Lady Jenny's Christmas Portrait (31 page)

While he missed her. While he looked at his drawing of her the same way his father gazed at the portrait of her ladyship. While he never got his greens quite right and had nobody to tell him so.

Elijah had been stubborn, but Genevieve Windham could hold onto things—guilt, goals, those sorts of things—more tightly than Elijah ever had. He’d given her all the letters of support he could, but he had not given her the one thing any artist needed to endure the privations of her trade, the one thing that might turn her steps in the direction of home and people who loved her.

“The lady? Are you inquiring about your mother?” Flint asked, taking a sip of his drink.

Elijah drank as well—somebody had made some sort of toast—and swallowed a bit of brew that kicked like a happy donkey.

“Not that lady. I must cut my visit short, your lordship. I must see about a lady who will wander for ten years, alone and far away, unless somebody offers her a different path. You cannot see a few paltry colors, but I cannot see my way home when it’s staring me in the face.”

Elijah turned to go, pulling Kesmore’s letter from his pocket as he headed for the door. Today was Wednesday, which meant Jenny might leave as early as—

A knock sounded on the door.

Flint caught Elijah’s eye. “Enter.”

“Callers, your lordships. The Duchess of Moreland and Lady Genevieve Windham. The young lady said I was to interrupt you, and the marchioness agreed.”

“See them in,” Flint said, which was fortunate, because Elijah could not organize a single thought beyond a fleeting recollection of His Grace’s reference to the espionage of women.

***

Flint Hall was every bit as imposing as Morelands, and far more grandly appointed. Jenny suspected much of the art was her ladyship’s, though it wasn’t quite as warm or detailed as Elijah’s renderings.

“Their lordships will see you now.” The liveried footman was all that was correct and courteous, without being friendly. Her Grace swept by Jenny and paused outside a door to greet another lady of mature years.

“Happy Christmas, Your Grace!”

“Charlotte! Happy Christmas!” The ladies touched cheeks, linked arms, and Jenny felt misgiving uncoil in her belly. Elijah’s mother had that certain self-possession Jenny associated with émigrés and duchesses, a self-possession that might equate to impatience with a young lady seeking an audience with a son recently returned home. The marchioness turned a brilliant smile on Jenny, one that did not remind her of Elijah at all.

“Lady Genevieve, welcome. Elijah has told me much about you, and I confess I am most curious. Thomas, we’ll be having tea and a tray, please.”

As the ladies strolled into a roomy, paneled parlor, the marchioness bent her head close to Her Grace’s. “Did you like the portrait of His Grace? I am dying to see it. Moreland has such presence, much like Flint.”

Jenny did not hear the duchess’s reply, because Elijah was standing across the room, illuminated by a shaft of sunlight that showed him both tired and handsome.

So very handsome.

“Ladies, welcome.” An older fellow advanced, one who had Elijah’s eyes and chin. He bowed over Her Grace’s hand with old-fashioned courtliness, and still Elijah did not move from his spot by the window.

“And you must be Lady Genevieve. Elijah would no doubt enjoy showing you our portrait gallery, though we keep it chilly this time of year to discourage impromptu athletic competitions—to no avail, I might add.” Lord Flint cleared his throat. “Elijah?”

“Yes, Elijah,” the marchioness added. “The tea will take a moment, given the state of the kitchen of late. Show Lady Genevieve the portraits.”

Elijah held out his hand, and Jenny stifled the urge to run to him. “Nothing would please me more. Lady Genevieve, welcome.”

Still he did not smile. Jenny took his arm and processed from the room with him as if they were promenading around some ballroom before all of Polite Society.

“I should not have come.”

“I’m so glad to see you.”

They’d spoken at the same time, which caused Jenny to pause in her progress down a quiet, carpeted hallway. “I beg your pardon?”

Elijah glanced around. “My brothers are playing skittles in the portrait gallery, and it’s bound to be freezing. Come. We’ll have only a moment, and there are things I need to say to you.” He took her hand in his and tugged her into a room near the end of the corridor.

And Jenny allowed it—there were things she needed to say to him. They might be the last words she ever exchanged with him, but she needed to say them more than she’d ever needed to paint, draw, or embroider.

More even than she needed to keep a promise extracted by a wily, if mortally ailing, brother.

Elijah closed the door behind them quietly, and Jenny found herself in a room much like what the Windham children called Her Grace’s Presence Chamber. The walls were full of sketches, the furniture was as comfortable as it was elegant, and everywhere there was color. The upholstery was blue and cream, the gilding a mellow gold. Green pillows riotously embroidered with flowers added a comfy touch, and gold fleur-de-lis decorated the walls.

“There’s no red,” Elijah said.

“That’s what you wanted to say to me?” Though he was right. The room sported neither red nor pink, even.

“This is my mother’s parlor, and it has no red. But that is not what I wanted to say. What I wanted to say—”

He went to the door and locked it, which could presage either difficult words or—

He took her in his arms and brushed his mouth across hers. “We haven’t any mistletoe, Genevieve, and I know you’ll soon be on your way, but—”

Jenny went up on her toes and kissed him back, kissed him as if he were every destination on His Grace’s splendid itinerary and the place she’d come home to all rolled into one. “Hang the red, hang the mistletoe, Elijah.”

Hang
Paris.
She wanted to hang Paris, and yet she might still end up there. Jenny eased back, but did not leave Elijah’s embrace. “Happy Christmas, Elijah.”

His cheek rested on her hair. “That is your version of a holiday greeting now? I’ll not be introducing you to my brothers, if that’s the case.”

Jenny inhaled the scent of him and closed her eyes. To be in Elijah’s embrace was better than Paris, better than the world. “You left Morelands before I could give you my Christmas token.”

“I don’t need any tokens from you, Genevieve.”

He also apparently did not need to let her go, which was a fine thing indeed. Jenny, however, needed to see his eyes when she bestowed her gift, so she eased away.

“I need to offer this to you anyway, Elijah.”

He joined his hands behind his back, the same gesture His Grace had made when Jenny had announced a pressing need to add Surrey to the Itinerary from Hell. “If it’s a farewell, Genevieve, then you may—”

She put her fingers to his lips. “My gift is a question. I want to give you a question.”

He took her hand in his, his expression grave. “Ask, Genevieve. With me, you have ever only to ask.”

His fingers were warm around Jenny’s abruptly cold hand. Her heart thumped painfully against her ribs.

“Will you come to Paris with me?” That wasn’t what she’d wanted to ask, but it was close.

Elijah’s expression didn’t change. “Paris stinks, it’s full of Frenchmen, and they have addled notions of chivalry. Why do you want to go to Paris, Genevieve?”

He hadn’t said no. Jenny clung to that and to his hand. “I don’t want to go to Paris, and I’m not sure I ever did. I don’t want to go anywhere that means I can’t be with you.”

“Do you want a travel companion, Genevieve? If that’s what you’re asking, then I must refuse the honor.”

Pain threatened to buckle Jenny’s knees. “Not a travel companion. Not just that.”

“Somebody to paint with and appreciate art?”

“Not that either.” Because she would set aside her artistic aspirations happily in favor of creating a life with him.

“Good, because as much as I admire your talent and dedication, as much as I would enjoy seeing all the great capitals and treasures of the Continent—of the world—with you, I would decline that invitation too.”

It dawned on Jenny that he wanted her to ask a different question.

“What invitation would you accept? Tell me, Elijah, and I will extend it.”

He took a step closer. “You already have. You have invited me to love you, and I do, Genevieve. I love your heart, I love your gentleness and determination, I love your concern for all around you, and I love your kisses.”

He kissed her, a quick punctuation mark at the end of a lovely little list.

“But you won’t travel with me?”

“I’ve seen the wonders of the Continent, Genevieve. Stared at them for so long I was blind to much else, such as the wonders of a loving family and a welcoming home. Marry me, and I will happily explore those more impressive wonders with you, regardless of what country we find ourselves in.”

Marry me. The question she hadn’t known how to ask him. Jenny bundled into Elijah’s arms. “Yes. Yes to the family and the home, yes to becoming your wife. Nothing would make me happier.”

In the small parlor curiously devoid of pink or red, Elijah held her close, which was very good indeed, because Jenny felt as if she’d fly apart if he let her go, so great was her happiness.

“We can make Paris our wedding journey,” Elijah said, kissing her cheek. “Though I’d spare you a winter crossing if I could.”

She aimed for his mouth and ended up kissing his chin. “A New Year’s crossing, please.”

His hand slid down her back to cup her derriere and draw her closer. “I can’t wait a year.”

“
This
New Year.”

“Better,” he growled against her mouth. “Nearly tolerable, in fact. Kiss me.”

She did, and she was still kissing him when a tap sounded on the door.

Elijah smiled crookedly and eased away, pausing to tuck a lock of Jenny’s hair behind her ear. When he opened the door, Jenny saw his parents and Her Grace in the hallway.

The marchioness led the parental parade into the parlor. “Excellent! You are showing Lady Jenny your sketches. Her Grace tells me she has a similar collection, most of them done by her daughter.”

“Perhaps it will be a family tradition, then,” Elijah said. He slipped his arm around Jenny’s waist. “I am happy to inform the assemblage that Lady Genevieve has consented to be my wife. His Grace led me to believe my suit would be accepted, and Genevieve has indeed agreed.”

His Grace? As Jenny accepted a hug from her mother, she spared a thought to wonder when His Grace-of-the-never-ending-journey might have said such a thing.

“Welcome to the family,” Lord Flint said, bowing over Jenny’s hand. “Elijah, I suggest you complete the ceremony before you allow your lady to meet your brothers.”

“Flint, that is not funny.” Her ladyship bussed both of Jenny’s cheeks. “Now that Elijah has found a lady willing to put up with him, his brothers might well see the blessings to be enjoyed in the state of holy matrimony. Genevieve, well done.”

As Lord Flint led them back to the paneled parlor and poured generous cups of wassail, Jenny stayed by Elijah’s side.

“Do you really want to see Paris, my dear?” Elijah had bent close to whisper his question, while their mamas debated the use of the Windham chapel or the facilities at Flint Hall.

“Paris can wait. There are other things I want to see more.”

“Such as?”

Jenny gave him a very direct look. “If I’m to give up my art, then I expect certain consolations, Elijah.”

He set his drink aside. “Papa’s brew has addled your wits. What nonsense is this?”

“Someday you will become a Royal Academician, but not if your lady wife is showing up at Venetian breakfasts with paint on her fingers. I understand that.”

He studied her for a moment, as if trying to puzzle out which pigments would accurately depict her hair in strong sunlight. “You would stop painting, stop drawing, stop even embroidering?”

She hesitated only an instant before nodding. “I expect that home and family you allude to will keep me adequately occupied.”

“My mother bore twelve children, six of them boys.”

What did that have to do with anything? “I look forward to meeting your brothers and sisters.”

“Come with me, Genevieve. If you think a few babies will excuse you from your art, then you have much to learn as a future marchioness of Flint.”

He dragged her from the parlor, barely giving Jenny time to set her drink down, and hauled her up two flights of stairs and down a long hallway.

“This is the portrait gallery, also the cricket pitch, skittles hall, and pall-mall pitch, among others.” He opened a carved door and ushered Jenny into a room at least ninety feet long. “It’s cold. Take my coat.”

Frigid was a better word, but as Jenny gathered Elijah’s coat around her shoulders, she was content to endure the cold.

“You lot!” Elijah called to a group at one end of the room. “Clear out! I’m proposing to my prospective wife.”

Hoots and whistles resulted, and smiles from the young ladies, two of whom looked exactly alike but for their attire. As Elijah’s siblings filed past Jenny, the youngest fellow winked at her, and Elijah cuffed him on the back of the head.

“Pru is the worst,” Elijah said as he closed the door. “You must not allow him to cozen you, ever.”

Jenny made no reply, because she was too busy staring at the chamber before her. This was not a collection of a dozen or so renderings of the various Lords of Flint, but rather an exhibition, a room stacked as high as any in Carlton House with portraits, still lifes, landscapes, ensemble pieces, and the occasional academic study.

“Mother finds time to paint,” Elijah said. “You will too.”

Jenny turned a complete circle, taking in dozens upon dozens of completed works. They weren’t all brilliant—some were clearly experiments, others were quick efforts more whimsical than beautiful—but they all showed talent.

“She hid her talent for you,” Jenny said, hurting for the marchioness. “She did not want the Academy taking you into further dislike because she was so talented.”