Liz Carlyle - [Lorimer Family & Clan Cameron 02] (4 page)

Miss Stone made no answer, but she began to sketch in earnest, her hand sliding back and forth across the paper in bold, sweeping motions. As she worked, her eyes flicked back and forth from the paper to his face, over and over again. Twice, Miss Stone stopped suddenly to focus on his eyes, holding his gaze in long, timeless moments, her hand frozen elegantly in mid-stroke.

Elliot sat stoically, watching her work. It was fascinating. No, mesmerizing. He wondered what she saw when she stared into his eyes so boldly. What was she sketching? What did she see when she looked at him?

“I am merely studying your face at present,” she commented, as if in answer to his unspoken queries. “I prefer to begin with a few sketches to familiarize myself with your bones, the way the planes and angles catch the light. Turn your head, please, Mr. Roberts. Just slightly to the left—yes, that’s it. Thank you.” She resumed her work and continued thus for another quarter hour or longer.

Elliot, still transfixed, eventually lost track of time. He was, therefore, surprised to hear himself blurt out a question into the protracted silence of the studio. “How long have you been a portrait painter, Miss Stone?” The soft whisking of her pencil stopped abruptly. “I’m sorry,” he belatedly added. “I should have said an
artist
. How long have you been an artist?”

“Portrait painter will suffice, Mr. Roberts. You need not fear insulting me. I am well aware that most portraits, unlike landscapes, for example, do not carry great artistic weight at present. Nonetheless, I take great pride in all my work.”

“And you do other types of work, do you not?” His gaze floated over the room’s north wall, the upper half of which was covered in landscapes.

“Not all of those are mine, Mr. Roberts. But yes, I do the occasional landscape. However, society’s obsession with immortality ensures that the business of portrait work is both consistent and lucrative.”

“You make no apologies. I rather like that.”

“I cannot afford to,” she replied briskly, ripping away one sheet of paper and laying it carefully to one side. Elliot was disappointed to see that she placed it face-down. “And to answer your question, I have been painting all my life, but only in the last seven years have I built my—my reputation. Such as it may be,” she added.

“Forgive me, Miss Stone, but you have a lovely accent—almost French. Did you study abroad?”

“Yes,” she said simply, but Elliot saw that her expression had begun to soften.

“What a wonderful opportunity for—for . . .”

“For a female?” Her gaze caught his again, and Elliot could see a flash of blue fire. “I am Flemish, Mr. Roberts. My father was an English artist who met my mother in the studios of Brugge. Since neither his work nor his bride was acceptable to his family, my parents found life abroad much more to their liking.”

“Ah, I see. And how long have you been in England?”

“Since my mother’s death, almost ten years now.”

“And your father?”

“My father passed away five years ago.”

“I am sorry, Miss Stone. Have you no husband, no family, save your brother?”

Evangeline Stone’s cool gaze came to rest squarely on his face, and Elliot realized that he had overstepped himself. Badly. What had possessed him to ask such impertinent questions? Belatedly, he tried to apologize, but Miss Stone cut him off with a toss of her hand.

“Pray do not regard it, Mr. Roberts. I can hear the kindness in your voice. I have also a younger sister, Nicolette, and a cousin, Frederica. Michael is eleven.”

“Surely you cannot be responsible for them?” he asked incredulously.

“Most assuredly, sir, I am. Fortunately, I have assistance. Peter Weyden was my father’s business partner for many years, and he now serves us in many ways, as a sort of uncle, a trustee, and a guardian. He helps oversee our investments, he supervises our estate manager, and he screens my commissions; all other matters he leaves to me.” Her face was fixed in a tight smile. “We are in good hands, Mr. Roberts. And far from destitute, I can assure you.”

“I’m sorry, Miss Stone. I certainly never meant to imply—”

“I’m quite sure, sir, that you did not. Pray lift your chin just slightly, please. Yes, that is—
ah
, perfect.” She made three or four quick marks, then set down her pencil. “Mr. Roberts, the day grows quite late, and the light is fading. We can do no more today, I am afraid.”

Elliot suppressed a wave of disappointment. “I see.”

“When might it be convenient for you to return?”

Elliot opened his mouth to answer, but his reply was forestalled by yet another commotion in the hall. Suddenly, the door burst inward, and a pretty, round-figured woman attired in a gown of brilliant purple sailed through the door. A boy and a girl, whom Elliot had spied earlier among the crowd in the drawing room, followed hard on her heels.

“Evie, my darling! You shall never guess who—” She stopped short as she spied Elliot from across the room. “Oh, my dear! Pray forgive me, for I did not know that Mr. Hart had finally come!”

Elliot froze.
Mr
.
Hart
. Not Mr. Roberts. How humiliating to have his silly ruse found out. With a sigh of regret, Elliot forced himself to rise and make a weak bow to the lady. Miss Stone was by now on her feet.

“Aunt Winnie! See! See! We tried to tell you,” insisted the eldest child, a flaxen-haired boy. He was undoubtedly Michael Stone, for he was the very image of his elder sister. “Evie has a guest, just as we said.”

“Well, so she does, my dears!” The woman in purple was blushing now. She was remarkably attractive, in a bold, voluptuous sort of way, and appeared to be in her middle to late thirties.

“Not at all, Winnie,” interjected Miss Stone, “for we were just finishing. Do come meet Mr. Elliot Roberts. Mr. Roberts, this is my companion, Winnie Weyden, who is Peter Weyden’s sister-in-law. And this is my young brother, Michael Stone. And my cousin, Frederica d’Avillez.”

The two children, who looked to be perhaps ten and eight, greeted Elliot amiably. Then, almost immediately, the girl, a slight child with black hair and olive skin, seemed to slip shyly behind Evangeline Stone’s skirts, very nearly disappearing.

“Mrs. Weyden,” murmured Elliot politely, nodding to them in turn. “Michael. Miss d’Avillez. It is a pleasure, to be sure.”

“Oh!” chirped Winnie Weyden, still blushing. “Hart? Roberts? They sound not at all alike, do they? Pray forgive me,” she said, her rich golden ringlets dancing nervously about her round, pleasant face. “I vow, I cannot remember the names of my own children, let alone anyone else!”

Elliot breathed a sigh of relief. “Pray think no more of it, Mrs. Weyden. As it happens, I am just taking my leave.”

“I shall see you out,” murmured Evangeline Stone, making her way around the chairs and past the newcomers.
Evie
. He rather liked that name.

“Yes, to be sure,” agreed Mrs. Weyden. “But do have a care, Mr. Roberts. The rain has worsened considerably, and this road is now barely passable. I have just come from the vicarage and very nearly did not make my way back—”

The group rambled down the hall with Miss Stone in the lead. The boy and girl, laughing and chattering, followed Elliot like good-natured puppies as Winnie Weyden continued her rambling exhortations. “—and our coachman said in all his seven and fifty years he’s never seen the like. Mud nigh up to our hubs! I do hope, Mr. Roberts, that you’ve come to us on horseback? For I cannot think that a coach could safely make its way back to the London road this evening.”

The elderly housekeeper, Mrs. Penworthy, met them in the hall, Elliot’s hat in hand. Just then, the door flew open to admit a burst of whipping rain, followed by a stooped, elderly man in a long black coat. “Bolton!” cried the housekeeper, setting aside the hat to pull off the man’s drenched coat. “Pray, how did you find your daughter? And whatever took ye so long?”

The elderly man, whom Elliot now saw was dressed in formal butler’s garb, seemed unfazed by the half dozen people crowding his hall and was obviously returning to his post from an unpleasant excursion in the rain.

“My good woman,” the butler answered Mrs. Penworthy as he handed her his sodden hat, “I was quite unable to see my daughter. However, Squire Ellows, whom I met at the bridge to Wrotham Ford, tells me that she and the new babe go on very well.”

“Haven’t seen her?” echoed the cheerful housekeeper. “Gone all that way in this torrent and haven’t seen her?”

“No, indeed, madam. The bridge washed out, and none can pass through. I was obliged to shout at Squire Ellows across the water and could do little more. I’ve spent these last two hours pushing carriages out of mud, and I am none the better for it, I can tell you!”

“Pushing carriages! At your age?” The housekeeper tugged on the bell. “Are ye daft? Best send for more tea, or we’ll likely have both you and Mr. Roberts here dying of lung fever or such like, what with the both of you nigh drowned a-traipsing about in it.”

At this, the elderly butler looked at Elliot with what appeared to be perfectly amiable disinterest. “Indeed, sir. Indeed. And I shouldn’t go back out, if I were you.” As if to give credence to the old man’s warning, the skies opened wider still, and the rain began to hammer unmercifully at the front door. From the narrow window, Elliot could scarcely make out the front walkway, let alone the gardens beyond.

“Hullo, Mama!” chimed a pleasant voice, and Elliot turned to see a young man striding down the hall from the drawing room. It was the same fellow he’d observed earlier dancing madly about with the fichu tied around his head. He smiled warmly at Elliot. “And Evie, who’s this? Have we a guest?”

Evangeline interrupted. “Mr. Roberts, this is Augustus Weyden, Mrs. Weyden’s eldest. Gus, this is Elliot Roberts.”

“Indeed, Gussie,” added Mrs. Weyden as Gus pumped Elliot’s hand up and down with the youthful enthusiasm of one who hopes he has met a kindred spirit. “Mr. Roberts has come to have his portrait done. He was just on his way back to town.”

“Shouldn’t recommend it, sir,” insisted Gus Weyden, shaking his head. Elliot gazed at the young man appraisingly. He was young—twenty, perhaps—tall and lanky, with his mother’s gold-brown hair. A handsome fellow, Augustus Weyden was dressed for the country in a simple, well-cut blue coat and fawn trousers. Nonetheless, a hint of the youthful dandy lingered, evidenced by a fine cravat
en cascade
. “Best rack up here for the nonce,” finished Gus with an amiable shrug. “Lots of room, and Cook turns out an excellent joint.” Just then, a second young man, obviously another Weyden, stepped out of the drawing room and nodded politely in Elliot’s direction. Undoubtedly this was Theo, the rambunctious window breaker.

Winnie Weyden smiled at her younger son, then turned to Miss Stone. “Indeed, Evie, dear. I daresay it would be best if Mr. Roberts stayed. I shall have Tess lay another place for dinner,” she added, as if the matter were settled.

“Thank you, Mrs. Weyden,” interjected Elliot. “You are exceedingly kind, but I do not go back to town tonight. In fact, I have business . . . nearby.”

“Bridge is out,” mumbled the butler in a tone that implied he found Elliot’s intelligence wanting.

“Yes, but I haven’t got a carriage. Surely a horse—” But Elliot’s protestation was cut off by a warm hand encircling his arm. He looked down into the bottomless blue eyes of Evangeline Stone, and an enigmatic, nameless longing seized him, stealing his breath and taking him quite by surprise. The sweet emotion twisted roughly inside his stomach, fast bringing him to the edge of pain.

“Please stay, Mr. Roberts,” she softly insisted, so near that he could smell her warm fragrance. For the briefest moment, Elliot ceased to think. “It is perfectly proper, I can assure you,” continued Miss Stone, apparently oblivious to the effect she was having on his senses. “We entertain frequently here, and I would be exceedingly glad for your company tonight.”

“I should not like to impose.”

“Not at all.” She shook her head. “As you can see, we always have a jolly house full, and one more can be no inconvenience. Indeed, if you are an early riser, then you’ll find that the morning light here is of an excellent quality. Spare me two hours tomorrow, and I shall begin your portrait, yes? Then the water will no doubt have receded, and you may ford the stream.”

Miss Stone’s warm hand slipped slowly away from Elliot’s arm, and with it went his resolve. Staying the night made some sense, he reassured himself. And although Elliot generally gave no consideration whatsoever to the propriety of his actions, he now paused to give a passing thought to the matter. However, his hostess was a grown woman, chaperoned by a mature companion and a gaggle of cheerful young people, so surely his remaining—or at least the honorable Elliot Roberts’s remaining—would not be improper.

And indeed, if he managed to reach Wrotham Ford this late in the day, he would simply find himself obliged to put up for the night at Mr. Tanner’s inn. Not a very pleasant prospect, that.
Far better
, whispered the devil perched upon his shoulder,
to go tomorrow when the weather has cleared
.

“Ah, come on, Roberts,” cajoled Gus Weyden, apparently in cahoots with Elliot’s personal demons. “Stokely, Theo, and I need a competent fourth for cards tonight. Evie don’t like ’em, and Mama’s dreadful!”

“Augustus!” scolded his mother, rapping him soundly on the hand. “You should be grateful that I—”