Lady Jenny's Christmas Portrait (18 page)

He lifted her away from his body and arranged her against his side. “I do not think that. I
would
not think that, and I
shall
not think that of you, particularly if you desist in your importuning. Many fashionable women have seen Paris since the Corsican’s defeat. I’m sure you’ve asked them what they know.”

Jenny was leaving in the morning, and that inspired boldness sufficient to overcome her dread of his disapproval.

“You know more than they do, more than probably anybody but Antoine knows. The rumors are you were in Paris even during the war.”

He remained silent, and something bright and brave in Jenny’s heart sank. “Shall I leave, Elijah?”

His chest heaved up, then down, a sea of male emotion beneath her cheek. “You shall not.”

“Will you make love to me again?” Of all the questions she’d asked him, that one was the most difficult, and yet she wanted more of his warmth and tenderness, more of
him
.

“You’ve exorcised your ghosts, Genevieve, and it’s late. Go to sleep.”

He tucked her closer and closed his eyes, ending the conversation as effectively as if he’d left the room, the manor, and the shire.

As Jenny drifted off to sleep, the last thing her thinking mind registered was that though Elijah had not offered her his help and had refused her any further lovemaking, when the fire had burned down to coals and a winter wind whistled around the old house, deep in the night, he still held her close.

Breakfast was trial by tea and toast. Elijah’s host and hostess bid him safe journey to London, then drifted off to whatever business would fill their day. Elijah took his customary place, back to the windows, and prayed Jenny would have the wisdom to remain above stairs until his departure.

Then he prayed that she’d come down early and spend every possible minute with him before he rode out of her life.

Then
he prayed that a blizzard might start up and prevent them both from leaving, because the developments of the previous night had been too complicated and overwhelming to allow a man to think them through clearly.

“My lady.” He rose as Jenny paused in the doorway, a vision in holiday green. “Good morning.”

Her smile was hesitant. “My—Mr. Harrison.”

He’d told her about the title. He’d very nearly told her he loved her. “Won’t you sit with me? There’s a little sun to be had at this end of the table. May I fix you a plate?”

May
I
tell
you
that
despite
the
fact
that
I
thought
we
were
to
be
married, and you did not, I will always treasure the hours you spent in my arms?

He’d told her that much when he’d deposited her fast asleep in her own bed not two hours past and kissed her cheek in parting.
How
brave
of
me.

Her smile became more confident. “I’d like that. The day looks encouraging.”

No, it did not. The day looked all too well suited to travel. Her smile, though, looked encouraging. “What will you have?”

He heaped up a plate for her, knowing she’d never eat that much but wanting to give her something, even if it wasn’t what she’d asked him for last night. When they were seated at the end of the room nearest the hearth, Elijah filled her teacup with strong, fragrant tea and added cream and sugar.

This was the last bit of solitude they might have. “Are you well, Genevieve?”

“Quite, thank you. These strawberries are particularly good.”

He tried again. “You know there might be consequences from last night?”

She went still, a succulent berry halfway to her equally succulent mouth. “Consequences?” The word came out care-ful-ly, as if she hadn’t realized any such thing. “But you didn’t… I thought… Heavens.”

She’d blushed nearly as red as the strawberry.

“I did not.” Thank a merciful, benign, forgiving Deity. Elijah had not spent his seed in her body. “There can still be consequences, and you will not bear them alone.” He passed her a folded piece of foolscap. “My man of business always knows where to reach me. If there’s need, you will contact me immediately. Promise me, Genevieve.”

She took the paper, stuffed it in some secret female pocket in her skirts, and nodded.

A tension in Elijah’s chest eased. “Butter?”

“Please.”

Ah, God, not
that
word. He buttered a slice from the toast rack in the center of the table. “What will you do with yourself today, Genevieve?”

“My parents will collect me shortly, and I’ll probably spend the morning planning the house party with Her Grace.”

He chose a toast point for himself and tried to memorize the curve of her cheek. “House party?”

“My entire family is gathering for the holidays. Morelands can hold such a crowd, but it’s quite an undertaking. When did you stop putting butter on your toast, Elijah?”

He stopped chewing and stopped trying to pretend. “I’ll miss you, Genevieve, and I’ll worry about you. Will you come see the children’s portrait when it’s complete?”

“If I’m still here, of course. I’ll miss you too. Very, very much.”

Two verys. The tension eased more, which was no help. Without anxiety to mask other emotions, Elijah felt a welling sense of loss, as if leaving Sidling was another leg in the long and ill-advised journey away from Flint Hall.

“Ah, there’s my darling girl!”

His Grace the Duke of Moreland came striding into the breakfast parlor, cheeks ruddy from the cold, smile warm, blue eyes merry. “Jenny, my dear, I have missed you this age.”

She went into her father’s arms, while Elijah got to his feet.

Her family should not have her back yet, please, not just, quite, already…
yet
. “Your Grace, good morning.”

The duke hugged his daughter, clearly a man who need not stand on ceremony, and a papa glad to be reunited with his offspring. And then, with an arm still around Jenny’s shoulders, His Grace turned that smile on Elijah.

“Bernward, felicitations of the season. I hope my girl hasn’t been pestering you too awfully. She does take her little pictures seriously.” He winked at Elijah and kissed Jenny’s temple, while Elijah wanted to tear her from the older man’s side.

Little
pictures.

“Lady Jenny and her considerable artistic talent have been an inspiration, Your Grace. I could not have achieved what I did here, much less in so short a time, without your daughter’s assistance and insight.” Too short a time.

“Right. Jenny, are you ready to go, or can you spare your old papa time to visit the nursery?”

The relief in Jenny’s eyes was subtle, too subtle for a blustery old duke to comprehend. “You can visit upstairs for as long as you like, Papa. I’ll finish my breakfast.”

“Bernward, good day. I’m off to corrupt the youth of England.” His Grace wrapped several slices of stollen in a napkin and strode off, and not a moment too soon.

“They’re not little pictures, Genevieve. You have talent. Never doubt that.”

She sat with the air of a convict whose petition for a royal pardon had just been denied. “Papa loves me. He loves all of his children. Mama does too.”

And their love was choking her. Jenny consumed her breakfast in silence, while Elijah sensed he’d underestimated the depths to which she dreaded her return to Morelands.

“You will take Paris by storm, Genevieve.” Another nod, and Elijah felt despair wash over him, because how was she to take Paris by storm when she hadn’t yet secured decent lodgings? When she had no clue where to begin with the gallery owners and shopkeepers?

Rather than offer her more hollow assurances, he offered her relief from his company. “Will you see me to my horse?”

“Of course.”

They traveled through the house until Elijah paused with her in the entry hall. “Which cloak is yours?”

She passed him a pretty green wool cloak with cream trim, the buttonholes elaborately embroidered in a gold fleur-de-lis pattern.

“You’ve been planning your escape for a long time, haven’t you, Genevieve?”

“Years. More dreaming than planning. I’m planning now. This is your scarf.” She wrapped soft purple wool around his neck, and almost as if they were married, they dressed each other for the chill beyond the door. “You’ll show the nominating committee the sketch of the boys’ portrait?”

“Of course.” He did not tell her he might come back for a few more sittings, because French dragoons couldn’t have marched him back at gunpoint. Until she left for Paris, he’d be wise not to set foot anywhere in Kent. “You won’t lose the direction for my man of business?”

She stroked an ungloved hand over his scarf. “I promise, Elijah. Good-bye.” Without warning, she went up on her toes and kissed him. “Safe journeys, and Elijah?”

Somewhere nearby, a sprig of mistletoe hung—or should be hanging. Elijah kissed her back. “What?”

“Go home. Reconcile with your family. I’m leaving my family behind, but I’ll also take them with me in a sense, if they’ll allow it. You can’t racket around forever, pretending you’re an orphan when you’re a titled lord with a family you love, and who loves you.”

This was not what he’d expected from her in parting. He escorted her from the house, lest he be tempted to kiss her again. “Is that advice my Christmas token from you?”

“No.” She fumbled about beneath her cloak and produced a small packet wrapped in red paper and tied with a green bow. “This is.”

“Thank you.” Whatever it was, it was small enough that Elijah could tuck it into his pocket. “I have something for you as well. You must open it in private.”

He led her to his horse, opened the leather tube he used for keeping sketches safe in transport, and passed her a small paper rolled up with a red ribbon. “In private, Genevieve. Happy Christmas.”

Mistletoe bedamned, waiting groom bedamned, and whatever eyes were watching their parting from the house be double damned, he wrapped his arms around her and kissed her full on the mouth.

“I wish things could be different, Genevieve Windham. I wish it with my whole heart.”

She rubbed her cheek against his scarf as if drawing in his scent one last time. “I double damned, perishing wish they could too, Elijah Harrison.”

He stepped back, relieved to see she was smiling, because then he could smile too. The groom was busily studying the snowy driveway, which was fortunate, because those smiles—and the pain they held—said worlds about what might have been, what should have been, and what would never be.

***

Louisa, Countess of Kesmore, paused to admire her son, who gurgled up at his mother happily. “I believe this child will have his father’s nose.”

Jenny looked away from the mutual admiration society that was mother and son, to yet another gray winter day beyond the window—the third such day she’d spent under her sister’s roof. This time.

“Joseph has a lovely nose. A nose suited to his character.” The child, however, had his mother’s nose. Any fool could see that.

Louisa tucked the infant against her shoulder. “One forgets you study things like noses. Was it so awful at Morelands?”

Yes, it had been. More awful than usual, which Jenny blamed on Elijah Harrison, Lord Bernward, painter of portraits and stealer of hearts.

“Just the usual: Her Grace could not decide which suite should be assigned to which family, though we went through the same exercise last year and nobody complained regarding their quarters. She couldn’t decide whether to assign the children a separate breakfast parlor, make up a children’s parlor in the nursery wing, or have everybody share the usual breakfast parlor closest to the kitchens.” Jenny rose to pace Louisa’s private sitting room, lest she start shouting. “Mama thought perhaps the open house should start earlier, then decided that no, the family should have an hour or so to gather before the guests arrive. And then the menus…”

The duchess could spend days dithering over menus, when she knew down to the smallest grandchild what each individual’s preferences were.

Louisa sat the child in her lap, holding his tiny hands in hers. “When was the last time you painted something, Jenny?”

“I haven’t been one place long enough to set up my easel.” And she’d been drafting chatty, curious notes to her aunt Arabella, who’d often traveled to Paris early in her marriage.

Louisa’s mouth quirked, suggesting Jenny’s usual talent for dissembling wasn’t going to meet with success. “I thought you’d cobbled together a studio of sorts in the east wing at Morelands, near the nursery suite.”

This was why Jenny had sent a desperate request to her sister, begging an invitation to visit, why she’d fled—
fled
—her own home.

“Her Grace decided paint fumes would be harmful to the children and instructed the footmen to pack up my ‘artistic whatnot’ until after the holidays.”

Louisa paused in the entertainment of the chubby little fellow on her lap. “Unpack your whatnot. Tell Her Grace that, of the seventy-three private rooms at Morelands, you need one for your art. That’s not too much to ask, Sister mine.”

Louisa would have asked. She would have done so at a family meal, debated with her own mother until she’d gotten the room of her choice, and then had it set up exactly to her liking before sunset on the same day.

“I did ask. She said she’d think about which room she could spare for my little hobby, and, Sister, I wanted to perishing shriek at her.” Bloody, perishing, damned shriek, at her own mother.

“Don’t we all, occasionally?”

Jenny had paced half the length of the parlor before Louisa’s words registered. “You want to shriek at
Her
Grace
?”

“This is the selfsame Her Grace who gave me
Fordyce’s Sermons
for my sixteenth birthday and sent my Greek tutor packing in the name of establishing economies.”

“I’m sorry.” And this was exactly the kind of sibling support Jenny was going to miss terribly when she moved to Paris. “I hadn’t realized she’d done that. What was she trying to accomplish?”

“Take this baby, please. One cannot drink tea and hold Kesmore’s heir, lest one’s clothing comes to grief.”

Jenny obediently took custody of her nephew, a stout, cheerful infant who would be crawling ere long—which she would not be on English soil to see.

“Her Grace sent the tutor packing because I had exceeded his abilities, I’m guessing, but he was still somebody with whom I could discuss my translations, and that was…”

“Important to you. This child has gotten heavier since I was here barely a week ago.”

“They do that, rather like men get handsomer when you fall in love with them. I received a note from Her Grace this morning, Jenny.”

Louisa’s voice had lost its typical brisk, pragmatic inflection. Jenny cuddled the child closer and braced herself accordingly. “And?”

“Your parole is at an end. She must have you back before next week’s guests arrive, but don’t worry.” Louisa patted Jenny’s hand. “When I take you home, I’ll make sure your studio is reestablished, and not in some priest’s hole or butler’s pantry, either.”

You
have
talent, Genevieve. Never doubt that.

“A butler’s pantry might do, Louisa, if it were entirely mine and had at least one decent window.”

Louisa set down her teacup and scooped her firstborn away from Jenny. “That’s the problem with you, Genevieve. You are too nice. You ought to have a fit of the sulks, grumble to Papa, and pick at your food until Her Grace realizes she’s blundered—Papa is very obliging about these things when he thinks he’s being clever. Mama is proud, but she does love us.”