The King of Threadneedle Street (16 page)

“Then remember the ugly prospect of by-blows. I
am
a by-blow and don’t recommend the circumstance.”

“There are ways around it. Lisa, I am so tempted.” He grazed his nose down her throat and inhaled. It nearly undid her. “What do
you
want? Tell me, and that will be the final word.”

What did she
want?
She wanted to give in. Shameful. Wanton as her French courtesan mother. And she knew all about the ways around the problem, as he said, but nothing was purely reliable. Her very existence was proof of that.

“Yes, there are ways around it, Drew, but best not risk it, as you wisely said last night.” She gave him a shove on the chest, pushing him away. “I was wrong to encourage you. I take my part of the blame. It won’t happen again, I swear.”

Andrew seemed to concentrate on controlling his breath. He brushed the hair from his forehead and answered with wild eyes, “I think I had better send you to Devonshire.
Soon
.”

Chapter Ten

But O, how bitter a thing it is to look into happiness through another man’s eyes.

As You Like It,
William Shakespeare

Spring of 1872, Rougemont Park in Devonshire, England

It had been a few months, and still Alysia woke clutching a pillow to her chest. She had flipped it sideways, trapped with her knee, as she had held Andrew those last few nights in Paris before coming to Rougemont. If she purposefully conjured the memory, which she did often, she thought she could still smell his cedar-and-leather scent and remember his messy hair tickling her cheek.

So clearly she remembered how close she had come to being
deflowered,
as Andrew called it, in broad daylight in an office chair. They had shared a cup of tea and a mild argument, and then somehow moments later found it necessary to decide whether to ravish each other or refrain.

Alysia didn’t know what had possessed her later that night, but she had been drawn from her bed as though summoned and crossed the hall to Andrew’s room. She didn’t knock or ask permission. Knowing it was potentially a foolish mistake, she climbed into his bed and wrapped her arms around him from behind. He may have been asleep or not; without a word he rubbed his arms over hers and drew her against his back. With her face resting against his neck and her hand over his heart, she drifted to sleep feeling his heartbeat.

She came to him the next few nights until her last night in Paris. Andrew didn’t push the encounter beyond its innocent nature, and she didn’t tempt him to. He didn’t leave early in the morning, but let them wake together, much to the amusement of the servants and the delight of Lady Chauncey. It was remarkable how warm two bodies became when held together so long. She missed how his scent lingered on her skin like a scandalous perfume.

Just before they parted, Andrew had taken her face in his hands and kissed her tenderly for a long time, long enough that the footmen wandered away. He joked that surely there was no more deserving winner of the
Herculean Self-Control Award
than himself. “I just might be out of my mind, or perhaps I truly
love you.”

She had waited until she was alone then wept most of the way across the English channel.

There was a small stir in her room. Alysia blinked awake and sat up before the chambermaid caught her fondling the pillow. Instead she saw Miss Mary Cavendish sitting in the bedside chair, turning the pages of a fashion periodical. Miss Cavendish, Lord Devon’s niece, was the second of three orphaned sisters, eighteen years old, and had made friends instantly with Alysia when she arrived at Rougemont.

Mary had a flair for the dramatic and amused Alysia by using phrases such as “disconsolately bewildered” to mean “confused.” She adored mythology and anything else fanciful. She heartily appreciated Alysia’s unusual art.

Alysia had loaned her one of her own gowns from Paris, one of the more conservatively cut ones. It fit nearly perfectly, and Mary had said she was grateful to have the advice of a lady who wasn’t “rail thin,” meaning her slender sisters and the willowy Lady Devon.

“I heard once that some women have a figure fashion adores, but it’s better to have the figure
men
adore,” Alysia had told her, and Mary beamed as though Alysia had quoted scripture instead of a modiste. Alysia winked at Mary, and they were friends, as simply as that.

Alysia looked at Mary, engrossed in the fashion plates in her lap, and greeted her, “Good morning, Mary.”

Mary startled and put a hand to her heart. “Oh! I do apologize profusely for the intrusion into your chambers, Alysia.”

“No matter, Mary, you are most welcome. Studying fashion this morning?”

“Oh, yes. Sophia says we may expect a visit from the modiste this week.” When their elderly, regimental Aunt Louisa was away, Mary and Madeline Cavendish addressed Lady Devon informally, which apparently the countess preferred. Lady Devon had invited Alysia to call her by her first name, as though they had been childhood playmates or equals in rank, but she didn’t dare.

Alysia slipped a dressing robe on over her nightdress and Mary looked with her mouth slightly open and her eyebrows raised. “I beg your pardon, Alysia, but that is a
deliciously scandalous
thing to wear to bed! Lace, and silk, and cut so sparsely.”

“It’s the Parisian style. Married women and, ah, fallen women often wear it, and I have become partial to the style. Perhaps I shall give you one for every night of the week when you are married.”

“Yes! Aunt Sophia would never allow me to wear such a thing now,” she mourned. “Although I am sure I would feel rather grown up and romantic if I did.” Mary cocked her head. “Since you are not married, are you implying that you are a
fallen woman?
” It seemed Mary found the idea fascinating rather than disgraceful.

“I have earned the distinction.” Alysia saw no sense in being reserved with a girl of eighteen, who might be eligibly married at any time. “If you want to know about making love with a man I can’t tell you much from experience.”

Mary giggled. “Do you mean you could tell me
some?
Is it the mysterious man who sends you purple roses and chocolate?”

“Yes, and yes, I suppose. But I can’t have him, so don’t be overly pleased on my behalf.”

“Ooh.” Mary’s eyes went wide. “Is that why you are here? Hiding from a
forbidden
lover? And he sends you clandestine tokens? How tragic!” She sighed. “How
romantic.
Do you not despair, Alysia?”

Every day.
“I try not to dwell on it. I fill my time with pleasant things, such as browsing fashion plates. What will you order from the modiste?” Alysia pointed to the illustrations, hoping to change the subject.

They bent over the drawings, and Alysia had to talk Mary out of a few of the designs. “My dear, the lady modeling that gown could fit both of her bosoms on one side of your bodice. Such a cut of the neckline is not for you.” The chambermaid had come in and chuckled at her comment. Alysia added for good measure, “And she would no doubt weep with jealousy.”

Alysia flipped over a few pages and pointed to a heart-shaped pleated bodice. “There. You need something form-fitting in the waist. That would be a flattering style.”

After breakfast Alysia found Madeline waiting in the library. Madeline was the most serious and earnest girl she had ever met. Fourteen going on forty, she was astoundingly well-educated and brilliant. Difficult to believe she had obtained nearly all of her knowledge of the Romance languages, arithmetic, literature, and music in only the four years she had studied with Lady Devon. But then, the countess was famously academic herself. A
shameless bluestocking,
as her own bookish husband teased her.

Madeline reminded Alysia of Christian, both of them always with their heads bent studiously over a book, puzzling over the intricate workings of the universe as no normal adolescent would.

When Alysia had been introduced to Madeline, the girl blurted, “My, but you are quite beautiful!” She added breathlessly, “And you have
purple eyes.
How fantastical!”

Alysia had tried to disguise a smile at Lady Devon’s startled gasp. “I got them from my mother, and I think I shall like
you
very much, Miss Madeline.” And it had turned out that she had, as instantly as she liked Mary.

Lady Devon had done a fine job of teaching Madeline to draw; her proportions were accurate as well as her use of shading. She hadn’t been taught to paint. And she had yet to study the human body, but Alysia didn’t suppose Lord and Lady Devon would approve of a trip to the art schools of Paris to sketch the nude models, as Lady Mercoeur had done with Alysia when she was fifteen. The same year her mother had died, she remembered sadly.

Madeline didn’t notice Alysia as she came in. She looked intently at a drawing on a large sketchpad. It took Alysia a moment to notice it was hers. And as luck would have it, she studied the portrait of Andrew — the drawing of his head and thankfully not the other. But that did not mean Madeline hadn’t seen it. Alysia had never found the fortitude to remove the drawings, and she looked at them often. At the moment her concern was what Lady Devon would do if Madeline had seen the nude and admittedly erotic drawing of Lord Preston.

Madeline saw Alysia approach. Instead of startling and being ashamed of snooping, she said reverently, “He is the most beautiful man I have ever seen. His lines are masculine and angular, yet with an elegance and comeliness that hardly seems fair for a man to possess.” She looked up. “You didn’t exaggerate his features?” Alysia shook her head, no. “Not the length and thickness of lashes? His jaw is so square and his nose so straight? And such
artistically perfect
hair; I have only seen the like in a DaVinci. Only he has the rough look of a warrior, which is contradictory, considering his beauty. He has a Byronic air, I would say.”

Alysia was taken aback by Madeline’s remarkably apt assessment. Stunned, she let her continue.

“Yet it is his eyes that move me. Although they are cast partly down, they seem filled with secrets, and kind, and warm. I presume the live subject has brown eyes?” Alysia nodded. “I think you like him, this man. The way you portray him; it makes me want to touch his face and believe he would welcome it. How does an artist capture such things?”

Alysia had to clear her throat before she could speak. “First, an artist must
see
and
feel
the essence in order to capture it. Next, it’s a matter of technique, of interpreting shapes and lines as well as portraying texture, which I can show you. We haven’t done much with drawing people yet; perhaps it is time we began. I will need to discuss the extent of our anatomical studies with Lady Devon first, of course.”

“You mean nudes? I like the one of the same man in your book. I would like to draw like that.”

“Madeline!” Alysia nearly shrieked. “You were not supposed to see that! You shouldn’t look in my private things.”

“You left it out in the library, Alysia.”

“I did
not!
You had to have fetched it from the bottom of my case.” She groaned, “Lady Devon will have my head.”

“Nonsense, Alysia. I have seen dozens of pictures of naked men before, it doesn’t scandalize me. It was Aunt Sophia who showed them to me when we studied Italian art.” Madeline gestured to the sketchpad. “And I already know it’s Lord Preston. He is our friend here, and I overheard Aunt Sophia talking to Uncle Wil about how he is in love with you.”

A male voice startled her, “Mind your teacher, Madeline.” It was Lord Devon, and Alysia didn’t know he was in the library. He didn’t seem angry. “And stop snooping through her things.”

Lord Devon’s dark-haired little boy, one of the four-year-old twins, ran to him and clutched his leg, staring at Alysia. She enjoyed watching Richard. He walked with his arms held away from his sides, fists clenched in an adorable war-like strut. Last evening Alysia had watched Lord Devon wielding a croquet mallet like a broadsword to spar with the fearsome toddler, and Richard struggled to handle an iron poker from the fireplace. He did manage to crack his father in the knee with it, and Lord Devon fell obligingly to the ground, perhaps groaning sincerely in pain.

Alysia had thought the Tilmores were particularly attentive to their children, but they were nothing like the Montegues, who spent nearly every day in each other’s company and seemed blissfully happy. It was contagious.

Coming out of her reverie, Alysia suggested to Madeline, “We shall consult Lady Devon about anatomical study. Meanwhile, you might enjoy drawing horses. Their musculature is a challenge you should appreciate.”

Lord Devon nodded in approval. He tossed Richard into the air and set the boy on his shoulders. “Shall we bow to the ladies, Richard?” The boy squealed as he dipped forward, clutching Lord Devon’s head.

He prompted Richard to say, “Good day,” but the boy pointed his arm at Alysia and Madeline, as though threatening them at knifepoint.

He scowled menacingly. “
En garde!
” he shouted.

Everyone laughed, and Lord Devon smiled apologetically, then took his leave. “Let us go and find your mother,” he said to the precocious little boy.

Alysia tried not to sigh. Living at Rougemont felt like being written into a fairy tale as a secondary character. Holding a hand out for her sketchbook, she said to Madeline, “And now for your brush stroke exercises?”

Madeline surrendered the book with a sigh. “I want to paint something
romantic.
”

“Skill before expression,” Alysia recited, handing Madeline her brush set.

****

After dinner, Alysia listened to the Montegues’ music in one of the drawing rooms. Only it was not drawing room music at all. She herself was only capable of music among friends; nocturnes, preludes, and lyrical songs. The Montegues, however, played music that belonged in a concert hall. Music was their passion, and they excelled at it — all of them.