grace of a more elegant age, and yet, their gazes spoke volumes about the sheer pleasure of sharing a dance.

Jenny stated the obvious as matter-of-factly as possible. “Their Graces dance beautifully.”

Eve’s feet were propped on a hassock. She wiggled her toes in time with the music, the left and right foot partnering each other. “Bernward also dances quite well.”

Elijah was dancing with Valentine’s lady, Ellen’s preferred partner being ensconced at the keyboard, as usual. “Bernward is dancing carefully, lest Valentine take exception.”

Eve twitched her skirts. “Bernward is dancing with one eye on you, you ninnyhammer, and with the certain knowledge that all three of our brothers are waiting for him to come over here and get you to stand up with him. How many more times do you think you can check on the punch bowl between sets without Bernward taking insult?”

Check on the full punch bowl, offer to turn pages for Valentine when he was playing from memory, or trim the wicks on the lamps that the footmen had trimmed not fifteen minutes earlier. This Christmas gathering was driving her mad.

“I’m going to Paris after the holidays.”

Jenny hadn’t planned on making the admission, but Eve’s good intentions—her meddling—were enough to pluck confessions from a saint.

“Do you need money? My pin money is generous, and though one hears the Continent is affordable, I will worry about you.”

Eve had been the second-to-last sibling to marry, and perhaps Jenny ought to have anticipated her reaction. Except she hadn’t.

She absolutely had not. “You won’t try to stop me?”

Eve’s feet went still. “I know what it’s like, Jenny, to be one of the few remaining Windham daughters without an offer, but I also know you could have had offers. I know you’re afraid if you don’t do something drastic, you’ll compromise and accept a wrong offer. I could not live with myself—”

Eve’s gaze went to her handsome husband, her expression conveying nothing short of besottedness.

“You feel guilty for abandoning me in favor of Deene’s charms,” Jenny concluded slowly. “Who is the ninnyhammer now, Lady Deene?” She couldn’t make it a reproof. She was too grateful for her sister’s concern.

“We love you,” Eve said, keeping her voice down as the music came to a close. “Of course we’re worried. Their Graces are challenge enough when one has reinforcements, but all you have is that dratted cat and the occasional sympathy visit from the rest of us.”

“I’m not dead. I don’t need condolence calls.” But she did need Paris, if she wasn’t to lapse into the very creature Eve described.

“Bernward has apparently taken the hint and given up on you.”

Jenny watched as Elijah led Ellen off the dance floor and chatted up Valentine, who showed no signs of leaving the piano bench.

“Genevieve, it’s time you obliged your old brother and took a turn down the room. Anna says I’m neglecting you.”

Not Elijah, but Westhaven, the biggest, handsomest mother hen ever to stand in line for a ducal coronet—also the most meddling of older brothers.

“Might as well dance, Jenny. If you refuse, Westhaven will only nag you and send the rest of them over,” Eve remarked. “I’ll set Deene on you, and he is a very good dancer.”

“Come.” Westhaven held out his hand. “If you sneak off to your studio now, Her Grace will send one of us to retrieve you, and you’ll end up right back here anyway. If you dance, you can plead fatigue then be credibly excused.”

His green eyes held such understanding, Jenny wanted to flee the room. Her cat at least kept quiet and couldn’t compel her to dance.

She took her brother’s hand and rose. “The pleasure will be entirely mine.”

True to Eve’s prediction, Valentine chose a very decorous pace for the ensuing waltz.

“Jenny, what can I do to help?” Westhaven’s expression was merely genial, but in his words, Jenny heard determination and that most dratted of holiday gifts, sibling concern.

“Help?”

“You’re quiet as a dormouse. Maggie says you’re chewing your nails. Louisa reports that you’re taking odd notions, and Sophie won’t say anything, but she’s clearly worried. Her Grace muttered something about regretting all the time she’s permitted you to spend among the paint fumes.”

“What would Her Grace know of paint fumes?” What would the duchess know of anything relating to painting?

“She’s our mother. Where knowledge fails, maternal instinct serves. Is Bernward troubling you?”

Westhaven was an excellent dancer, and if Jenny did not finish the dance with him, Her Grace would casually suggest that tomorrow be a day to rest from the activity in the studio. The idea made Jenny desperate.

“Westhaven, you must not involve yourself in anything to do with Elijah.”

“Elijah.” Westhaven’s gaze shifted to a spot over Jenny’s shoulder. “And does he call you Jenny?”

He
calls
me
Genevieve, and sometimes he even calls me “woman.”

“He calls me talented and brilliant but uneducated and unorthodox too. I’ve enjoyed working with him these past weeks more than anything—”

“Excuse me.” Elijah had tapped Westhaven on the shoulder. “May I cut in?”

Westhaven’s smile was diabolical. “Of course. Jenny would never decline an opportunity to dance with a family friend.”

Family friend? Her blighted, interfering, perishing brother was laying it on quite thick.

Elijah bowed. “Lady Genevieve, may I have what remains of this dance?”

Two days remained. Two days and three nights. Jenny curtsied and assumed waltz position. As Elijah’s hand settled on her back, his scent wafted to her, enveloping her in his presence.

“You’re avoiding me,” he said. “You needn’t. I’ll be leaving soon, and I hope we can at least part friends.”

With her siblings, she could dissemble and maintain appearances, but with Elijah…

“I am honored you think me a friend, Elijah.” And he danced wonderfully, with the same sense of assurance and mastery that he undertook painting… and lovemaking.

“I am your friend too, Genevieve. If you cursed right now, very softly, only I would hear you.”

Cursing abruptly appealed more strongly than anything in the world—almost anything. Jenny gathered her courage on the next slow, sweeping turn, and leaned in close to her partner.

“I would like to be sharing your damned bed right now, Elijah. My family’s kindness and concern make me want to perishing scream.”

He did not falter in any regard but drew her a shade closer. “Swive, roger, bed, possess, lie with, copulate, fornicate… you can be explicit in your wishes, my lady. They’re only wishes.”

And he was warning her they’d only ever be wishes. Each word was rendered in a slightly different shade: daring, naughty, flirtatious, challenging, but none of them took her sentiment seriously.

The damned man was trying to jolly her past a sulk, for which she would not forgive him.

“You’re leaving, Elijah Harrison, and I desire you. I still want it to be you.”

He let more distance come between them as the music played on. “There are things you want more than you want me, Genevieve. Important things nobody else can give you, things you think you’ll find in Paris. I would not deny you your heart’s desire.”

He spoke so gently, Jenny felt her throat constrict. “Damn you to rubbishing hell, Elijah.”

Maybe he heard the desperation in her voice or saw the tears she blinked back, because he offered her no more flirtation or jollying. He danced with her until the music ended, then bowed and escorted her right back to her brother’s side.

***

In Elijah’s experience, fatigue came in two varieties. The primary colors of fatigue were an unsubtle indication that the body or mind sought rest. Ignoring this kind of tiredness came at a peril. Bad decisions, stupid pronouncements, inept paintings, ill-advised couplings, and inane arguments could all result from an unwillingness to accommodate the basic forms of fatigue.

Elijah’s argument with his father had happened late at night, around yet another bowl of holiday wassail. He and his sire had both been tired, and unfortunate words had been exchanged.

So Elijah had learned to heed the signs of simple fatigue.

The more subtle fatigue was of the spirit, and like a secondary color, it had antecedents, and usually involved a blending of bodily weariness with something more. One grew overwhelmed observing the world in all its folly, overwhelmed by want and woe on a scale too great to be productively addressed. One grew weary of being good, of being kind, honest, hopeful, and civil.

He’d tempted Jenny into swearing the previous evening in hopes of alleviating some of her weariness of heart, more fool him.

For she’d passed beyond the common hues of fatigue into something more, some unassailable state of calm, which Elijah suspected resulted from his rejecting her intimate overtures on the impromptu dance floor.

She stood not two feet away, a monument of serenity in green velvet. “The portrait is lovely, Elijah. Rothgreb and his family will treasure it.”

Jenny’s smile was sweet, a bit tired, and to all appearances genuine.

She’d left for Paris already.

“It’s a good effort. I suspect if I take on more juvenile commissions, I’ll become more confident with them. I do like it.” This portrait of Sindal’s sons was the best thing Elijah had ever painted, in fact. Its temporary frame did not do it justice.

Jenny touched old Jock’s ear, a bit of brushwork of which Elijah was particularly proud. “Will you display it at the open house?”

He resisted the urge to touch the lock of hair that wanted to curl over Jenny’s ear. “I will not. Nothing will be allowed to overshadow Their Graces’ portraits. The duchess was clear on that, as was her doting swain.”

“You mean Papa. Shall I have this one packed up then? I’m sure Rothgreb will want to display it as soon as possible.”

Did she have to be so blasted helpful? “I’m reluctant to lose sight of it.”

She quirked an eyebrow, looking much like her father. “The joy is in the creation, Elijah, not in the possession.”

Where was the polite, demure Lady Jenny who’d offered him shelter from a winter storm? Would he want her back if he could restore her? Was she any happier than this talented, determined, exhausted version of the same woman?

“There can be joy in creating
and
savoring, my lady. Pack it up and send it off. The painting belongs to the one who commissioned it, not to the fellow who merely happened to create it.”

“Or to the lady who merely happened to create it.”

She wanted an argument, and he was hard put not to oblige her. “Just so. I’d rather we spent this afternoon completing Their Graces’ portraits instead of crating up finished business.”

They had only this afternoon, after all. Tomorrow was the open house, when Elijah’s ducal portraits would go on display before family and friends.

“A splendid notion,” Jenny said, reaching for her smock. She looped it around her neck and reached behind herself to tie it in back.

“Allow me.”

She turned her back to him and dipped her chin, so her nape was exposed to Elijah, a vulnerable, delectable pose, particularly when she wore a comfortable old dress and a simple painting smock. He tied a bow for her, and let his hands drop when what he wanted was to pull her close and hang the consequences.

Hang Paris.

“You’re having trouble with the duke,” he said. “Have you figured out why?”

She aimed a peevish look at him over her shoulder, and that was seductive too. “
You
didn’t have any trouble with him. Your portrait catches all of his most appealing attributes.”

Elijah slipped his sleeve buttons into a pocket and turned back his cuffs. “Which would be?”

Jenny studied their side-by-side paintings, her arms crossed, her expression disgruntled. “His Grace never fails to act, even when he ought to remain idle. He fires off letters, delivers speeches in the Lords, cozens the MPs, interferes wherever he must to see his ends achieved. You made that seem like leadership, or his responsibility, not busybodying.”

Elijah laid out his brushes and wished his mouth was going to start humming some seasonal tune, though he knew it wouldn’t. “You could not paint the duke as easily as you did Her Grace because he embodies the parts of yourself you are least comfortable with. Are you going to paint, or stare away the afternoon?”