Miss Emilie Catesby’s choice:

A convenient marriage or ruin!

Miss Emilie Catesby lives to paint, but when her mother threatens to take her oils away if she doesn’t marry, she must either recklessly ruin herself, or marry jaded Lord Marcus. And when she finds herself compromised into a marriage of convenience with Marcus, her decision is made for her! However, she’s now surprised to discover her wifely duties hold much more appeal than her paints…

LIZ TYNER lives with her husband on an Oklahoma acreage she imagines is similar to the ones in the children’s book Where the Wild Things Are. Her lifestyle is a blend of old and new, and is sometimes comparable to the way people lived long ago. Liz is a member of various writing groups and has been writing since childhood. For more about her, visit liztyner.com.

Also by Liz Tyner

The Notorious Countess

The Runaway Governess

The Wallflower Duchess

Redeeming the Roguish Rake

Saying I Do to the Scoundrel

To Win a Wallflower

English Rogues and Grecian Goddesses miniseries

Safe in the Earl’s Arms

A Captain and a Rogue

Forbidden to the Duke

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk.

It’s Marriage or Ruin

Liz Tyner

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-1-474-08944-9

IT’S MARRIAGE OR RUIN

© 2019 Elizabeth Tyner

Published in Great Britain 2019

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

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Version: 2020-03-02

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Dedicated to Tianne and Anna

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Note to Readers

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Extract

About the Publisher

Chapter One

Emilie Catesby could not be dancing at the wrong moment.

She stood in her very best dress, with her very best demeanour, which she quickly changed to her very best frown should any man try to catch her eye.

Finally her mother departed for the ladies’ retiring room and Emilie saw her chance. She’d not been fetching those lemonades for her mother purely out of daughterly devotion.

Lightly clasping the side of her skirt, so she could lift the hem enough to move quickly, Emilie made her way across the ballroom floor, one destination fixed in her mind. The pianoforte music and violins faded into silence; all her concentration was on her task.

Her mother didn’t want anyone to be reminded of Emilie’s fascination with art, but Emilie had to examine the portrait of Lady Avondale.

The likeness rested on an easel, to the opposite side of the musicians, its unveiling the excuse for the soirée.

Then she stopped, gazing at the life-sized replica of the Marchioness, the scent of the dried oils still lingering.

Emilie folded her arms behind her back and examined the brushstrokes. The blending of colours. Lady Avondale’s interlaced fingers were almost hidden by fabric and her aunt had painted them by blending skin tones with the hues of the dress. They gave more the appearance than the reality. As Emilie browsed from the outside of the portrait to the centre, she realised the painting became more detailed. An observer’s attention was being directed by the artist. Emilie was entranced. Such mastery.

The features were well defined. Wrinkles were hinted at on the subject, but were softened. This was not Lady Avondale upon serious scrutiny, but the woman a loved one might observe. A true likeness seen through devotion.

The painting had captured the spirit. It said more than colours on canvas. It spoke of vivacity.

Emilie sighed.

Her aunt was beyond great. She was not only an artist, she was a master of the brush.

‘A good painting.’ A deep baritone voice resonated in her ear, coming from behind her shoulder.

Emilie didn’t turn, still gazing. ‘Magnificent.’

‘You’ve been staring at it and, while it is beautiful, I cannot but realise that you are used to seeing more loveliness in the mirror each morning.’

‘Mmm…’ What nonsense. This was true splendour. Captured for—well, eternity. A legacy. The woman’s visage would remain in the family’s midst for ever. Alive. A child generations in the future would view the image and feel they knew this woman.

‘The hands…’ Emilie said. ‘I had no idea you could paint them that way.’

The voice sounded closer, as he peered over her shoulder. ‘I had not noticed them before.’

‘That is the purpose.’ Emilie unclasped her arms and held her fingers near the frame as if she could cup the face on the canvas. ‘And the skin tones…’

‘If you say so.’

Oh, the picture truly was a work of brilliance. Emilie blinked back tears, both of awe for her aunt’s talent and sadness that she herself had not perfected her own skills. She had wasted so many hours on fripperies when she could have been improving.

‘Might I share a waltz with you?’ the voice asked, so softly she could barely hear.

‘Have we been introduced?’ Emilie gazed at the tints of the painting of the Marchioness, still unable to take her gaze away from it, tears almost blinding her now. It would not do at all for someone to notice her sniffling over a painting. Her mother would be enraged.

‘We have.’ The words were clipped.

‘Of course. I recall now,’ she said. Her mother had insisted she meet so many people that she’d not remembered most of them. ‘Certainly.’

‘A waltz…’

‘That would be enchanting.’

Thankfully, he moved away and she used her glove to wipe the moisture from her face.

Her mother returned, standing by Emilie, then taking her arm to guide her away from the likeness. ‘You picked the right moment to study the painting—when the Marchioness’s eldest son was viewing it. For once, your fascination with daubs of pigments did you well.

‘Avondale’s son,’ her mother continued, leading her closer to the musicians. ‘I overheard the Marquess of Avondale’s eldest son ask you to waltz. The eldest,’ she repeated. ‘The Earl of Grayson.’

Emilie realised she’d agreed to a dance. She’d not been paying attention to anything but the portrait in front of her. She glanced at her mother and put sincerity into her words. ‘I’m so very thrilled.’

Her mother frowned. She whispered in Emilie’s ear as the music for a reel started, ‘You were not paying any attention, were you? You were staring at the canvas. Lord Grayson and his brother, Mr Westbrook, are matrimonial prizes—at least, on the surface. Their cousin, Mr Previn, as well, but he’s not here tonight.’

‘But you said they were all rakes,’ Emilie responded, remembering the quick whisper of warning her mother had given earlier.

‘I know.’ Her mother’s scowl speared Emilie as she spoke. ‘But you can’t be too choosy. You’ve waited a little late for that.’

Emilie didn’t argue. She knew that was the true reason her mother had brought her to London. Her mother had married out of the peerage, for love, and had raised her children away from society. Then she had decided that, while love was nice enough, love and a title would be much better.

Actually, the one person Emilie truly wanted to spend time with, her aunt, was surrounded by well-wishers. Her aunt laughed, the sound reverberating in the room, causing others to chuckle along.

Emilie sighed. There was so little difference in their ages, yet her aunt had succeeded, where Emilie had not.

Emilie’s deepest dream—the dream which made her spirit live—was to create art which mattered to people. Portrayals which people noticed. She wanted to leave a legacy. James Gillray was gone and still people kept his caricatures of the Prince Regent.

Her mother snorted, ever so delicately, and Emilie knew she’d best give her mother full attention.

‘Do not get your expectations up, Emilie. Avondale’s son is likely to be considering you for a dalliance, nothing sincere. But by dancing with him, the other men in society will notice you. This is indeed beneficial to your marriage prospects.’ Her mother looked at her, then in the direction the man had taken. ‘He’s speaking to his brother now. Perhaps both of them will dance with you tonight.’

Emilie tilted her head so that her mother might not study her too closely and notice the remaining tears. ‘Very beneficial. Yes, Mama.’

She compared the two brothers, talking, with drinks in their hands. They were too far above her in every way. She would say one reached almost to the doorframe and the other was taller still. Well, she was tall enough herself. She would not oversize them. The tallest one grinned at her. The other one reminded her of someone she couldn’t place. It was as if she’d seen him in a painting before, yet she was certain she would have remembered a portrait with that image in it.

She bit the inside of her lip, concentrating.

The more serious one took a drink from the glass in his hand. His frown changed and she assumed he’d glanced her way, but she wasn’t sure. A tiny crease showed on one side of his mouth. He seemed to be paying attention to his brother, but the tickle inside her told her she’d been viewed—pleasantly. Not as a country miss overstepping her bounds, or as a woman in search of a marriage, but as a person who might be interesting.

Both men were completely comfortable at the soirée, speaking as if they were alone. She wondered what brothers could find to talk about. But everyone in the room seemed to have plenty of things to discuss with their friends, or to be enjoying the spontaneity of the gathering. Even the other young woman whose mother inserted her directly into the line of marriageable men appeared at ease.

Marriage wasn’t in Emilie’s future. She knew that. She pretended to be on a husband search because bringing down the wrath of her mother never ended well. Paints could be tossed away. Brushes broken.

But she rarely had a chance to study features on men near her age and the serious brother was familiar. ‘Do you mind if I stand near the Marquess of Avondale’s sons so I will be ready when the waltz begins?’

‘That is a questionable plan, Emilie. You must not talk much, and remember to say pleasantries. You’ve not demonstrated that as a ready quality.’ Her mother paused. ‘But we’ll make the best of it.’

‘Which is Lord Grayson and which is Mr Westbrook?’ Emilie asked, realising she didn’t know which brother was the eldest.

‘Nature was fair. The younger son, Mr Westbrook, inherited Avondale’s handsome face and immense charm. Lord Grayson inherited the title,’ her mother told her.

Then Lady Catesby contemplated Emilie and whispered. ‘But don’t remind anyone of our connection to Beatrice. Your aunt Beatrice was a late-in-life baby and our parents doted on her far too much. Father was busy training Wilson to take over the ducal estates and Mother spoiled Beatrice. She married for the wrong reasons and ended up on the worst of terms with her first husband. The worst.’

‘I’ve heard of her attacking a carriage.’

‘Shush,’ her mother whispered. ‘Fortunately, that husband died and she married someone who calms her. Mostly. But she has excellent conversational skills when she wishes and that has advanced her somewhat. Could hold a conversation with a teacup and kettle at the same time. Probably has done so and doesn’t care at all how she embarrasses us.’

‘She is my favourite aunt.’

‘I know. I’ve kept you apart from her for your own good. You have the same leanings as her. It is so obvious. I would not have let you attend tonight had I not known how many marriageable males would be here and received your promise of good behaviour.’

Marcus watched Miss Catesby. He could remember her from many years before, but he was fairly certain she didn’t recollect him.

The soirée was a crush—the largest one this Season. Sometimes his mother did get her feathers in a swirl and decide to show everyone that she was the Marchioness of Avondale. She stood, talking with Miss Catesby’s mother.

Miss Catesby had wandered again into his line of vision. He regretted asking her for a waltz. He’d spoken with her to help him recall where he’d seen her before. It wasn’t until after she spoke that he’d remembered she was the hoyden at the wedding.

If he’d known she was going to keep her attention on the portrait when he’d spoken to her for the dance, he’d not have requested her to partner him. His brother had watched the interchange, and found it amusing.

She moved closer, and he and his brother, Nathaniel, greeted her.

‘You are radiant tonight,’ Marcus said, taking her gloved hand to bring it to his lips for a kiss. The glove smelled of springtime roses.

‘Thank you.’ Emilie turned to his brother. ‘I’m so looking forward to our dance.’

Marcus’s eyes narrowed and he studied her.

Nathaniel tensed, straightened a bit, but then gave a bow and took her glove to raise it almost to his lips and brush a kiss in the air above it, fighting a grin. He didn’t release her glove as he should. ‘I would indeed love to partner you, Miss Amelia.’

Marcus waited for Emilie to correct the mispronunciation of her name, but she didn’t. Nor had she, it was obvious, taken notice when Marcus had been the one to ask her to dance.

‘It is my good fortune that you accepted. My immense good fortune,’ Nathaniel continued.

He finally released her fingers. ‘But can you imagine the dilemma that this presents for me? While I asked you to dance, my brother asked Miss Geraldine the same question and she mistook him for me.’ He put a hand over his heart. ‘Happens repeatedly. They are thinking of me when he appears and, well, I suppose it is a purposeful game they play to try to get closer to me. So, I really should waltz with Miss Geraldine as she has been expecting it. You alone can make this faux pas fade into nothingness, Miss Amelia. Please do me the great honour of saving the evening and my brother’s deep embarrassment, and move to the floor with him.’ His lids lowered. ‘Of course, I would be happy to partner you before the night is over.’

Marcus stared at his brother’s grin and the confused regard of Miss Catesby, whom he now rather disliked.

Her eyes opened wide.

‘It would indeed be fortunate if you saved me grave embarrassment, Miss Catesby.’ Marcus shot a glance at his brother before giving her a bow.

‘Oh, how awkward for you.’ She turned to him in sympathy. ‘Of course I will partner you.’

‘If you will pardon me, I must fetch Miss Geraldine,’ Nathaniel said, moving away.

Marcus nodded to Emilie. Her heart-shaped face and delicate lips were beyond ordinary. He regarded her enthusiasm. She could sparkle with radiance when she inspected splatters of colour…or his brother, Nathaniel, or even a particularly good lemon, he recalled.

The music started and he held out his hand for hers.

She moved into his arms and the waltz began. Marcus planned this to be his last tête-à-tête ever with Miss Catesby.

She stared at his cravat and he looked over her, noting that she did feel rather perfect in his arms.

‘This must be awkward for you. But I assume it’s the curse of the younger brother,’ she said.

‘I have a younger sister, who is married and in Staffordshire. She is a treasure. And I would have to agree with your assessment that it can feel a curse to have a younger brother,’ Marcus said.

‘There is one younger male than you in your family?’

‘Yes. He is dancing with Miss Geraldine now.’

She gasped. He felt it. ‘Oh, I thought him the eldest.’

‘He just looks older. It’s all the dancing he does. It wears on him.’

‘Then it really must chagrin you,’ she spoke as he swirled her around, ‘when people confuse the two of you.’

‘They don’t often.’

‘And you are a wonderful conversationalist,’ she added. ‘I dare say you could carry on a conversation with…a…a teapot?’ She frowned. ‘That did not come out exactly right, did it?’

‘Perhaps you should have said anyone.’

She shrugged. ‘I’m not very good at speaking with people. It’s I who lack conversational skills.’

‘Perhaps you could practise.’

‘I prefer to speak through my canvas. I know nothing of the subjects that other people talk about.’

‘The trick is to listen and encourage them to speak more.’

‘A brilliant theory.’ She paused. ‘And what interests do you have?’

He firmed his lips, set his jaw, then gazed at her. ‘Beautiful women. Fine refreshments.’ He gave a slight twist to his lips. ‘A night of dancing.’

She raised one eyebrow. ‘You have your conversational skills honed.’

‘I practise.’

‘And what interests do you truly have?’

‘I gamble, on occasion. Small amounts. Drink. Small amounts again. And then, of course, I prefer an occasional soirée, but not masquerades. I know the object is to pretend to be someone else, but it’s too frivolous for me.’

Her mouth opened, then her lips turned up. ‘I saw a reproduction of Dressing for a Masquerade once and the event looked exciting.’

Marcus took a moment before speaking. ‘I’ve witnessed that particular portrayal of Thomas Rowlandson’s and I would advise strongly that you take caution when you see anything with his name on it. He doesn’t consider that a woman might view what he creates.’

‘I live for drawings and oils and charcoals. And sometimes the life that is reproduced is not always polite.’

‘Miss Catesby, that doesn’t mean that it shouldn’t be. The world doesn’t begin and end at the end of a paintbrush, and artists should only create to educate.’

‘Well…’ she moved within the waltz and the distance between them lessened ‘…the world doesn’t revolve around gambling, women and drink for me.’ She beheld him through her lashes. ‘Please allow me my vice.’

‘I would prefer to credit you with only virtues.’

She laughed. ‘Yet you prefer me to presume only vices for you.’

‘Where you are concerned, that is probably for the best.’ He’d so wanted to dislike her, but when she laughed, the sound resonated inside him and made him want to hear it again. ‘And accurate.’

‘Shame on you, Lord Grayson. If I may be so straightforward, you have a dashing profile.’

He bowed in acknowledgement of the compliment.

‘What did you think of Lady Avondale’s portrait?’ she asked. ‘I know you said it is good, but…’

He glanced down. ‘I should like to view a likeness of you.’

She gasped with pleasure. ‘That is so kind of you. Are you fascinated at all by art?’

He blinked. ‘No. I don’t see colours the same as other people. I can’t tell the difference between most of them.’

She closed her eyes for a moment. ‘I am so sorry you have missed out on the beauty of hues.’ She shook her head. ‘I will try not to be bothersome to you, Lord Grayson. I feel for you. I could not live without the colours of my paints.’

‘I am sorry I have missed out on the beauty as well.’

When the music ended, they stopped, but didn’t immediately separate. He imagined her in a portrait. On his wall. To gaze at. He swallowed. His conversational skills had evaporated.

‘Would you like a stroll in the gardens?’ he asked.

She studied him. ‘You don’t like art?’

He firmed his lips. ‘Not usually.’

‘Oh…’ She peered beyond his shoulder. ‘If you will pardon me, your brother is beckoning me.’

Neither spoke as they went in opposite directions.

Emilie walked away from the couples, feeling she’d just stumbled, instead of dancing. And she was certain she’d not missed the steps.

Mr Westbrook strolled her way and she asked him if he liked watercolours, and he regaled her with a day his father had hosted the caricaturist Gillray, years before, and Mr Westbrook continued on, discussing prints he’d seen, and agreed that he, too, dabbled with paints. The talk of tints and hues should have been more interesting. But it wasn’t really.

Then he led her into the swarm of dancing people and she beamed in all the right places and feigned all the fascination she could and hid her relief as the music ended.

When she reached her mother at the refreshment table, she peeked at Lord Grayson. He was observing Lady Elliot and her two daughters.

Then, another man approached the group. The man glared at Grayson, which was wise of him, and offered his arm to the younger Miss Elliot. She accepted the invitation and they sauntered away.

Then Grayson turned, an indulgent smile on his lips. He gave Emilie the barest glance before he turned to the elder daughter, spoke and she tucked her hand under his arm and let him lead her to the Roger de Coverly.

Emilie tapped with her fingertips against the side of her lemonade glass, watching Lord Grayson with Miss Elliot—the woman dancing was obviously revelling in the experience of being so close to him.

Grayson spoke to his partner when they met. He moved as if he had wings on his boots. The woman floated along, too.

He gazed at the woman as if he’d never had such a captivating audience.

When he changed position, Emilie knew he’d perceived she was observing him.

He spoke again to the woman and indicated the doorway.

That wasn’t appropriate. He would likely take that woman to the gardens as he had suggested to Emilie. True, the garden had many guests conversing in it, but a later meeting could be planned.

That unrepentant rake. That scoundrel. He was aware she watched.

Well, if he wished her to be aware, then she would give him a taste of his own medicine. Emilie turned to her mother.

‘Did you notice how Lady Elliot appears pained?’

Her mother’s brows furrowed and she inspected Lady Elliot, her grey hair swirled at the edges of a feathered band. ‘No,’ her mother said at Emilie’s side. ‘I perceive nothing out of the ordinary about her.’

‘I should ask her to take a turn around the gardens,’ Emilie said. ‘For her—for my health. If I say it is for my health, that might make her feel better and not make her ashamed of her weakness.’

‘That is so unlike you.’

‘It is the society, Mama. It makes me feel…um, not like an artist so much, but more like a…’ She paused, listening to the nonsense she spouted, but it had truth in it. ‘I feel…womanly.’

Her mother groaned. ‘If I had known that getting you to a gathering such as this would change you, I would have made sure to have done it years ago.’

All her mother would have had to do was guarantee some interesting artists would be there and Emilie would have jumped at the chance.

She meandered to the mother of the woman Lord Grayson had danced with. She was engrossed in conversation with a dowager. Chaperonage fell to the wayside when a mother’s daughter was close to a potential peer and a longed-for son-in-law.

‘Lady Elliot,’ she whispered, touching the woman’s arm and interrupting the discussion. ‘Could you please join me in the gardens? I may have had more wine than I should have. I had two glasses, but perhaps more.’

The woman raised her eyebrows. ‘The wine is delicious, but a lady must always pace herself.’

Emilie touched her gloved hand to her forehead. ‘I agree. But sometimes a faster pace gets the better of me.’

The older woman patted her hand, spoke briefly to her companions and took Emilie’s arm as they strolled to the cooler air.

Emilie saw the darkest edge and aimed for it, leaving the strains of music behind.

‘If you’d stay with me for a moment longer…’ She kept Lady Elliot at her side. ‘I am feeling better, but…’

‘Dear…’ Lady Elliot patted Emilie’s glove ‘…do be careful of the drink. It doesn’t always improve a woman’s complexion. A little does add a rosy glow, but take a lot and the headache isn’t worth it. You’ll be ghastly the following day.’

‘Well,’ Emilie admitted, brushing away a wisp of hair that had loosened from her bun, ‘now and then, I do forget about my appearance.’

‘You must never do that.’ Lady Elliot sputtered. ‘A woman’s decorum and fashion should always be of utmost importance in her mind. My Cecilia Ann has been schooled in that. Proper manners and a good wardrobe can take a woman far.’

Emilie frowned. She wouldn’t make it far then.

They found a bench in the darkness. ‘It is a lovely evening,’ Lady Elliot said, ‘except for Mrs Hodges’s dress. The colours would favour Mr Hodges better.’

‘Um…’ Emilie said, imagining a painting of Mr Hodges. ‘It would not work with his complexion. He would fade away into nothing.’

They discussed the varieties of colour in the ballroom, then feminine laughter and one rich baritone interrupted their chat. The laughter and the baritone were obviously moving towards Emilie and Lady Elliot.

The woman beside Emilie stilled.

Lord Grayson and his dancing partner were nearly directly in front of them when the two standing saw the two sitting. Even the air stopped.

The young woman spoke, voice high. ‘Mother?’

Lady Elliot moved to her feet. She took her daughter’s arm. ‘You promised the next reel to Sir Calvin.’ She took her daughter’s arm. ‘Cecilia. Inside. Right now. Immediately. I cannot fathom how you got confused. That is inexcusable manners.’

Lady Elliot didn’t slow as she twirled her daughter around and moved towards the lighted house—forgetting all about Emilie.

Chapter Two

Lord Grayson remained perfectly still for several moments before he moved. He rearranged the hem of his sleeve and his eyes fell over Emilie, making the air she swallowed fill her with a fresh warmth. ‘We meet again.’

‘You knew I was out here,’ she said.

‘Whether I did or not, it doesn’t matter.’

Even in the darkness, Emilie could imagine him plainly. Nature had sculpted a visage which could have inspired Michelangelo to do better work.

Her hand wanted to caress, to run over the planes of his cheek so she could experience him with the feeling of touch as well as sight.

Inwardly, she berated her traitorous thoughts. She pulled herself from the momentary stupor, blaming it on her fascination with form.

How unfair that someone such as Lord Grayson, a man who said he liked frivolities, would have such a pleasing appearance. Her mother had been so wrong about which of Avondale’s sons had been graced with handsomeness.

The humour on his lips faded. ‘Miss Catesby, you are an accident waiting to happen.’

She tossed the words out. ‘Accidents do happen and I am not the cause of any of them.’

‘You cause things to happen on purpose.’

‘Occasionally.’

He reached out, taking her hand, and she moved, letting him pull her to her feet.

‘When you are near, Miss Catesby, I suspect they happen more than usual.’ He touched her waist, gently connecting with her garment and pouring sensation into her.

‘I would not claim that.’ She forced her voice to be firm and tried to examine him closely in the darkness—an error. Something pushed her heartbeats faster.

‘We have seen each other before,’ he said. ‘Years ago.’

‘I don’t…’ She searched her memories. ‘Are you certain?’ she asked.

She heard the leaves whispering to each other as they rustled in the darkness.

He didn’t answer with his voice. But his expression told her. ‘I remembered where earlier. But it has been many years. I didn’t recognise you at first.’

Emilie paused.

‘I should go inside.’ The words didn’t sound like her own. ‘I wouldn’t want either of our reputations harmed.’

‘Miss Catesby.’ His free hand closed over her gloved fingers and before she knew what he intended, he lifted her fingertips as if to kiss them. The scent of his shaving soap teased her. She’d never come across a soap like that, but she wasn’t sure if it was the soap that made him smell so good, or if it was the man himself.

‘If my reputation were to be harmed, I would be pleased if you were the one to do it.’

She felt disappointment when he dropped her hand instead of kissing it.

He moved closer and she realised he still held her waist, rotating his fingertips against the covered corset which felt thicker than any mattress, yet the warmth of his hand penetrated the garment. His mouth moved closer to her own and he held her still, keeping her so steady she couldn’t have moved away. She presumed him about to kiss her, but instead, he spoke.

‘Miss Catesby. Stay away from my brother. He would ruin you.’

She touched the light wool of his waistcoat, letting her fingers flatten against him. Leaves rustled again as the wind touched them. The breeze strengthened, and the air tingled her cheeks. ‘I would say it’s not your concern.’

‘Miss Catesby. You’re an innocent.’ His fingers pressed into the fabric at her waist and he moved back a whisper.

She trailed her fingers up the waistcoat, touching the cravat, the edge of his jaw, the curve of his lips. She could have been touching a Michelangelo when she felt his face. This was something she’d never imagined before. Her heart pounded from the merest touch of his skin.

To feel a true masterpiece overwhelmed her. She dropped her hand and clenched it, keeping it at her side. She could hardly wait to capture in paint a masculine jawline. One with a hint of darkness in it. In shadows. Such a challenge. To put this image on canvas. A man in the shadows. Darkened features. She could never call it The Dark Angel. Her mother would destroy it. She would call it A Saint In Repose.

She could not calm her heartbeats, but inspiration came at the strangest moments, and one should relish them, hold them close, hug them to one’s heart.

But she could not touch him again. He was the forbidden fruit. The crevasse that could swallow the as-yet-unmade creations that were inside her and turn her into nothingness.

‘Art is my passion.’

His mouth parted. ‘You could have more than one passion, perhaps.’

‘I do. Oils, then watercolours.’

‘Oils?’ he spoke, moving so close, and somehow he’d turned the word into something else. Something intimate.

Her scrutiny never left him and her hand escaped again. She had to study him. She retraced his jawline. The linen cravat. The rougher wool. She stopped where she started, trapped in some trance that he had spun around her.

Her love of shape and form and inspiration travelled from her fingertips to deep inside her.

He stepped away and her fingers followed, lingering at his waistcoat.

‘No.’ His voice roughened.

‘Your brother would not refuse my touch.’

‘No.’ The word destroyed the magic. ‘I am telling you no for both of us.’

He touched the hand at his chest, took her fingers, kissed above the glove and released her. ‘And you must stay away from him.’

‘Really, Lord Grayson?’

‘Yes.’ He brushed a touch across her cheek and she swayed towards him.

She whispered, ‘I know what I’m doing.’

‘You are creating an accident and it is your choice.’ Grayson took her shoulders and moved inches from her, hinting at things both darker and softer. ‘Do you prefer my brother?’

She didn’t speak.

He whispered at her ear, his voice becoming even richer. Fingertips touched her chin. ‘He is wrong for you.’

She turned away, pulling from his grasp.

He increased the distance between them, using his voice to make a barrier, but a barrier that could be moved. ‘Say it, Miss Catesby. Say whether you prefer me over my brother.’

‘Why should it matter? I hardly know him.’ She examined Lord Grayson again. ‘I know even less of you.’

‘I feel I have known you for ever.’ He paused. ‘Please call me Marcus.’

‘This is the first occasion we’ve met. Truly.’ Yet he stirred something deep inside her. She wanted to tell him the energy he inspired within her. How fortunate she’d been to have the opportunity to approach him and to feel the sensations. She gave him her greatest compliment. ‘You would make a lovely portrait.’

In that second, he retreated, turning the night cold.

His head tilted back and, even in the dim light, she could tell he scrutinised something in the distance. He flexed his jaw. ‘I hope you enjoy the soirée.’

‘And you as well, Marcus.’

She couldn’t force herself to leave him, but he turned and moved back to the light.

She took her glove from her hand and touched her lips. Marcus. So much better than Michelangelo’s David. David was almost a child. Marcus was a man.

Unable to move inside, she waited in the darkness, listening to the muted music and the laughter. Her aunt had a book with an engraving of the sculptor’s Moses. Marcus was not bearded or old, but she imagined him as a likeness of that sculpture. Oh, the arms. They were magnificent in the engraving.

She touched her chin, retracing the movement of his hand. She must stay away from Marcus.

To create was one thing. To love that moment was glorious. But to be swallowed inside one piece of passion could destroy the creator.

Look what Michelangelo had done to Moses’s head. No matter what the protuberances truly were, they hinted at a darker side of inspiration. The face warned her. The same man who had sculpted David had created Moses. Moses, with the glare, the judgemental regard and the condemnation within him.

Marcus condemned her. His voice, his movement and his face did.

Then she paused. He condemned her. When he was not staring at her as if she were the only woman in the world.

But she wasn’t a woman. She was an artist. And she’d been born to be alone and to create.

Then she thought of Marcus. But what if she must experience deep feelings in order to reflect them in her paintings? What if she must have a tortured soul in order to paint with depth…?

Or perhaps she had heard that somewhere and it was nonsense. Perhaps she just needed a roof for her studio, an imagination and paints.

Yes, she decided, thinking back to her struggles with paints.

Art provides all the torture an artist requires.

She would ask her aunt if that were true. She could imagine Beatrice’s laughter.

For now, she wanted to observe Marcus.

She preferred Marcus as a subject. She preferred him to speak with. She preferred him far above Mr Westbrook. But Westbrook was the safer of the two. He thought her name Amelia and she had no desire to correct him.

Marcus watched her as his brother twirled Emilie around the room warmed by all the people moving about. Their second encounter of the night, but neither one a waltz.

Nathaniel appeared entranced with Emilie, but then Nathaniel was taken with every woman he spoke to. It did him well.

The violins stopped and the musicians raised their bows with a flourish. The talk surrounding Marcus faded into nothingness while he watched his brother and Emilie. Never before had he been jealous of his younger brother, but Nate was looking at Emilie so.

Marcus had no reason to be envious. None at all. In fact, he’d felt guilt for being the eldest and the one who would inherit the title.

He enjoyed verbally jousting with his brother. He loved Nate. Loved him, but if his brother did not stop making eyes at Emilie, Marcus would take him aside after the evening ended and throttle him.

Emilie was not another conquest. She was a country girl and not used to the soirées and light talk his brother excelled at.

Both Nathaniel and Emilie went their separate ways without hesitation. Marcus exhaled. Perhaps they were both wiser than he.

He went to his mother’s portrait now that the guests were beginning to leave and stared at it. It was a fine painting, but no different from any of the many others in the family gallery, except it was of his mother.

‘Lord Grayson.’ Instantly he recognised Emilie’s voice. He turned to her and saw that her mother was behind her.

‘It is an amazing picture,’ Emilie said.

‘True.’ In those seconds he meant it. His mother liked the painting. Everyone said it portrayed her well. And anything that could bring such raptness to Emilie fascinated him.

‘You do appreciate some art?’ she asked.

‘Occasionally.’ When it appeared before him as Emilie did.

‘Most everyone does, even if they don’t know it. Usually if they don’t like paintings or sculpture, it is because they haven’t seen the right work. Something that stirs them.’

He took in the tendrils of her hair that trickled from her bun. He didn’t have to have a portrait painted of Emilie for her to remain in his mind. ‘I agree.’ His voice barely reached his ears.

Emilie was about to leave when she stopped and looked for her mother. Her mother stared at her as if Emilie had said something rude. Confusion filled her. She’d spoken nicely with Marcus.

Surely it was not so terrible to have a conversation with a rake.

Emilie gave Marcus a peek from under her lashes, surprised that he still watched her. He almost smiled, turned and went on his way.

Her mother’s lips tightened and her fingers clasped Emilie’s arm. ‘Come along, Emilie Marie. The carriage is waiting.’

Her mother marched ahead.

The carriage ride would not be a smooth one and she had been on her best behaviour. Well, except for fetching her mother so many lemonades. And eavesdropping, but she’d not been detected. And the moments in the garden.

Emilie hid her sigh. She was not tailored for society.

They reached the carriage and her mother didn’t speak. Emilie was certain it wasn’t a good thing that her mother was so quiet.

Settling on to the squabs, Emilie prepared for a recital of her errors to be repeated, but her mother remained silent.

The carriage rumbled along, returning her mother and Emilie to her aunt Beatrice’s home.

‘Goodness, Emilie, Avondale’s heir was speaking to you at his mother’s portrait and you brushed him away as if he were of no consequence. You have no skills in courtship.’

Emilie sighed inwardly and then her mind wandered to Marcus, but she forced herself to concentrate on his brother.

Mr Westbrook had good qualities. They were hard to identify, but lurked under the surface, she was sure.

At the soirée, she’d wandered by a group of men talking and couldn’t avoid overhearing their conversation. A gruff voice said if a man were to be lost in the desert, it would be good to be lost with Mr Westbrook because he would find the quickest path to the nearest woman and could do so without a smudge on his boots.

Then another man claimed Westbrook’s sense of direction was sad because he could never locate a path back to the same woman twice. The other men had laughed. And one claimed Westbrook had his compass in the same place as all men carried one.

‘Emilie.’ Her mother snapped out the word, pulling Emilie’s concentration back into the carriage. ‘I must talk privately with you. That is why your father and sisters remained at home and we have been visiting London.’

Emilie frowned, but she hid it before she turned to her mother, waiting. She’d known that her father had stayed home because her mother could be forceful about pushing Emilie into marriage and he preferred to stay out of the discussion.

These motherly speeches always went on overly long and it was best to pretend interest.

Her mother raised her chin. ‘It is not so horrible to want a family. Children. Sons…’ she raised a brow when she observed Emilie ‘…or daughters who marry.’

‘I’ve not found anyone who suits me.’

Her mother pulled her wrap closer and gripped her fan.

Emilie toed her slippers into the floor of the carriage, and let her stocking feet wiggle free while she rested her toes on the footwear.

‘Search about and uncover someone who suits.’ Her mother paused before raising her voice. ‘And put your slippers back on.’

Emilie dared not meet her mother’s eyes and she pushed her feet back inside the shoes. Even her feet had to do as they were told.

‘Your father,’ the older woman continued, ‘and I are distressed at your stubbornness where men are concerned. It is not just your prospects you’re scuttling—you are not doing your younger sisters any favours either,’ she grumbled. ‘You are twenty-five. Twenty-five. You should have married years ago.’

‘Oh,’ Emilie mumbled and felt her lip tremble. She had so hoped to have her artistic talent noticed earlier. She must try harder. Elisabeth Vigée Le Brun had achieved fame with her portraits, but her father had encouraged her from such a young age.

Emilie sighed. She should have been as dedicated, but, no, she had spent her youth learning nonsensical matters. Watercolours had hardly interested her at all until she discovered oils and then everything had burst into fulfilment for her. Even the watercolours became worthwhile.

Emilie studied the dark outlines of the passing shops, wondering how a night-time drawing of them would be best accomplished.

All she needed was watercolours, or oils and canvas. To paint was her greatest joy. To hide away somewhere with a brush and palette would be the best excitement of all.

No one understood.

When she irritated her sisters enough, they avoided her, which gave her a chance to sketch and enjoy her work.

‘You even discourage your sisters’ prospects.’

‘Mother, if a young man of worthiness approached any of my sisters, I would do all I could to encourage a courtship.’ Emilie crossed her arms. Her sisters were green girls. They couldn’t imagine the truth of men and needed her guidance.

‘You cannot fault me because no man among the ton is worthy of them.’ Emilie straightened her shoulders. ‘Except for timid Bertram Reynolds and Marthe ignores him.’

‘Dear.’ The seat creaked when her mother turned to Emilie. Her mother’s voice gave Emilie no option for refusal. ‘You must let them decide whether the man is worthy or not. Or me or your father. You are not to keep distressing their beaus. Don’t demand perfection in their suitors. At this point, we may consider a man of medium worthiness if he is willing for a match. You certainly should do the same. We do not aspire to be relegated to less-than-medium worthiness because the others have been scorned.’

‘A man of value would not let a few words of truth dispatch him,’ Emilie muttered.

‘I would not want my daughters to obtain a match with a man whose main quality is persistence.’

Emilie felt the sharp rap of a fan against her fingers. Never a good sign when the fan came out.

Her mother continued, voice rising. ‘Timid beaus can have many desirable attributes. Your father—’ she pointed the fan at Emilie ‘—was so timid, I near had to—’ She stopped, waved her hand and turned to the window. ‘Never mind. I had no trouble with your father’s reserved behaviour.’

Emilie knew her mother and father cared too much for the state of marriage and too little about the state of men. They were happy. They didn’t observe the disastrous lives among them.

‘Mother, you must forget about a wedding for me. I shall never marry. I shall paint.’

‘Emilie Marie—you are not destined to paint. You are destined to have children. You are destined to maintain a household and serve your husband.’ She pressed her teeth into the words. ‘Forget your fanciful nonsense. No more paints will be purchased. I have told your father and he agrees with me. This trip is to locate a suitor for you. If there is no agreeable man, then I will acknowledge your spinsterhood. However, I will not accept the scent of turpentine in my home any more. The rooms reek of it. You will not be dabbling in oils there, indoors or out.’

Emilie fell back against the seat, fingers closed tightly. ‘I must,’ she said.

‘No.’ Her mother turned to stare out of the window. ‘You will have to content yourself with pencils, and stitchery and gentle pursuits. There are people in the world, Emilie, besides artists. And it is time you found that out and put away that folly. This discussion is over.’

In bed that night, Emilie kept envisaging the colours on a palette. The joy of her hands as they mixed the colours. The scent of turpentine.

She loved the scent of turpentine, no matter how unpleasant. It spoke of creation and love. She could not live without turpentine, aquamarine or burnt sienna.

She sniffed. She sighed. Perhaps she was cursed.

She would marry. She would discover a husband who would not notice if the money he’d allotted for clothing and jewellery was spent on the finer things, like easels or pigments.

Catching a senseless male could not be difficult and she hadn’t noticed any unwilling to be led by a woman hinting at delights.

Marriage would quiet all those titters her sisters made as they claimed Emilie was more suited to kiss her paintbrush than a husband.

If she married, it would no longer matter how small her waist was or if she got a drop of burnt sienna—a drop so small as to be invisible—on the rug. A man surely wouldn’t notice if she received a briar scratch on her cheek from searching for perfect berries to examine their hues. Her mother had wanted to flog her—and goodness, the scratch faded away, but the drawing of the berries had been enlightening.

Once she got the ring on her finger, she wouldn’t care what he did or where he went. Her goal was to be abandoned to her own ways. She knew she would have to survive kisses, but she would tolerate them, and knew she would have to do other things a wife should do, but she didn’t foresee that would take for ever. She would make sure it didn’t.

Then she would devote herself to watercolours and oils.

She must choose carefully.

The trick was in locating a man who didn’t have the inclination to control his property. One who might leave his belongings lying about, so to speak, so his possessions could do as they were inclined.

She would try hard to keep from overwhelming a nursery with children, but a little one would be dear to hold.

Actually, she would be pleased to have several children, she realised. Le Brun reportedly had created the most beautiful self-portrait of herself with her daughter. It was said that the portrait reflected the love between the two of them.

That would be a wonderful opportunity.

Marriage could work, assuming it was not taken too seriously.

Her husband must have money to buy all the paints she needed and an appearance to work well in oils.

And handsome men didn’t dig beyond the surface. They had wandering attentions and admired beauty. After he had acquired her, an attractive man would tire of his wife. His eyes would flicker to the other women who fluttered near.

She surmised the considerate thing to do would be to make certain he was a man who didn’t mind that he’d married a woman who had little use for him. If the things she’d overheard were true, it would be simple to locate such a man.

She didn’t want a suitor who had a heart—she might break it. She didn’t want a suitor who might have motivations deeper than a bird flitting from one spot to the next.

She examined her hand and decided a wedding ring would fit. Yes, she decided, she would accept a proposal. Now she had to decide on the date and the husband.

A very unsuitable husband would be perfect.

Chapter Three

‘Mama, Lady Cramson’s ball was divine last night and I am so anticipating Avondale’s birthday celebration.’ Emilie practised the words a dutiful daughter and a soon-to-be wife would speak. She was running out of occasions to get a proposal.

‘You’re attending? Of your own will? Another one? Are you considering marriage?’ She slanted her head back, studying Emilie.

‘Mother.’ She inhaled deeply. ‘I’m not intending to stay on the shelf. A betrothal might suit me better than I realised.’ She would get those paints back if it killed her. She had survived so far because she had been using her aunt’s paints in the night-time hours while her mother slept. And the lamplight was disastrous.

Oils, however, those had to be mixed and she could not manage to get them by her mother when they returned home. Her mother was wise to Emilie’s ways.

She grabbed Emilie by the shoulders and positioned them eye to eye. ‘You are not trying to trick me?’

‘I really should be married before the leaves turn their autumn shades.’

‘Emilie.’ Her mother frowned. ‘Perhaps you should go to Bath. The men of London society know you.’

‘They do.’ Emilie held her posture straight. ‘But they’re forgetful.’

Her mother dropped her hands and turned to the candle on the table. She moved it away from the book, closer to a vase. ‘I have already written to your father about taking you to Bath in the autumn because the men there will be more unlikely to have heard tales of your awkward ways.’

The words ran down Emilie’s spine like cold waste water from rinsing her brushes.

Emilie squeezed her hands into fists. ‘You don’t anticipate a man will see me as attractive?’

‘Not the true you, Emilie. You must be giddy and flutter your eyes and act more ladylike. You must act demure.’

‘Of course, Mama. I love my new dress.’ She batted her eyes, then turned away.

Emilie heard the clatter and turned back. Her mother was picking up the vase she’d knocked over. Fresh-cut roses lay on the table.

‘Not like that, Emilie.’ Her mother’s voice was soft. ‘You startled me.’

‘I am trying.’ Emilie briefly pressed her palm against her jaw and let her hand fall to her side as she examined her feet. ‘I have worn out a pair of slippers dancing, I’m sure.’

Her mother turned to arrange the flowers in the vase. ‘Be aware, Emilie. Keep your mouth shut. Tuck your chin under. Do not discuss anything to do with sculpture. Keep your corset tight. Let him talk, while you admire his every word.’

‘I’ll do what I can,’ Emilie spoke softly and forced her chin high when she departed the room. How was one expected to learn how to bat one’s eyelashes? she wondered, shaking her head.

She retired to her room, shut the door and, still holding the knob, stared at the new dress.

The gown was lying on the bed.

Walking forward, Emilie ran a delicate touch over the aquamarine silk enhanced by a second layer of even finer material flowing over it like a cloak of clear-spun sugar. She’d never owned a dress so feminine. So delicate. Exactly unlike her and exactly what she needed.

After she married, she could use it to wipe her brushes with if she wanted. Well, perhaps not. She touched the silk again and pulled it to her. This was another woman’s masterpiece and she would guard it carefully and be thankful to have it.

She held it closer to the window and repeated her needs to herself. Handsome to inspire creativity. Money to make sure he could live in town while she painted in the country. Someone who would forget all about her.

A quick rap sounded on the door and it opened. Aunt Beatrice sauntered in, her emerald bracelet sliding on her wrist. ‘I’m curious about the new clothing your mother has bought for you.’ Her eyes widened when she saw the dress. ‘It reminds me of one I used to have. Please don’t spill oils on it.’

‘I won’t.’

‘Your mother has been asking me to talk some sense into you.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘That’s a first. She must really be desperate to get you married if she’s asking for my help.’

Emilie shuddered. ‘You know how she is about seeing me well placed.’

‘Yes. I do. She is nothing like me. She is exactly like your grandfather. A man I cannot even bring to mind except he smelled like camphor and cloves, and who has been described much like they fitted him well.’

‘Mother speaks of him as if he floats above the clouds.’

‘I’m sure he did, Emilie. But we are mortals. Except we paint. Which puts us in a world of our own. But a romance could add some depth to your images.’ The mirror caught Beatrice’s attention and she took both her hands and poked at her hair. Then took out a few pins and managed to secure her hair.

‘Is that true? That romance could add depth to the watercolours?’

‘I told your mother I would say that. And it could be true. But you have to marry someone who is right for you, or you’ll be breaking your own brushes. I had the worst of luck until I met Andrew.’ Her aunt gave a dismissive toss of her words. ‘If not for the naked picture I finished of him, I doubt we would have made it to the altar.’

‘The wrong husband could be intimidating. He could destroy my dream, just as Mother is doing.’

‘You know that inheritance powder? Arsenic? You could always poison him later if it doesn’t work out.’ Beatrice gave Emilie a wink and laughed. ‘You know I am jesting.’ She twitched her shoulders. ‘My first husband—may he…stay wherever he went—had more problems than I could create and, trust me, I could cause plenty. But I had lots of instances to indulge in creativity after he abandoned me. Even more after he died. And Andrew loves my work.’

‘I’ve heard he can be dismayed by it.’

‘Yes—’ Beatrice’s head nodded in agreement ‘—but he loves it—from a distance. I keep myself between him and it and we get along wonderfully.’

‘I understand,’ Emilie said. ‘I don’t know what to do. I have a plan, but it’s flawed.’

‘A flawed plan?’ Beatrice tapped her earlobe. ‘Well, if you have a notion it’s wrong, then based on my experience I would say it is certainly a mistake.’

‘Or I could return home.’

‘You can stay at your parents’ home and dabble in your paints. You will be avoided, perhaps, but you’ll be all but forgotten.’ She had a bubble of laughter under her next words. ‘You can perfect an evil cackle and everyone will be afraid of you. You’ll be a sinister, spinster painter.’

Apparently, her aunt did not know that her paints were now forbidden. Emilie made a decision. A flawed plan was better than no plan and to do nothing was unthinkable.

She pressed her lips together, pushed her uncertainty out of her mind and said, ‘I have a plan with Mr Westbrook. Avondale’s younger son.’

‘Oh, no, no, no. Not him.’ Beatrice shuddered. ‘He’s a rake to the core. He won’t propose.’

Emilie turned back to lift the dress and hold it to her shoulders. ‘If I were to be caught in a compromising position…’

Beatrice stood, her gaze on the dress. ‘Then you would be ruined and compromised and likely unmarried.’

‘True.’ Emilie put the dress on to the bed, pulling it straight so it would not wrinkle. ‘I am not matrimony minded, except as a last resort. There are few men in the world like your Andrew who appreciate a woman of substance.’

‘To let you in on a confidence…’ Beatrice spoke softly and stretched her arms wide ‘…he doesn’t really relish my work. He adores me.’

Emilie put her hand to her neck. ‘Truly. And you are happy?’

‘Of course…and I’m painting better than ever. Not as much. But still, better than ever.’

Emilie bit the inside of her lip. Usually she trusted her aunt, but she didn’t believe Beatrice’s skills were better now because of Andrew. Truly, it was talent.

Except for Beatrice’s Andrew, Emilie now realised a husband could treat art like a rival, and wouldn’t accept it any better than her mother did. Beatrice had admitted she was working less and she’d not grasped that her skills improved with practice, and she had spent years and years perfecting her talent before finding Andrew.

‘I have to convince my mother that a wedding will never happen.’ Emilie stared at the silk and straightened a puffed sleeve. ‘Once she forgets that, she’ll leave me alone.’

Beatrice clucked her tongue. ‘You really should consider wedded bliss, Emilie, to a man who can afford good staff. Those large portraits get heavy.’

‘I have, but I cannot decide between whether it is better for me to be married or to be ruined.’ She took her aunt’s hands and, even with Beatrice in heels, Emilie rose above the other woman. ‘Please help me, Aunt Beatrice. And if Mr Westbrook is such a rake, he would survive a compromising position and be elevated by it. I, on the other hand, would be disgraced.’

Beatrice frowned. ‘I would not be a party to this, but I know how much the oils mean to you. Plus, Mr Westbrook will never marry at this point. He’s living it up too much. You’d best forget marriage if you’re thinking of the second son.’

‘True. And I shouldn’t be forbidden the love of my life, art, and Mr Westbrook won’t be trapped into a marriage with a woman who can hardly tolerate him.’

‘Make sure you do not let your mother near any of that inheritance powder after this. She is going to be very, very angry with me.’

Emilie would hardly have counted the Marquess of Avondale’s birthday celebration a celebration. Avondale had disappeared early into the event. A duchess and her friends were taking turns at the pianoforte in the next room, playing verses of different songs, adding occasional bursts of laughter. Marcus had played several songs earlier, singing along. His voice had floated through the air. She’d heard the ladies ask him to play more, but he’d begged off.

Her aunt Beatrice had disappeared, chatting with someone.

Most of the men had congregated in the library and were playing a wagering game of cards, calling out to each other as if they were all brothers. Emilie did not know who was Horsey, Al, Bottles, Dupes or Doughy, but she was certain that Terry was Lord Terrance, and of course, Nathaniel was Mr Westbrook. She couldn’t imagine calling him Nathaniel, which surprised her as she had no trouble conceiving Lord Grayson as Marcus.

Mr Westbrook had showered attention on her when she arrived, but the men had finally called him into the card game, leaving her with the older women.

Lady Avondale sat with her friends and a servant stood by to bring them refreshments or attend to whatever they required. Emilie’s mother was perched on the outer edge, leaning in, and on her very best behaviour. And Emilie settled at the edge of that, her back straight and the rest of her as hidden as possible.

When they departed London, she would not miss society as much as her mother would.

‘Miss Catesby.’ Marcus’s voice moved over her like a song.

She turned, surprised he’d entered the room. ‘Lord Grayson.’

‘Her Grace asked that I might fetch you to sing with us.’

She glanced at her mother and her mother beamed. Emilie knew that if Marcus had asked her to plummet from the edge of the earth, her mother would have said nothing to disrupt Lady Avondale’s conversation.

Emilie rose and walked with him. As they neared the pianoforte, the Duchess asked Emilie if she would like to play a tune with them. Emilie declined. ‘I fear I’m not musical.’

‘Neither am I,’ the Duchess said, shaking her head. She wrinkled her nose. ‘I try to surround myself with people who are talented, so I don’t have to play, and it makes everyone else happy. And trust me, everyone prefers me to listen.’

Her friends chuckled and she suggested a tune to one of the ladies and the conversation swirled in a different direction.

Marcus stayed at her elbow.

‘You’re accomplished at the piano,’ she told him, recalling the tune he’d played when she’d been in the other room.

He acknowledged her words with a lift of his brows. ‘My father insisted I learn. It was an easy way to make him happy.’

Emilie realised she felt a pocket of silence blanketing her and Marcus, yet she didn’t want to move closer into the circle of women. She would dearly have loved to have asked him a question. Any question. Just to hear his voice again. But the silence between them continued beneath the music.

A woman played a quick, rousing tune, then glanced in their direction. ‘Your favourite song, Grayson.’

Everyone laughed, including Marcus, but Emilie didn’t get the joke—and she realised she wasn’t sure that she liked the sound of his name the way the other woman said it.

‘I fitted words to the music.’ Marcus tilted close to Emilie so their conversation didn’t interrupt the others as they moved on to something else.

‘They recall it.’ And she’d been envious of the rapport they’d all shared.

‘It’s an easy melody to play with.’ He moved his left hand as if playing the piano. ‘Good tempo.’

She forced her gaze away from his fingers. Emilie realised she didn’t have to ask him to pose if she planned to reproduce his hands. That small movement, the fluttering of his fingers, imagining them over piano keys, would stay in her mind, locked there.

Her shoulder touched his. She didn’t know which of them had moved.

‘Bravo.’ He spoke to the woman at the piano when her song ended and Emilie’s shoulder chilled when he moved away.

The other ladies concurred that the last musical piece had been stellar.

He touched her elbow as the next song began. ‘You’ll want to peruse the family’s art collection,’ he said, gently moving her to the room where her mother sat.

Lady Avondale took a platter of biscuits from the servant and was holding it to the ladies nearest her.

‘I would like to show Miss Catesby where you have placed your portrait,’ he spoke to his mother. ‘If neither you nor her mother objects.’

Lady Avondale’s lips turned down, deprecating, as she shooed him away. ‘Oh, please. Do not make the child suffer so.’

Emilie’s mother’s head jerked to assess Marcus and then Emilie’s eyes. Her jaw clenched, but she relented. ‘Of course, if it is fine with Lady Avondale.’

‘Do have some more biscuits, everyone.’ Lady Avondale commanded attention again. ‘The cook adds beetroot juice to these, which gives them a nice colour, and the dried berries add something. We jest that they are goat food because of the oats, but they are tasty.’

While his mother served, Marcus moved to an adjoining door and opened it wide. He ushered Emilie inside.

The room was little more than a sitting room attached to the main one and as she entered, Emilie checked her surroundings. Instead of a portrait of the Lady Avondale, she viewed a life-sized rendition of the Lord Avondale. The other portraits, some little more than miniatures, were scattered here and there about the room. No true design to it—the portrait of the Lady Avondale had been added last and not in an appropriate place beside her husband, or their family portrait, but in a conspicuously inappropriate place to the side and closer to the floor.

Emilie gasped, rushing to it. ‘It should be in a place of honour.’ She waved her hand to the bigger picture of Lord Avondale. ‘By him.’

‘She is happy to have the portrait where it is. She claims she doesn’t particularly care to view herself when she is in here, but her children.’ He looked at the painting. ‘That is what she says.’

Emilie moved to the wall and began to scrutinise the larger likeness of Lord Avondale. When she finished with her viewing of the largest image, she turned, appraising Marcus, as he relaxed against the door jamb, half in the room, half out, lost in his musings.

She returned to her perusal of the collection.

‘Miss Catesby.’ Marcus’s voice jolted her, even though the words were quietly said. She returned to the world at her elbow.

Marcus watched her, smiling.

‘Yes?’ She stumbled over the word.

‘Your mother is telling the Marchioness she’s leaving and she’s asking for you. You’ve been in here nearly half an hour.’

Emilie collected herself. ‘It is the brushstrokes. I have to study them. And the colours. Most of the artists are talented beyond belief.’

Marcus’s gaze turned wistful. ‘I would agree that you adore their skills.’

Their eyes locked. He understood.

‘It’s true.’

His shoulders lifted briefly, in both acknowledgement of her words and somehow telling her again that she loved her craftwork.

‘I can’t help myself.’ She extended her hands, palms upraised.

‘Sometimes beauty does that to us,’ he said.

‘Like with music, to you.’

He shook his head. ‘No. Not music. I learned because I was taught well. I did it to please my father. I have a gift for it and it is a pleasant way to pass a morning or a way to amuse friends. A tool.’ He flicked his words away with a smile. ‘Much like a teapot.’

‘Or a paintbrush,’ she added.

‘Is that truly all you comprehend to be worthwhile?’ he asked.

‘Frequently, it is. I want to stay in my room with a portfolio. I keep getting pushed out to gatherings.’ She checked back over her shoulder at the portraits again. ‘I must appreciate the social events, as they enable me to experience rooms such as this. A grander thought might be if I was shut away in a tower, much like a princess, but I wouldn’t want to be rescued. I would need my portfolios.’ She paused. ‘I would need new subjects to examine and gardens so that I might have the best light, but it would be a haven.’

‘Pardon?’ He bent closer. ‘Did you say heaven?’

‘No.’ She laughed. ‘A haven. I surmise you are right about heaven, also.’

‘That sounds plain, coming from the Duke of Kinsale’s niece.’

‘My days are plain when I am not 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 with engravings of Michelangelo’s work, although she wasn’t sure if Marcus was more of a David or a Moses.

Marcus was flesh and blood. Distracting. And he could not see the colours that made her landscapes come alive. He would never know the true appearance of a scene. He’d never comprehend her passion.

Chapter Four

Marcus had watched his brother at the birthday celebration and noticed Nathaniel could not keep from observing Emilie. He could read the ideas in his brother’s mind as clearly as if they were spoken. He wanted to shove Nathaniel into the wall.

With a brief goodbye, he set out on foot, leaving the carriage for his brother.

He strode to Lady Semple’s address, letting the exertion calm him.

The butler let him in.

She sat in her chair by the fireplace and didn’t burn coal, but had a few twigs which wafted a warm comforting scent into the room.

‘So many young beauties in London, yet you have time for a moment with me.’ Her turban had a fringe of white hair escaping from it.

‘Youth has its allure, but there is much beauty to be found in the mature appearance as well.’ He bowed to her.

Her visage reminded him of a sage and the sharpness of her wit and her astute observations drew him to her. For that reason, he always spoke with Lady Semple when he saw her and he always found her conversation enlightening. Sometimes too enlightening, as she could speak about anything without a stammer or a blush, and she made him uneasy if she got carried away.

‘But I fear one must search harder for beauty in the older countenance.’ She reached to adjust her turban and her hair moved in such a way he wondered if the locks were connected to the wrap.

‘Not with you, Lady Semple.’

‘I do not have to search for your flattery, which is always appreciated and shared with my friends.’ She batted away the words. ‘Will you be joining us again this Thursday for cards?’

‘Lady Semple, that is first in my calendar.’ He moved closer.

She got to her feet, and put a hand to the small of her back. ‘Weather is changing. I’d best move or soon I won’t be able to.’

She appraised him. ‘So what brings you here? All flattery aside, as I know that you are deeply devoted to me, particularly when I am losing funds to you in a game of cards.’

‘You know my brother, Nathaniel. The one who refused to let you win the money back.’

‘Without spectacles, I can scarce tell you apart from a distance.’ She stopped him, reaching out. She tucked away a piece of his neckcloth which had escaped his waistcoat. ‘But, I doubt I’ve spoken to Mr Westbrook in years.’

‘Occasionally people mistake me for my brother and he for me. If I am in the act of doing something well, I correct them.’ They moved into an alcove. ‘If I am not so sure of my actions, I thank them for their greeting. He said he is the same.’

‘I am sure you must always correct them.’

‘Of course.’ He smiled, putting innocence into his words and following them with an exaggerated leer. Her laugh would have fitted a tavern woman.

‘And what of Miss Emilie Catesby? Are you well acquainted with her family?’ He kept his voice bland, but her reaction told him she read the direction of his reasoning.

‘Miss Catesby. I’ve heard her mentioned.’ She straightened the turban, again moving the silver fringe. ‘You’ve not asked me in the past if I know of any female. You tend to know much more about the young women of the ton than I do.’

‘I suspect she has been brought to London to find out if any of the men might suit her as a husband.’

‘That is what I’ve heard also. I’ve also been told she’s had no beau because it would limit her time at a canvas. Her mother has brought her to search among the rakes of the ton for a suitable husband. A shame. With the exception of yourself, many men in this town might blind her to their follies so they could make an offer for her. I know from experience that can happen.’

‘Do you predict I might not be able to do that?’ he asked, smiling.

‘I assumed you had no follies to blind her to.’ She touched her ear.

‘I would hope not.’

‘I am sure.’ She paused. ‘How well do you know her?’

‘Hardly at all. She’s got some connection to Wilson, the Duke of Kinsale—and the Duchess has seen that Miss Catesby has many events to attend. Perhaps in search of a romance.’

‘Sad to have a parent pushing offspring to do such a thing. Your father is still pressing you to marry, isn’t he?’

Marcus remained silent.

She laughed. ‘Do not let him give you that old rubbish about dying without holding a grandchild. He will likely outlive us all. By many years.’ She smiled. ‘Remember, whom the gods love dies young.’ Her lids dropped. ‘Please pass that information along to him from me. He is so forgetful. The type who might forget a secret betrothal.’

‘You and I both know he has never truly forgotten it.’

Elbows tucked at her side, she shrugged. ‘Good. But we both ended up the better for it. Except…’

Except his mother. ‘She is not thrilled with him. Perhaps, they share a bond that is between them. They occasionally share a few civil words. Much more recently than they have in many years.’

‘I do feel better for your telling me that. He didn’t treat either her or me fairly.’

‘Mother has also mentioned a grandchild and how she feels inferior to the others who natter on and on about the accomplishments of their cherubs.’

Lady Semple sighed. ‘That is a first, isn’t it?’

‘Yes. But the volume of my parents’ discussions hasn’t lessened. It’s best if they communicate by message or letter. Mother has her discreet lady’s maid read Father’s letters aloud and the woman omits irritating references. It is the best for everyone and Father doesn’t know.’

‘If it works for them.’

‘Once the lady’s maid read three pages, gave her an awkward cough and said, He judges you are in good health. Then Mother pointed to the fire and the maid tossed the letter in.’

Marcus had reasoned that moving out of the family home would distance himself from two things: the rows his parents had on the rare occasions they spoke and the opinions of his father. Nathaniel hadn’t even asked Marcus if he could move in, just followed with his belongings a few days later. Now their father showed up on a whim, questioning them about their pursuits and chiding them on their responsibilities.

‘And now your mother has joined in?’

‘Yes.’

‘Your father does like to get his way. Like his sons.’

‘I would agree. We are more alike than I aspire to be.’

‘Many of the women here have tried to catch your eye, have they not?’ Lady Semple asked.

‘I cannot say for certain.’ He clasped his hands behind his back.

‘I can,’ she insisted, ‘as I have watched on the occasions you have graced us with your presence. At least, I think it was you,’ she teased. ‘Perhaps they were searching for Mr Westbrook.’

‘Well, if the women have tried to catch my attention, then you must assume they were hunting for me and not my brother.’ The earlier irritation returned to him.

Emilie hadn’t pretended to mistake him for Nathaniel. She really had.

Lady Semple clasped his arm.

‘Don’t marry to spite your father or to please your mother.’

‘It would seem a simple task.’

‘Your father forsook love to please your grandparents. That turned out wonderfully for your father, to a point, and the best for me, but he’s fortunate your mother hasn’t smothered him in his sleep.’

‘They tend to sleep in different residences.’

‘Ever stuck your hand in the fire to see how hot it is?’ the older woman asked, eyebrows arched.

‘If a woman is on the way to nuptials above all else, what difference would one rake over another make?’ he asked.

‘This could be interesting.’ Lady Semple chortled. ‘I will watch to see what happens. Would you invite me to see such a thing? That is the only way I would believe it.’

‘I will keep your words in mind. But I don’t know that my mother would appreciate it.’

‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘We’ve spoken.’

‘You have?’ he asked.

‘After I was out of mourning for my husband, she approached me and told me that I had been indeed fortunate to have had the love of two husbands, one mine and one hers. She asked how I did it.’

Marcus didn’t speak. He couldn’t.

‘I told her. The truth.’

‘What?’

‘It is the enigma many women have and they don’t know it. They believe it is brains. Or beauty. But really it is joie de vivre.’ She held her hand close to her throat, as if pulling her spirit from her body. ‘A sense of fun.’

Marcus watched her.

‘Yes.’ Suddenly her age fell away and she cavorted as if on gilded slippers. ‘When I am about in London, have you ever seen me act any way but as if I am at a soirée? A soirée of grand proportions. That the world is a game and I have the winning hand.’

‘It’s true.’ He recalled the first day he had seen Emilie and the way that she—even though they were both young and he was twice her size—had called herself a highwayman.

Then, today, Nathaniel had found time for a private conversation with her. But he was certain Nathaniel saw her as a conquest, nothing more.

‘I hope you would like to see me close to a spirited woman like Miss Catesby, not Nathaniel. I admit I have not always done as I should, but he often gives the notion he would prefer to never do as he should.’

‘You must mend your ways for me to encourage a romance.’

‘A flawed concept, but entertaining.’

‘You men do like your entertainments.’

‘Agreed.’

He scrutinised her expression and thought of the lively and forthright conversations they’d had and he didn’t think he could be wrong in his assessment of her. Although he didn’t always admire her choices, he admired her discretion.

She snorted, making her hair flutter. ‘Don’t forget to join us for cards. I love having a man of your age visiting me.’ She raised her brows. ‘Please be dishevelled as you leave.’

‘Only if you agree to have a chaperon.’

She let her eyes drift heavenwards. ‘Josephina, Millie and Meg will be there. That will give us enough to complete the table.’

‘Plan on it.’

He departed, ruminating on the misery a union could bring and the knowledge that he couldn’t put it off indefinitely.

His father had claimed matrimony to be much like thrusting oneself on to a blade, but the bloodletting was very necessary for the peerage.

If one must be impaled, Emilie would not be as bad as others. However, he was not so sure Emilie wouldn’t choose Nathaniel over him. But, still, his attention kept following her.

He strongly doubted Emilie could ever ignore a man’s indiscretions.

No, he suspected Emilie would react much as his mother had. Fire and brimstone.

Now he could not shut the memory of Emilie dancing from his mind.

She had swirled across the floor.

He forgot her elegance for a moment and could see the image of her creamy breasts above the bodice of her gown and realised instantly he must put his mind elsewhere.

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