in London,’ she said. ‘My grandfather was pleased when my mother fell in love with a cleric and made my uncle promise that he would provide a parish for Father always. Father is so very quiet. He prefers his role of a cleric and gets on well with the parish, but not so easily with Mother’s family. You can tell he is uncomfortable. Sometimes I’m the same way. Preferring solitude.’
‘You’ve seemed to revel in the last soirée.’
‘I had planned to have a delightful evening, no matter how much effort it took.’ She glimpsed him from beneath her lashes. ‘Why should I not enjoy myself? You can enjoy art without seeing the true colours and I can hear music when there is none.’
She lifted her skirt enough to swirl around. ‘When I’m in the presence of landscapes that I enjoy, I can hear the symphonies in my head. The colours create music.’
She swept through the door and away from him, moving into the next room, pretending she was an actress making her stage entrance.
The men had joined the women and Mr Westbrook was telling her mother some outlandish tale judging by the laughter in the room.
Then Mr Westbrook saw her and observed his brother following behind. Immediately his attention switched back to her mother.
‘Lady Catesby, have you seen our ancestral portraits?’ Mr Westbrook asked. ‘You must before you leave. My brother can tell you who they are much better than I. He’s aware of distant cousins that have faded from my memory.’ He dipped his head to the Marchioness. ‘Mother has an impressive family history of her own.’
Lady Avondale laughed away the compliment.
‘I would like to explore the gallery,’ Emilie’s mother answered, surprising Emilie with the sudden interest.
Marcus waved a hand for her to precede him and her mother went ahead.
The Lady Avondale ushered out the other guests who’d been leaving, and Emilie stayed alone with Mr Westbrook.
‘I would relish being in your presence again. Please tell me you won’t be leaving town soon,’ Mr Westbrook said.
‘I’m uncertain.’
He took her hand and she did not pull away.
‘Please let me know if we might meet again some day. I would be at your disposal. To take you on a carriage ride…’ he said. ‘To assist you in any way that I might…’
Emilie heard the interest in his voice. ‘Are you certain?’
‘Very much so. To have a woman like you in our midst is a grand thing.’
‘I paint,’ she said.
‘So do I.’
‘I know you mentioned that you dabbled in it.’
‘Yes. After my lessons ended, I’ve spent a few stretches of time with a canvas. Father wanted Marcus to focus on music and languages and the more boring aspects of learning, and I was the second son. I liked charcoals and oils, so Father indulged me. My mother has one of my paintings on the wall. I signed it simply Westbrook.’
‘I saw it. It’s good. Skilful.’ A fine showing, but not exceptional. Especially adept if he didn’t practise. He had natural skills. She realised he had signed his family name and it hadn’t occurred to her that he was the one who’d painted it.
He bowed in acknowledgement of her words. ‘Marcus doesn’t let me scatter around my attempts at landscapes in his residence, but I have a few tucked away there. Of course, I would be pleased to dig out a few for you to critique, privately. If Marcus knew of your presence, he would be so angered. Propriety and all.’
‘That is thoughtful of you.’
‘We artists should support each other.’
She pondered her choices. Mr Westbrook seemed willing to ruin her. Considerate of him. She pushed aside her awareness that she really didn’t care for him. He would certainly make her option of choosing marriage or choosing to be ruined easier. Marriage to him would distress her so.
Her mother and Marcus returned to the room and she slipped her hand from Mr Westbrook’s and increased her distance from him. Her mother’s view wavered, uncertain about whether to be upset Westbrook had taken her hand, or to scold Emilie for pulling away.
But if she were to guess, by the glare in his eyes, Marcus’s teeth were near to breaking.
Emilie turned, following her mother’s exit to the carriage.
Marcus wasn’t given to sweetness as his brother was. But Marcus would be so much better for a portrait.
How he had not married gave her cause to guess the women of the town were smart to avoid a rascal, or had no wits about them that they wouldn’t try to entrance someone so superb.
She doubted she was up to the task of having Mr Westbrook for a husband. She figured if one got used to having ravening hawks about one, but at bay, one could become complacent. And the sly hawk could wait patiently, relaxing, paying scant attention, until the guard was lowered, pounce on the little weasel, gulp and be done with it.
Such a shame that Mr Westbrook would be the better man for her husband. He did paint, of course. She had noticed the buttons on Westbrook’s coat and knew they were mother-of-pearl and had a nice stone in each centre. Marcus’s buttons were unremarkable. She knew he, as the elder, could have had as nice a coat as Westbrook had. Perhaps Marcus wasn’t inclined to spare the coin, or perhaps he didn’t care about fashion as much.
Scrutinising them from memory, she could see why she’d mistaken Mr Westbrook for the eldest. His tailor spared no expense and Marcus wore muted tones and few frills.
But he didn’t need embellishments.
She could hardly stand how her stomach turned over when she saw him. That could disrupt her. She must keep him a safe distance from her.
She feared if she lingered in his arms, she might become a shadow of herself. A woman who hid inside herself, waiting for Marcus to notice her again. She couldn’t become vulnerable to him. He was just a man.
Emilie couldn’t risk corruption from someone like him. Her life had to revolve around her aspirations. Some day, she would enter a gallery and her work would grace the wall, or her landscapes would be purchased as a legacy to hand down to grandchildren. If it meant scrawling a signature across the bottom, and perhaps even letting Mr Westbrook claim credit, she didn’t care. She wanted her impressions to live and be noticed. Only by being exhibited would anyone other than her family have access to them.
She could easily paint and display, or sell them as Mr Westbrook’s work, although she envisioned herself better than him. Having to sign his name to her creations—actually, she wasn’t sure if she could do that.
But no one would dare ignore a painting done by an earl’s son. She could pull off the ruse, but she wasn’t sure she wanted to. And she wasn’t sure she wanted to be in any sort of a compromising position with Westbrook either.
Marcus, on the other hand. She might like to see him more. Purely in the interest of inspiration. But, she would have to content herself
