A Prince for Aunt Hetty (13 page)

“Well,” Rupert smiled at the girl. “I guess so. As long as you can fetch me some paper and a pencil, I think we can get to work.”

The children were excited about yet another new adventure in the company of their friend. While Rupert set up some chairs, they described more and more elaborate scenes for their portrait. The most elaborate included a scene much like the theatrical they had put on the day before, with the boys battling a dragon – who would, of course, be a
real
dragon and not a man in a costume – and the girls dressed as princesses. This was quickly vetoed by their parents, who explained that they wanted it to be a likeness they could hang in the parlor for everyone to see and, therefore, dragons were off-limits.

“Besides,” Mrs. Hayes tried to mollify the disappointed children, “today Mr. Henderson will just do some sketches of you all. We can always change it later.”

Since the afternoon sun was growing dimmer, Rupert took up a station near the big windows at the end of the room. There was a little table there and a few chairs. With the help of the children, he maneuvered one of the sofas toward the light. Then he positioned them across it.

They began to grow restless as he moved them this way and that. So Hetty came up with a plan. She announced that she would read them a story while they sat still and did what Mr. Henderson said. This pleased them. She retrieved the story – a book of fairy tales, as Rupert discovered once she started reading – and began to read. They sat spellbound by her voice. Rupert now knew exactly where they had gotten the fanciful ideas for their theatrical yesterday and why they had so wanted to be painted as knights and princesses today. It was actually quite charming.

Once he was satisfied with the arrangement of the children, he turned back toward the window and the little table. But some instinct caught him before he had moved too far. There before him was a scene that struck his imagination and his heart: Miss Harriet Masters reading a book by the light of the dimming afternoon sun. She was intent on her task, her whole body absorbed in the story, unconscious of everything else. But it was more than that that grabbed at Rupert's heart. It was something about the scene that made him once again feel that loneliness he'd felt earlier. It was a glimpse of something that he didn't have and hadn't known he ever wanted.

Rupert knew, though, that the children would not stay attentive for long, so he reluctantly made his way to the table and got to work on drawing the children while Hetty continued to read. Soon, he lost himself in the work, shutting out everything around him to focus on the positions and faces of the children in front of him. He was concentrating so much, in fact, that he didn't realize that Hetty had stopped reading until he felt eyes upon him.

“Rupert?”

He looked up at Hetty. “Oh, I'm sorry. I was concentrating.”

“I could see that,” she chuckled.

“Is something wrong?”

“I think the children might need to get up and move around a bit,” she said.

Rupert looked at them. The little ones could hardly sit still and even the older children were beginning to wiggle. “Oh, of course! How long have we been sitting here?”

“Nearly three quarters of an hour. I've finished reading the book.”

“I'm so sorry. Of course you may get up children. I have what I need for today,” he called over to them. They raced to a tray of cakes and pastries that had been brought into the room sometime while he'd been lost in the drawing.

Hetty remained seated, but now she was looking closely at him and the sketches on the table. “Did you not hear me finish reading?”

Rupert apologized. “I'm sorry. When I am sketching or painting, I tend to lose track of the world around me.”

“I noticed.” They looked at each other for the first time all day, but he still could not read her face. “So tell me your story,” she said.

“My story?”

“Yes, how did you get to be so talented? I mean, people can have talent, but you have clearly developed yours in a most extraordinary way.”

“You think so?” Rupert was embarrassed at her words and yet wanted to hear more.

“I do. I am no expert in artistic things, but those paintings in your studio were something I've not seen before. Where did you come from?”

He laughed. “Only a little place called London.”

“But I know London and I have never heard of you. So where have you been hiding?” She was looking intently at him.

Rupert's mind went to war with itself. He wanted to tell her his story, share his life with a woman who he thought would understand. But at the same time, he'd moved to the country to be anonymous, to escape himself and what he had been. It had defined him and his art for nearly his entire life. And now he wanted to find himself, find what suited him and discover what he wanted to paint. Her praise of his work made him think that he had done that, but how would she change if she knew the truth? He'd seen the look many times. One that said he was no longer his own person. One that said he was subsumed in the story he'd told. Did he want that with Hetty?

No. He wanted her to know the real him, independent of what he had been. So he played off her question. “I seem to have been hiding in plain sight if you haven't seen me. I hear that you are quite the person to know when one is in town.”

She looked at him with eyebrow's knit for a moment, clearly disappointed in his response. Her brow finally cleared after a long moment and she laughed. “Am I now? And where did you hear this?”

“A certain sister told me a little bit about you.”

“Oh, she did? You know you cannot believe anything she says.”

“Hmmm... so I should
not
believe that you had a previous life as a privateer capturing Spanish ships and spending all of your gold on drink and women?”

She laughed loud enough to draw the attention of everyone in the room. “No, I think not. Even as delightful as that sounds.” Her eyes flashed with humor and her mouth quirked to just the angle he'd been waiting for, though he hadn't known it. It was what he needed to finish her portrait. He searched the table for a new sheet of paper and began scribbling quickly.

“Rupert?”

Had he drifted into his own world again? “I'm sorry. I'm not trying to be rude.” He gave her an apologetic smile.

“It's all right, but is everything good?”

“Yes, I just discovered the perfect thing I needed to finish your portrait.” He heard her breathe in quickly, a sign of alarm.
Oh no
. “I... I mean... that is, if you would allow me to... to finish it.”
Damn
.
And it was going so well.

“My portrait.” She said it as a statement.

“Hetty, I know you were startled yesterday. I
know
I should have asked you.”

She interrupted him. “I have been thinking about it all day.”

“And?” Rupert felt as if his fate hung in the balance of what she said.

“And...” she was fingering the papers on the table and not looking at him. “And I think I would like you to finish it.” She looked up at him.

Rupert breathed out in relief. “Are you absolutely sure?”

“I am,” she nodded. “This afternoon I have seen the care you take with your drawing and the way it absorbs you. I cannot imagine the hours you spent on that painting and I would hate for you to either leave it unfinished or destroy it. I only ask --”

“Yes?”

“That you not display it once it is finished.”

“Of course not. And if I ever wanted to, I should ask your permission first.” He wanted to assure her, set her mind at ease at the same time that his hopes were soaring.

“Good.”

With that settled, they fell into a comfortable silence. Rupert turned back to his drawings and Hetty went back to her book. Their camaraderie lasted through their intimate meal with Mr. and Mrs. Hayes. And then through a lengthy after-dinner chat in the parlor. It was a jovial time and Rupert learned much about Hetty and Agatha's childhood together. He saw how it had shaped both women into intelligent, humorous, charming adults. He also heard much about Hetty's life in town. He had been half joking when he had teased her about being the one to know. But with the kind of stories she told, he saw that it was true. And each new story about her made him want to know her even more.

Too soon it was time for him to go. He could have stayed all night just talking with these new friends. Rupert shook Jonathan's hand and kissed Agatha's before he turned to leave. His hosts made themselves suspiciously scarce and it was left to Hetty to escort him to the door. Not that he exactly minded.

They both hesitated at the door.

“So I should finish the portrait?” He wanted confirmation again.

“Yes.”

“It's very generous. Thank you.”

She bit her lip. “ I must confess that I am very curious to see it finished. I see my own face in the looking glass each day. But what you have on that canvas is something I have never seen in myself. Asking you to finish it is rather vain, if I am honest.”

Their eyes met. “I think you deserve a bit of vanity.” Rupert took her hand in his. “And you should know that what I see is a beautiful, charming woman.” He brought her hand to his lips and gently kissed her palm. The smile was gone now as she stared at him. The feelings from yesterday returned. He wanted to kiss her, to press his lips to hers and feel her breath. He wanted to pull her to him. But they were in the hall, so he only stared and swallowed heavily as he tried to clear his head and wait for his heart beat to slow down a bit.

He shouldn't linger much longer, but he wanted somehow to show her what he was feeling. So he raised her hand to his lips again and kissed the inside of her wrist. The skin was warm and soft. He stayed there moment. She did not pull away from him or offer any resistance. But finally he knew it would be entirely improper to remain any longer. So he gently released her hand and turned to go. He opened the door to let himself out.

On the step outside the door he turned and gave her a half-dazed smile. “Goodnight, Hetty.”

“Goodnight, Rupert.” She smiled back and shut the door.

Chapter Ten

H
ETTY LAID IN
bed with the tingle still running up her arm. It clutched right at her heart each time it did, causing it to squeeze in a delicious and exciting way. She was unsure if she'd ever felt anything like it before.

“Oh, you are a silly thing, Harriet Masters,” she mumbled and turned over on her side, curling up under the blanket so she could stare at the fire. She was glad of the shadows. Something about the glow of the fire at midnight when the house was quiet made her feel alone. Some nights it was a comforting thing, some nights it was a thrill of being awake when no one else was, and other nights it brought on a loneliness. Tonight it was a little bit of all three. She sighed heavily and turned over on her back. She spread out her limbs and felt around for the cold places. They grew warm with her body heat while she thought about the evening.

Mr. Rupert Henderson. At first she had been hesitant to see him today. After yesterday's confusing events, she didn't know how he would act or how she should act around him. There was the painting... and then the words he had spoken... He had called her beautiful. And he had meant it! Men of society were supposed to want young women, women fresh from the country trying to make an advantageous match. Women who could give them heirs to property and fortune. Men were not supposed to want women her age.

But then tonight as he left... a thrill raced through her again and she breathed in deeply, trying to steady her racing pulse.
A woman of fifty years should not feel like this
. Again she shifted in the bed. But what harm could it do, really? She asked herself. It wasn't like she was going to fall in love and get married. She was long past that.

But to be desired? That was perhaps something she could allow herself for a time.

Hetty'd had admirers in her youth. And a few kisses. But nothing that she remembered had ever felt like what had passed between them tonight. It was so... intimate. Even for a simple kiss on her hand and wrist. She stretched out the fingers of her hands, as if she could still feel his lips there.

Thinking of hands drew her mind back to watching Rupert work. Though many of her friends in London had patronized budding artists over the years, Hetty found that she knew little of the process. And so she had been fascinated to watch Rupert work. At first he merely looked at the children, drawing outlines here and there and making some notes. But then he began earnestly sketching each of their faces and bodies, filling in the outline more and more. Occasionally he would stop and look again, all the time lost in his own vision. His strong hands moved with determined grace over the paper. He even pouted a bit as he worked.

I wonder if he knows that he runs his hand along his jaw as he thinks
. She pictured it now. The smooth movement of his sturdy hands rubbing along his jawline as he concentrated on the next line he wanted to make or as he looked carefully at his subject. What would it feel like to run her hand along that jaw, studded with stubble and rough to the touch? Hetty's skin crawled with awareness.