Читать книгу The Notorious Countess - Liz Tyner, Liz Tyner - Страница 11

Chapter Five

Beatrice looked across the room and her stomach churned. Everyone in the ducal residence seemed too full of gaiety, except when she stood near. The scandal sheet had not been kind. Wilson had grumbled, but the plan to escort her to the duke’s soirée had pleased him. She imagined everyone wondering if she’d truly been invited.

If Andrew had seen the scandal sheet, he might have decided to call the whole thing off. He would be wise to do so. He’d not even been mentioned. Apparently Tilly hadn’t recognised him and the servants probably had not even known who he was.

Chattering voices, smiling faces and a sea of glasses going bottoms up, and the feeling that everyone in the room was speculating about her private life—as if she’d had one since she married.

So much like when her glittering world as Riverton’s countess had crashed.

Had she known how events would unfold, she still would have stopped Riverton when he attacked the maid, but she wouldn’t have kept quiet and let his version of what happened become labelled as fact. And she would have found another way to convince his mistress that she wasn’t welcome.

She looked to the doorway, wondering if Andrew would arrive. She tamped down those thoughts. At least she could be certain if he did arrive he would not be sotted. Long ago she’d learned it was better not to coerce a man into attending an event where he didn’t wish to be.

Then two men entered the grand doorway and Beatrice knew who they were just from their outline.

Since the unfortunate encounter, she’d discovered all she could of Andrew and his family. She’d already known of Foxworthy. Every woman in the ton knew of Foxworthy. Andrew she’d only known of from her brother. Wilson had made him sound so tedious. He’d complained that Andrew often asked for the near impossible to be designed, and Wilson had made Andrew sound meticulously stuffy.

Seeing the cousins side by side, though, one didn’t doubt their bloodlines. If they hadn’t already been written up in Debrett’s, then she supposed the regent would take one look at them, consider it an oversight and rush to correct the error. No woman in the country would even think of questioning a decision like that. The mothers of unmarried daughters would merely rub gloved palms together—thankful of a boon for the marriage mart.

Dressed in black evening wear, the men appeared to be bookends of each other, but her eyes never really made it to their faces. Both stood tall enough to clear a regular-sized door, but only just. Framed by the entrance, they appeared as works of art.

She tried to imagine how she’d missed Andrew before. Possibly because Riverton had taken so much of her and she hadn’t been about in society much since then.

She’d been very young and entranced with Riverton when he’d approached her father and brother with a dream for a new mansion. She’d been too much in love and too green to have any idea what he would be like. His family had flatly forbidden the union, which she knew now had earned her a proposal and a special licence. Riverton had been doted on far too much to believe he didn’t have a right to his every wish and he’d been one toddle away from falling into a tangle of his own excesses. Perhaps he’d thought she could save him. Or perhaps he’d known she couldn’t.

Watching, she could tell when the men’s presence became noticed. Women began to flutter around Foxworthy. One would have thought the sun had just risen. And Fox was clucking to the cluster, gathering them, letting them fluff and preen, while he crowed and postured.

Andrew excused himself and moved aside. Women tried to catch his eye, but he never noticed, intent on stepping away, eyes searching. She knew the very instant he became aware of her, because he stilled.

Her thoughts exploded with possibilities. Her breathing quickened. Strong jaw. Yes. Nose. Yes. Pleasant skin. Brows. All the normal male attributes, arranged in just the right proportions. What she wouldn’t give to pull that white cravat aside and see his Adam’s apple. She could almost feel it under her hand. Little bristles from shaving. Masculine mixed with softness of skin. Her mind instantly took care of the excess clothing for her, letting her imagination see him as if no barrier existed.

Beatrice kept her face serene. His body would be perfect for art. It was much like his thoughts if the dearth of information about him was to be believed. Pristine. Cautious. Wilson said Lord Andrew had refused to accept less than perfection from any of the craftsmen he’d hired to work on his properties. A man who did not tolerate flaws well.

He walked to her, moving among the other guests with a quick word here and there, but with little detour. She watched his movements more closely than she’d ever studied another man. Other needs had been foremost in her mind on the night they’d met, but now she could see him with shadows flowing over his face. This was the man she’d been looking for, if not all her life, then at least for a year. If she could convince him to let his hair become a bit unkempt. His jaw could use a bit of darkness on it, too. The valet would have to spare the razor perhaps. She could paint him as a knight, a rogue, a rake for any century.

Yes, the man was exactly what she needed for inspiration. Already she could imagine him, standing bold, sunlight flowing haphazardly over him. The contrast of light and shadows emphasising the nature of a person, good and bad. If he held a sword, tip into the ground beneath him, perhaps a sheen of moisture on his face, hair in damp spikes on his forehead, framing his eyes. Standing as if he’d been awakened from another century, and risen, ready to do battle with whatever the fates thrust his way.

She might well send Tilly the amethysts with a lovely note. Not any time soon, though.

When he stopped in front of her, she looked up into the depths of dark eyes. Her words crumbled at his feet even before they were spoken. His jawline was firm, but not too long to detract from the beauty of his face. It only made him seem stronger. And she knew, if he were to gain weight as years passed, the thinness of his cheeks would fill and he would only become better to view.

She imagined all the ravages of life she could think of on his face. Andrew would not disappoint in later years. His bone structure was that of society’s world, but her brother had said he’d dressed in workman’s clothing at the back of his home where repairs were being done. Wilson claimed Andrew had selected the men who worked on his repairs, inspected their work and directed them. Looking at Andrew, she could imagine him bounding up a ladder, scampering along the frame of a roof, or carrying lumber on his shoulder. Her fingers burned to return to her brushes. She could not speak.

The night she’d first met him would have been so different if she’d known. He would have walked into a room lit by a thousand candles and her eyes wouldn’t have blinked.

‘Lady Riverton,’ he spoke courteously, but nothing soothed her in his countenance. She suspected he didn’t enjoy the attention turned his way.

Watching his expression, she flicked a finger against the back of the amethyst earrings he’d sent. They’d arrived that morning. His eyes flashed a glint of a smile and his lips firmed, but he appeared to struggle to keep them that way.

‘Lord Andrew.’ She waited half a breath. The moment passed and it almost felt as if they were strangers. The man in public did not seem quite the same as in private. But that was for the best. It would not do to become close to him.

But she wanted to paint him. Certain risks came with that. She had never been able to distance herself from a model completely.

‘This is my entranced look for today,’ she said, covering for the fact that she knew she gazed at him too strongly.

His nod would have been imperceptible to anyone standing near.

‘I thought you might wish to change our—your plans after the sheet was printed. You weren’t named,’ she said. She didn’t want him trapped in any mire. He would not take well to it.

He leaned in slowly, his voice strong, assured and moving over her like a warm fog enveloping a valley. ‘The plans have not changed, Beatrice.’

In response, he took her gloved hand and tucked it around his arm. ‘The only reason I did not approach the man who printed that trash and thrash him is because he will be quite useful.’

His breath brushed past her ears. Her heart beat in her chest, her knees and her toes. He had to know every eye in the room was on them.

Her mind recovered first and then she gasped. Yes, he knew everyone watched. She could not let herself be fooled.

His eyes tightened. ‘Are you choked? Do you need a glass of lemonade?’

‘Only the glass. Perhaps with something else inside it.’ She had to get herself out of the crush of people. To think. ‘Later.’ Those same butterflies in the brain feeling from before. Oh, she could not let herself fall into that chasm.

She must talk to him privately. It would look as if they were moving away to be alone because they were besotted. He might not react well, but so be it.

The scent of shaving soap bathed her, but then she realised the aroma might not be shaving soap, but laundered wool, mixed with leather and something she couldn’t quite place. Then she remembered. When the carriage house had been expanded, that gentle scent had wafted through the air mixed with the sound of hammers. She shivered inside. He really did smell a bit like a forest.

If she could translate this man into a portrait, it would be her masterpiece.

She leaned closer as they walked. ‘I must paint you,’ she whispered.

His feet stopped abruptly, causing her shoulder to bump into his, her opposing foot swinging wide. He steadied her.

He raised a brow as he moved forward with her. ‘No.’ He proceeded on, leading her through another doorway and to the entrance of the duke’s gardens. They stood on the steps, the doors behind them. In front, light shone to the open grounds. Several people lingered about, but far enough away to ensure privacy for Beatrice’s words.

‘No?’ she said. ‘I’m quite experienced. I assure you. I’m naturally talented.’

‘I am certain.’ He pulled his arm from hers, but he remained close, his words low. ‘I do not have time to be painted. I have too many irons in the fire as it is. I have no time for it.’

Someone chattered, moving closer. She smiled while tightening her arm.

Voice low, she whispered, ‘You should make time for art.’

For a moment, neither spoke, moving aside for a couple to return inside. Once the door snapped shut behind them, he gave her a rueful smile.

‘I admit, I do appreciate that likenesses are captured for the family to view after a person is gone. But that is about the extent of my tolerance for such things.’

‘Art is my reason for life.’ What spirit possessed her, she didn’t know or care—it always remained nearby. She wondered if she wanted to push him away.

He was a man who could not even allow himself flaws. His clothes fit him to perfection and he was as comfortable at the soirée as if he were the duke himself. She felt like a scullery maid trying to be a countess. She always had to some extent, but then she had not been born into such a life. No matter how much she spent on clothing, her corset always chafed, or the pins in her hair fought to loosen, or her shoes tightened on her feet. She pretended to brush her glove over her shoulder, making sure her chemise had not slipped from under her dress. Luckily, her stockings remained in place. So far they had not tried to bunch at her ankles.

She’d like to be someone other than herself for one night, she supposed. Now she just wanted to leave. To get back to the studio and paint. To close herself into her world and forget about the words that might be printed about her. She did not belong at a soirée—she belonged at a studio.

When she opened her mouth to speak, he stepped away.

A memory surfaced—Riverton leaving while she begged him to stay and left her with the knowledge he was going to another woman. For a moment, a familiar emotion surfaced and stilled the blood in her veins. She took a breath, and reminded herself that Lord Andrew meant nothing and had promised nothing. Fate had brought them together, or Tilly, or a mistake, or whatever it could be called. He didn’t owe her anything, truly, and yet he’d agreed to help her. She would paint him. The art would be a gift to him. A thank-you for trying to retrieve her reputation. She could already imagine showing him a life-sized mirror image of himself.

‘Lady Riverton. We should perhaps return to the others and waltz.’ His voice barely reached her ears.

She considered her goal and then thought of him. ‘Andrew. If you don’t dance with me, you might not be connected to me. Let us part now.’

She hadn’t called him Lord Andrew, but he had not seemed to notice, which she appreciated. Riverton would have shot her a killing glare.

‘No. I am desperate for a waltz with you.’ His lips didn’t smile, but happy crinkles appeared at his eyes and his voice was just a touch more resounding, possibly able to carry to others. ‘A waltz, Beatrice?’

She kept her words for his ears only. ‘Don’t say you were not warned.’

‘Is your dancing that bad?’ His face tipped near hers, words soft.

She raised her chin. ‘It’s quite grand.’

He clasped his hand over her gloved fist and pulled it to his lips for a quick brush, then opened the door for her. ‘Then I will not give you an opportunity to refuse.’

When she stepped into his arms for the waltz, she did not care what was said about her, even in the past. It had led to this moment and this dance, and she looked into the eyes of her muse.

‘Andrew. You must pose for me. We did get along quite well the other night and we do now.’

‘I cannot be blamed for that. You looked so lovely in the spectacles and mob cap. I was overcome with madness,’ he whispered, but his eyes sparked humour. ‘And the name... I’ve always had a penchant for women named Tilly. Sadly, I was misled.’