Bluestocking Bride (18 page)

"But never alone, Charles.
I am always chaperoned," she replied ingenuously, quite delighted to see the emotions of anger and jealousy chasing
themselves
across Mr. Norton's face.

"Fiddle!
Like we are chaperoned now, I wouldn't wonder!" His belligerent manner, far from alarming Miss Harland, cheered her immeasurably.

"But Charles, how can you object? Did you not tell me that I should look around and make a suitable match? What have I done wrong?"

"A suitable match?
Is that what you call it?" he said with bitter reproach. "You've all but thrown yourself away on a fool with nothing to recommend him but a handsome face.
Ranstoke
hasn't a feather to fly with!"

"I'm sure you are mistaken. I believe he has an income of a thousand a year—
not a fortune to be sure, but if two people are
fond of each other. . . ."

"Lucy!" He was devastated. "You're not in love with him, are you?"

Miss Harland, seeing the look of wounded pride on the face of her beloved, decided that it was time to relent and lead him gently into the fold.

"Charles, you know that I don't love him, can't love him, but what am I to do? If you won't offer for me, I must marry someone. Mr.
Ranstoke
will do just as well as anyone else."

"The devil he will!" Mr. Norton was now beside himself with rage. "
D'you
think
I shall step aside to let a numbskull like
Ranstoke
step in and carry you off? You must be soft in the head, my girl, if you think that!" In his agitation, Mr. Norton had taken hold of Lucy's wrist in a fierce grasp.

"But I don't think it, Charles. I am depending on you not to step aside." She looked at him with such longing, such unabashed devotion that his anger left him instantly.

"Oh, Lucy, what a fool I've been." He cupped her chin with his free hand and kissed her soundly, but was prevented from taking her into his arms since his other hand was attached to the reins of his bay.

"Oh, Charles!"
She sighed and rubbed her cheek affectionately against his shoulder.

After a few moments, Norton broke the spell.

"I shall have to apply to your father, Lucy, and whether he will countenance the match or no remains to be seen." He tilted her chin to look into her eyes. "Lucy, if he doesn't care for the connection, we shall have to wait till you come of age."

"Yes, Charles," said Miss Harland contentedly, not deceiving her beloved in the least by her docile reply.

"I mean it, my girl. You can put all thought of bolting to Gretna Green out of your mind, and don't try to
fadge
me with that butter-wouldn't-melt-in-my- mouth look!"

"Charts," she pouted, "I wouldn't!"

"Oh, wouldn't you? Well, it wouldn't work and that's flat. We will do it properly, or not at all. Have I made myself plain, my love?"

Miss Harland had to own that her dear Charles had made his meaning perfectly plain, and since it seemed that her heart's desire could not be achieved by working her feminine wiles on such a masterful paragon, she turned her thoughts to devising what she might say to her father to make the match palatable to him.

"And Lucy, when I next come courting you, remind me to leave the horses in the stable."

The Earl and Countess of Levin had brought with them a young artist of an age with
Rutherston
, and Catherine had taken to him instantly. His name was Adrian Henderson, and he was making a mark for himself as a portrait painter of some distinction amongst the ton. When the gentlemen joined the ladies after dinner, Catherine found Mr. Henderson at her elbow and was soon engaged, in her best hostess manner, in drawing him out. It transpired that Mr. Henderson's ambition was to paint real characters rather than noble profiles, and he used the profits from the lucrative sale of the one to finance his losses in the other.

"Do you mean by that, Mr. Henderson, that you don't find the members of High Society congenial subjects for your portraits?"

"As a rule, my lady, no, for consequence and fortune cannot add one iota of sensibility to a face that is already dull."

"Then what think you of my husband's art collection, Mr. Henderson? Do you not think that there are a few dull faces hanging on these walls?"

"Your husband is a connoisseur of distinction, my lady, with an art collection that is unrivaled in all of England, but even he has ancestors whose portraits he can hardly hide away. You will observe that those portraits are carefully displayed to attract the least attention?" His eyes glittered wickedly as he
laughed,
showing a mouth of gleaming white teeth, and Catherine was charmed, as much by his fair, good looks as by his lively conversation.

She lowered her voice to a sinister whisper.

"Have you considered that your talents are wasted as a painter, Mr. Henderson? Your path lies in politics.
Such a pretty speech—and so innocently barbed.
But I shall not take offense."

"My lady, you are mistaken. No offense to you. They are not your ancestors."

This time it was Catherine who laughed in appreciation, and
Rutherston
, cornered by his sister, the duchess, frowned as he glanced their way.

"Mr. Henderson, a word of advice. My husband loves a laugh, but you may find him a trifle sensitive to any criticism of this house."

"I thank you for the warning, but it comes too late. He has already asked for my opinion of his collection, and I have given it to him freely."

Catherine looked impressed- "And you still have a whole skin? It is more than I would dare." She regarded him with frank interest, wondering at his boldness, and admiration was reflected in her warm amber eyes. Henderson surveyed her in amused comprehension and broke abruptly into her train of thought.

"My lady, your husband, Lord
Rutherston
, invited me here for a purpose. He wanted me to meet you to determine whether I would accept his commission to paint your portrait."

"He did not mention the matter to me."

"He knows that I only accept a commission if I feel that I can paint a portrait of some distinction."

"What?
Another picture for a dark corner on some ignominious wall?"
Catherine asked archly.

"Hardly that, my lady.
This portrait will take pride of place in this house, if I have the ability to get you right, and I hope that I may."

"Ah. Then I'm to be the pride of all his possessions?" Catherine did not know why she had said it, but was immediately contrite. "I do beg your pardon, Mr.
Henderson, that
was thoughtless and unkind. Tell me, do I suit you as a subject?"

"If you mean, do I want to paint you—yes. From the moment I saw you, I believed that you would be wasted on any man who has no aesthetic sense. You should belong to an artist."

Catherine was taken aback and glanced nervously over her shoulder in the direction of her husband who, she saw, was regarding her keenly. She turned back to Henderson, and his smiling face told her that he had read her mind.

"You are not trying to make me believe that I am beautiful, are you, Mr. Henderson, for you won't succeed." She forced her voice to lightness, aware

that
Rutherston
was moving toward them.

"I would not say that you are a typical beauty, but you have a glow about you, a radiance that makes you unique. That is the quality I want to capture on canvas."

"Then you accept me as a subject?"

"I do. Now it is your turn, my lady. Will you accept me as your . . . artist?"

The man was irrepressible, and Catherine felt a flush of color creeping into her cheeks.

"If it pleases my husband to engage you to paint my portrait, then naturally I agree."

"I should warn you that I am an autocrat where my pictures are concerned. I demand the right to decide what you will wear, how you sit or stand, what background I shah paint you against, down to the smallest detail."

"Do all men always talk about their rights, or just the men of my acquaintance?" She smiled at him to disarm her words. "I shall be as docile as you wish, Mr. Henderson, but you must apply to my husband about the details. He has never learned docility, and is used to expressing his opinions quite forcefully."

Rutherston
joined them then and he and Henderson were soon engaged in a lively debate on whether Catherine should be dressed in velvets or satins, reds or
golds
, and she moved away to join another group, having ascertained one thing—the preliminary sketches were to be done once they reached London, the following week.

As they were preparing for bed that night,
Rutherston
asked Catherine what she thought of Henderson.

"Is he any good, Richard?"

"He is the best, otherwise my dear, I would not consider engaging him. But I have seen some of his work, and I know that he is talented. He is also particular, now that lie is becoming well known. But I
knew,
when he saw you, that he would accept my commission." He was
lying
full length on the bed, hands clasped behind his head, observing Catherine with lazy, watchful eyes as she sat at her dressing table finishing her toilette.

"You haven't answered my question, Catherine."

It flashed through her mind that it would be dangerous and useless to be evasive with Richard. He would know, and take offense, and an offended Richard was a dangerous animal. She turned, smiling at him coquettishly.

"He is very forward, my lord, and deliciously flirtatious."

Rutherston
bounded from the bed and caught her in his arms, hugging her to him.

"You little vixen, I saw you flirting shamelessly with him tonight." She was relieved to see that he was smiling. "And you a bride of only three weeks."

"Are you worried, darling?" She hoped he was. "You need not be, you know. I find you infinitely more attractive than Mr. Henderson." Her arms went round his waist and she kissed his naked chest where his shirt hung open. His arms tightened around her possessively.

"Worried? No. But I am cautious. He is a gambler and a womanizer.
In short, my dear—a rake."

"If that is your opinion of him, why have you chosen him to paint my portrait?" Catherine asked in some surprise.

"Did I not say that he is the best?"

"But don't you care,
Richard, that
he will flirt with me?" There was a suggestion of pique in her voice, and
Rutherston
smiled to hear it.

"My dear, I rely on your own good sense, and Mr. Henderson's knowledge of my marksmanship with a pistol to keep him at bay, besides which, you will never be in his company
unchaperoned
."

"Duels, my lord?
You cannot be serious!"

"Let us hope, my
love, that
you need never find out." He bent and kissed her then, tugging impatiently at her gown to free her of it, and all thought of Henderson slipped from their minds.

The great oak doors of
Fotherville
House were shut upon the last of the departing guests, and Catherine, in high spirits at the happy outcome of her debut as
Rutherston's
hostess, slipped her arm through Lucy's, and, light of heart, led the way upstairs to a small, pretty drawing room that she called her own.
Rutherston
had invited Lucy and Norton to return with them in his carriage to London, and Catherine, observing a new easiness in Lucy's and Norton's manner toward each other, as if they had come to an understanding, found herself looking forward to two very pleasant days of company that could only be thought of as the most congenial.

Henderson had stayed on for some obscure reason known only to himself and
Rutherston
, and Catherine was pleased. Throughout his stay she had detected him, on more than one occasion, appraising her with the closest kind of scrutiny, and although she was sure that his interest was entirely professional, it discomfited her to be the object of so much unwanted attention. Once, she had caught him in the act of studying her profile, and she had stared right back.

A mood of playfulness had developed between them, which
Rutherston
seemed not to mind, and Catherine found herself hoping that Henderson might be included in their circle of friends when they returned to town.

The gentlemen had retreated to
Rutherston's
study on some business that had been mentioned in vague terms, and the two sisters, finding their absence by no means unwelcome, had settled themselves to catch up on their correspondence with their sister Mary, whose confinement was due any day.

They worked in companionable silence, and after an interval, when Catherine had completed her agreeable
labor,
she began to hunt through the drawers of her writing table in search of a wafer to seal her letter. When none could be found, she indicated to Lucy, who was still busily engaged, that she would try for one in the big oak desk in the library downstairs.