It would break Linette’s heart, not to mention mine.’
So, he would stand by his decision. Alex sighed. Their father would not be pleased. ‘Did Mother say anything else?’
‘No. Why?’
Surprised, Alex turned and walked towards the window. Why hadn’t their mother made mention of their father’s illness? Surely she felt it important enough. Why else would she have told him? ‘No reason,’ he said, deciding to leave it for the moment. ‘Tell me, what does Mother think of Miss Linette Darling now that she’s met her?’
‘That she is lovely and sweet and seems to come from a nice enough family.’
‘But …?’
‘But do I really think I am doing the right thing by marrying her.’
Alex hadn’t expected his mother to agree with the betrothal, but neither had he expected her to condemn it as harshly as his father had. Her relationship with Peter wouldn’t allow it.
‘You haven’t told me what you think about all this yet,’ Peter said.
Alex shrugged. ‘Does it matter?’
‘Of course it matters. You’re my brother. I’ve always looked up to you. I care about what you think.’
‘So if I were to tell you that I agree with Father in thinking you should have done better …?’
‘I’d say it’s not what I wanted to hear, but that I can understand your reasons for saying it.’
‘Unfortunately, understanding what I’m saying doesn’t solve the problem, Peter,’ Alex said. ‘If something were to happen to me, you would become the next earl. Do you really think Linette Darling is suitable to being the next Countess of Widdicombe?’
Peter smiled unhappily.” I’m sorry, Alex. But in my eyes, she already is.’
Ridley’s startling admission that he had given up law to paint portraits for a living was an endless source of fascination to Emma. It seemed a thoroughly illogical, but totally understandable, thing for her brother to do; curious to find out more about that part of his life, she waited until their father had gone for his daily walk and then went to seek him out.
She found him, not unexpectedly, in the stables, devoid of jacket and with his shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He had a soft brush in his hand and was running it over the sides and back of his chestnut, both he and the horse seeming to enjoy the peaceful occupation. Ridley was different from most gentlemen in that regard. He liked looking after his horses almost as much as he enjoyed riding them.
‘Hello, Emma,’ he said as she appeared at the stall door. ‘What brings you down here?’
‘I wanted to talk to you about your painting. Away from the house.’
‘Away from Father, you mean.’ Ridley resumed brushing. ‘At least I know you don’t think I’m dicked in the nob for going ahead with it.’
‘Not at all. I admire you for having had the courage to follow your heart. But weren’t you nervous, giving up your legal studies for something as unpredictable as art?’
‘In truth, I was terrified,’ Ridley admitted with a smile. ‘But only for a day or two. In my heart, I knew I was doing the right thing. I wasn’t cut out for the law, Em. All those boring precedents and tedious pleadings. I never would have been any good at it. But painting is like breathing to me. It’s natural. It’s what I need to do to be happy.’
Emma understood that. Though her own enjoyment of painting wasn’t the passion it so clearly was for Ridley, she knew the joy of sitting down in front of an easel and getting ready to create, the freedom of allowing her imagination to soar. ‘But you said you had commissions. With so many successful portraitists in London, how did you get anyone to hire you?’
‘I was lucky enough to be friends with Lord Bickerson’s son at Oxford,’ Ridley said, moving the brush over the chestnut’s hindquarters. ‘Tom knew of my interest because I had shown him a few of my sketches. So when he came in one evening and told me his father was looking for someone to do a family portrait, I jokingly suggested that he put my name forward. He told me he already had and that I was to meet with his father the next day to go over the details.’
‘How wonderful!’ Emma said.
‘Yes, it was, rather. So I met Lord Bickerson and told him I’d do the painting, and that if he didn’t like it he didn’t have to pay me.’
‘Very noble of you.’
‘Not really. Bickerson knew I’d never done a commission before. He had already engaged an established artist before Tom even mentioned my name. So giving me a chance wasn’t much of a risk on his part. It was something he did as a favour to his son. And if it turned out I wasn’t any good, he’d still have a painting from someone else and all I would have been out was the cost of a canvas and some paints. But, as luck had it, he was delighted with the painting and paid me what I considered to be a very fair sum. More importantly, he recommended me to Lord Huston—’
‘Viscount Huston?’ Emma asked on a gasp of surprise.
‘That’s right. And when Huston saw what I’d done for Lord Bickerson, he hired me to paint a portrait of his wife and another one of his two young sons. After that, I received a commission from a titled gentleman, followed by one from a lady who wished me to paint her portrait as a gift for someone.’
Emma smiled. How wonderful to hear that Ridley was enjoying success in his new career. Why, then, the faint echo of regret in his voice? ‘So you are now an established artist with enviable credentials and a growing list of clients,’ she said.
‘Indeed. But Linette tells me you have improved immeasurably since I left,’ he said in an overly hearty voice. ‘When are you going to show me some of your work?’
‘Are you mad? After showing me that delightful painting of the little girl with the kitten in her arms? Not a chance. I paint for my own pleasure. Not for your eyes or anyone else’s!’
But someone else had seen her work. Lord Stewart, the morning he had come upon her painting down by the pond. He had complimented on her ability and told her that her work was impressive. High praise indeed from a man like that.
Good thing she’d known better than to believe him.
On Wednesday morning, Emma donned a plum-coloured riding habit with a matching bonnet and had Jenks saddle her mare. It was a glorious morning for a ride. The sky was a bright sapphire-blue with a few white clouds drifting by like tufts of cotton. Dark-green hedges crisscrossed lighter green fields dotted here and there with clumps of golden buttercups and white-and-yellow daisies. A painter’s palette of colours! Unfortunately, caught up as she was in her study of the world around her, Emma failed to notice the approaching rider until he was close enough to speak. ‘I suspect your artistic eye is seeing all this in a vastly different light than those of us who cannot tell blue from turquoise.’
The voice was teasing, lighter in tone than it had been the last time they’d spoken. Nevertheless, Emma couldn’t suppress a frisson of awareness at hearing it. ‘You surprise me, Lord Stewart. The fact you know there is a difference
