Silver Splendor (9 page)

“We may admire,” Lady Beatrice enunciated, “but we do not create.”

Cicely sat straight on the sofa. “I don’t want to be a lady if it means I can’t study art.”

Lady Beatrice turned disapproving eyes toward her nephew. “This is insanity! Why, she’ll never find a suitable husband if you continue to succumb to her outrageous whims. Not even the temptation of her marriage portion will —”

“That’s quite enough,” the earl broke in testily. He strode across the room and pulled the gold bell cord. “As Cicely’s guardian, I shall decide what’s best for her.”

“His mind is made up, Aunt Beatrice,” Cicely said archly. “There’s simply no purpose in arguing about it any longer. We’re lucky Elizabeth has consented to be my mentor.”

“That’s quite enough from you, too, young lady,” Lord Nicholas stated. “I haven’t forgotten your behavior today. You’re not to set foot outside this house for the next fortnight.”

“Oh, no!” Cicely exclaimed, eyes wide with dismay. “But the Garforths’ ball is a week from Wednesday.”

“Behave yourself and I may allow you to attend for a brief time. Otherwise…”

Cicely’s mouth settled into a pout, but she made no further protest. More and more Elizabeth wondered if there were a kernel of truth in the earl’s assessment of his sister’s conduct. At times Cicely did seem more rash than reasonable, more capricious than committed.

When a pretty, white capped parlor maid appeared in the doorway, the earl said to his aunt, “Has the Holland bedroom been aired recently?”

“Why, yes, but —”

“Then Miss Hastings will stay there. Her father is to have the adjoining room.”

Lady Beatrice looked shocked to the depths of her patrician soul. “You can’t mean to put an
art
instructor on the same floor as the family! I should think the servants’ attic —”

“I don’t recall soliciting your opinion on the matter.”

His quiet tone made his aunt go pale, except for a dab of pink on each cheek. Elizabeth couldn’t stop a surge of sympathy. She knew all too well how it felt to be the recipient of the earl’s displeasure.

“I trust you haven’t forgotten our dinner engagement with Lord and Lady Melton,” Lady Beatrice told Cicely. “They’re due to arrive shortly.”

Cicely pulled a face. “Then I suppose I’d better go, too,” she said, rising from the sofa.

Grateful to escape the tension, Elizabeth headed toward the door. Her father looked troubled as he offered her his arm and again she pondered her wisdom in coming here. Hadn’t she simply propelled herself into another nest of problems?

Following the parlor maid into the hall, she couldn’t resist a backward glance. Her limbs went weak; Lord Nicholas stood gazing after her, one arm resting on the mantelpiece. The elegant pose drew back his morning coat and afforded her a glimpse of his lean waist. A warm, wonderful sensation curled inside her. She longed to spend hours studying the masterpiece of his body, to run her hands over him, to seek out each rib, each rock hard curve of flesh, to discover if his muscles were as well formed as they looked.

She lifted her eyes to his. He looked displeased, angry almost. Her spirits wilted. Was he already regretting his decision to bring her here? Her inability to discern his thoughts both frustrated and fascinated her.

In a burst of perception, Elizabeth knew why she had agreed to the arrangement. It was not to nurture Cicely’s talent; it was not to allay Owen’s fears. It was to confront the powerful, perplexing emotions Lord Nicholas aroused in her.

“Really, Nicholas. Must you parade your interest in the chit?”

The earl only half heard the question. Elizabeth’s amethyst eyes held him enthralled for a long moment before she turned and vanished down the hall. What was the meaning of that solemn look? Was she already regretting her decision to live here? Restless and impatient, he steeled himself against the unreasonable urge to go after her, to demand an explanation.

He swung his gaze to his aunt and uncomfortably realized she awaited an answer. “Forgive me,” he said in pointed confusion. “I miss your meaning.”

Aunt Beatrice pursed her lips. “Don’t play the simpleton with me, Nicholas. You know I refer to your involvement with that… that
bohemian.”
Her rosebud mouth curled around the word. “Have you lost all sense of discretion? Imagine, settling your mistress here in one of London’s most respected households —”

“Miss Hastings is not my mistress; she’s a talented artist.”

The stern statement stopped Lady Beatrice for only a moment. “If she isn’t yet, then she soon will be. I’ve seen that look in a man’s eyes before.”

“Directed at yourself, perhaps?”

Coloring, Lady Beatrice evaded his gaze. “Perhaps,” she allowed, her slim shoulders stiff with pride. “I am not yet so very old, you know.”

Nicholas felt instantly ashamed for baiting her. Beneath his aunt’s bitterness lay sorrow and fear… sorrow for the beloved husband she had lost three years earlier, and fear that she would never again find a man to match him. Childless, she had focused her attentions on her niece and nephew, and hid her true warmth behind propriety and convention.

He crossed the room to enfold her delicate hands in his. “You’re as ravishing as you were at eighteen, Aunt.”

A smile wavered on her lips. “How do you know?” she scoffed. “At my coming out, you were still wearing knee breeches and sailor suits.”

“Ah, but I remember the only woman whose beauty could rival that of my mothers.” He lifted her hand and gallantly kissed its smooth back. “Then, as now, any man would be proud to call you his own.”

Her smile deepened into genuine warmth. “You’ve grown to be quite the flatterer, Nicholas. It’s no wonder you’re considered such a brilliant catch.”

He released her hands and stepped away. “I don’t lavish unmerited compliments. If I’m a brilliant catch,” he mocked, “it’s because those society mamas want a title and wealth for their daughters.”

“Ah, but the daughters see your handsome looks,” Lady Beatrice said, wagging an elegant finger at him. “Any woman would.” Her face tightened. “Even that artist looked at you that way.”

Hope flared in him. Denying the absurd longing, Nicholas strode to the sideboard to splash brandy into a glass. “You’re mistaken,” he said, calming the cadence of his heart. “She isn’t interested in me in the least. Her only interest is art.”

Lady Beatrice was silent; when he turned, glass in hand, he saw shock rounding her gray eyes. “You mean you’ve already asked her to become your mistress?” she said slowly. “And she refused you?”

Nicholas cursed his aunt’s astuteness… and his own carelessness. Taking a burning gulp of brandy, he realized the futility or denial. “Yes. So you see, you’ve nothing to fear.”

Lady Beatrice still looked suspicious. “Then why did you bring her here? Why are you treating her like an honored guest?”

“Because I’m hoping she’ll become more than an art instructor to Cicely. My sister needs a companion, someone nearer her own age than you or I.”

“A companion!” His aunt’s fine features went rigid. “Have you taken leave of your senses? Not only is this woman a bohemian, but judging by her accent, she’s an American as well. She’ll turn your sister into a wild Indian.”

Controlling his impatience, Nicholas set his glass on the mantelpiece. “Your prejudice is showing, Aunt.”

She waved a dismissive hand. “Americans know nothing of the social graces. She probably can’t even carry on a polite conversation. Is that the sort of company you want for your sister?”

“You might consider the fact that neither you nor I nor Miss Eversham has been successful in altering Cicely’s independent behavior. Since she respects Miss Hastings, I judge this well worth a try.”

“Indeed,” Lady Beatrice sniffed. “I can think of a hundred women who would make a more appropriate companion than an itinerant
artist.
What do you know of her background? Her breeding?”

“Cicely needs a friend, not a bloodline. Despite her unusual profession, Miss Hastings is respectable enough. She’ll make a decent chaperone.”

“You can’t mean to actually send this woman into society with your sister.” Beatrice’s look of disapproval turned to horror. “Why, you do, don’t you?”

Stunned by the realization that he wanted Elizabeth to be accepted by his social circle, Nicholas remained silent.

“She’ll disgrace this family! What will we say when people inquire about her lineage?”

Nicholas hadn’t the foggiest notion. “I’ll handle anyone ill mannered enough to ask.”

Beatrice shook her nead. “This isn’t like you, Nicholas. This isn’t like you at all.”

Irritated by the truth in her words, he paced to the door. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Yes, you do,” his aunt said, following. “You’ve been different these past few days. Restless and withdrawn.” She paused delicately.
“
I don’t mean to meddle in your affairs.”

“Then don’t.”

In spite of his blunt words, she went on in a softened voice, “You really should marry, you know.”

Startled, he swung back. “What has that to do with anything?”

“Everything. You need a wife to keep your interests close to home. To keep you from straying to an improper sort of woman.”

Annoyed and amused, Nicholas leaned a shoulder against the door frame. “Having a wife doesn’t necessarily stop a man from straying. Aunt.”

Color tinted her porcelain cheeks. ‘I’ll grant you, affairs may be quite common for some men. But if you were to make a love match, you would have no need to seek happiness elsewhere.”

The wistful look on her face stirred a storm of yearning in Nicholas. He knew with sudden clarity that he wanted the same joy his aunt had once known. Elizabeth Hastings flashed into his mind. Irritated, he banished her image. A woman of her class was for bedding, not wedding. It was unthinkable for a man of his position to marry anyone but a woman whose background and breeding matched his own.

Yes, the more he pondered it, the more appealing the idea of marrying became. He was weary or discreet liaisons with jaded mistresses. And it was long past time to fulfill his duty of producing heirs to carry on the Ware family name. In his mind he pictured a precocious daughter with unruly ebony hair and sparkling violet eyes.

“Perhaps I shall begin to look over the prospects more seriously,” he said.

Lady Beatrice smiled in delight. “The Meltons are bringing their daughter tonight. She’s the toast of the season, you know.”

Nicholas tried to conjure a picture of the girl, but could recall only a vague image of a giggly blonde with watery blue eyes. “What’s her name? Marilyn? Maria?”

“Marianne,” his aunt said in a scolding tone. “Don’t you remember? You sat beside her at Lord Amberley’s dinner party last week. Marianne was quite smitten with you. Consider her, Nicholas. She would make you the perfect wife.”

But as he went upstairs to dress, the only woman Nicholas could think about had gypsy black hair and amethyst eyes.

“I can scarcely wait to see everyone’s faces when we appear at dinner.” Blue eyes merry, Cicely clasped her hands in delight. “I vow no one will recognize you.”

“I hardly recognize myself,” Elizabeth murmured, staring at her reflection in the dressing room mirror. In a remarkably short time, she had been metamorphosed into a lady, at the sacrifice of comfort. A plethora of pins pressed into her scalp, taming her curls into a sleek chignon. The corset steels pinched her ribs and stole her breath. Her high necked gown of tissue thin magenta silk concealed the fading bruises, and the narrow cut of the skirt made her feel as stiff and unwieldy as a statue of dried clay.

She wanted nothing more than to spend the evening exploring the unfamiliar surroundings, seeking out the conservatory and planning her new studio, then perhaps curling up in a corner of her cavernous bedroom and sketching the earl from memory. Instead she was trussed up in a lady’s fashionable armor, preparing to pick daintily at her food and make inane conversation with snooty people who would likely regard her as an oddity. And all because Cicely had cajoled her into going down to dinner. On the other hand, she felt a curious compulsion to prove to Nicholas and Beatrice that an American artist could also behave like a lady.

Elizabeth tugged at her bee edged bodice in a vain effort to ease the pressure of her corset. “How do you abide this dreadful contraption?”

“Oh, pooh. You’ll grow used to it after a while.” Turning this way and that, Cicely scrutinized her hourglass figure in the cheval mirror. “Stays do such splendid things for the figure, don’t you trunk?”

“There’s nothing ugly about the natural proportions of the human body.”

Cicely crinkled her nose. “You wouldn’t say that if you had
my
baby fat. Without a corset, I scarcely
have
a waistline.”

A tall, plain featured woman marched in from the bedroom. “Perhaps if my lady would cease indulging her taste for sweets?”

“Oh, shush, Eversham. You’re a worse scold than Nick.” Twirling about in her Cambridge blue gown, Cicely continued to preen. “I rather fancy wearing my pearls tonight. What do you think?”