Passionate (8 page)

This time, the dream changed. A gentle touch on his shoulder, and Lily was behind him smiling, wearing her blue painting smock. Then, in the way of dreams, they were back in the conservatory, Lily again in his arms, leaning into his kiss. She pulled back, looked deeply into his eyes for an instant, then ran. James followed, but the brick walkways twisted and the foliage had overgrown the path—he had lost her and could not find his way home.

The dream followed him into daylight, leaving him with a vague melancholy when he woke in the gray light of dawn. The familiar pain of his old longing had echoed through him all morning.

Now he paused before the cut-glass doors that divided the conservatory from the rest of the house. What could he say to put things aright? What would Lily require of him?

Stepping through those doors was like stepping into a different world. No matter how gray or cold it was outside, here was a paradise of warmth and lush fragrance. Again he had entered this haven of the senses, and there was no way out but forward.

He followed the path past carefully tended plantings and nodded to a gardener pruning a leggy hydrangea. Ahead, he could hear her voice.

“Lord Buckley is presently in America. Mother and I are going to take tea with the Countess upon my return to London…” Seeing James, she broke off.

Lily’s hair was coiled tightly at her neck, though chestnut strands were already escaping. Her blue apron was drawn over a soberly cut gray gown. She was standing by her easel, speaking to her aunt who was seated on the wicker chaise and holding a portable writing desk. James squared his shoulders.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Huntington,” Lily said. “Aunt Mary will be lending us the pleasure of her company as we work today.”

“Yes, Lily suggested I catch up on my correspondence here. The atmosphere is lovely, don’t you agree?”

“Very much.” James flicked his gaze to Lily.

“Please sit, Mr. Huntington.”

He returned to the stool and tried to let his body remember the pose. One foot firmly on the ground, the other heel resting on the lowest rung. Shoulders at an angle, just so. He did not remember the leaf that was now tickling his neck, though.

Lily eyed his pose with a frown. She began to move toward him then hesitated. “Come and look at the sketch from yesterday. That should give you a better idea of the positioning.”

He rose and rounded the easel for his first glimpse of the portrait. Even unfinished the painting had a vital energy to it, a sense of coming into being that stirred him. Or perhaps it was standing so close to the woman he had so recently kissed.

“I see.” He studied the lines of the pose, imprinting them in his mind, then returned to the stool.

Lily rewarded him with a faint smile. “Yes. That’s it precisely.”

He lowered his voice. “I’m glad you are continuing with the portrait. After yesterday, I wasn’t sure how you felt.”

A hint of color rose in her cheeks. “The
painting
is coming along very well.” She looked directly into his eyes. “I am not in the habit of abandoning my work.”

“An admirable quality. Have you always been so single-minded?”

“Yes.” Her smile was gone now. “In fact, I find it difficult to work and converse at the same time. Because flowers do not require it, I never developed the ability to banter while painting.”

“As you wish.”

In silence he watched her begin to paint. Her focus narrowed, her sea-green eyes became more intense as they moved over him, but today the transformation did not catch him so completely off guard. There was more of a respite, periods when she focused on the image on her easel. James wondered what she saw when she looked at him, how the colors spoke to her and then were translated into his face and form. The quiet was broken only by the dip and scratch of Lady Mary’s pen and the faint whistling of the gardener somewhere beyond James’s vision.

There were times when the intensity of her gaze became too much. Then he stared straight ahead and concentrated on the sweeping lines of the greenhouse—glass and iron imprisoning and at the same time sheltering the lush foliage. Outside the trees were still leafless, but inside was a tumult of green.

The sound of light footsteps on the walkway broke the spell. A maid with freckles on her nose entered and dropped a curtsy to Lady Mary.

“Beg pardon, milady. A man is here with more packages. I think they need your direct attention.”

“Very well, Anne.” Lady Mary rose, setting aside her lap desk. “Please excuse me for a moment.” She smiled at Lily and James, and then led the servant from the conservatory.

They were alone, and the silence between them quickly grew as tense and charged as the air before a lightning storm.

“Miss Strathmore,” he said. “I hope I did not cause you distress yesterday.”

Her fingers tightened on her brush. “Distress? Oh, no.”

“I did not intend to put you in a compromising position.”

Her gaze dropped to the brick pavers. “Mr. Huntington, I took no offense. In fact, our interchange had all but slipped from my mind.”

“I wanted to reassure you—”

“Please, it is unnecessary. Do not worry yourself further on my account. I’ve put the incident behind me, and would ask that you do the same.”

“How practical.” He could not so easily erase the memory of her softness pressed against him, her lips warm under his.

“Precisely. It is the only sensible course. And, Mr. Huntington…”

“Yes?”

“You should have no expectations. I do not allow—”

“No, of course not.”

“Then the matter is settled.”

James regarded her for a long moment. “If that is how you want it to be, then it is settled.”

She held his gaze a heartbeat too long, then dabbed her brush and returned to her work, some deeper emotion darkening her eyes. A strained silence fell between them.

“I have ordered up a tea tray,” Lady Mary said as she came briskly up the walk some minutes later. She glanced from James to Lily. “It should be along shortly, if you are ready for some refreshment.”

“Yes,” Lily said, “that would be lovely. Though I am nearly finished.”

“Finished?”

“Yes. The work has been going very well. Another quarter-hour should see it to completion.”

James was curious to see the transformation from sketch to painting. Though more uncomfortable than he might have guessed, observing her in the act of creation had been captivating. He watched her paint, knowing it would be his last opportunity. It was like seeing any creature in its perfect element—a hawk soaring high, riding invisible currents, or a quicksilver fish darting through water. Time had seemed almost suspended, measured only by the dip of her brush, the beat of his own heart, the graceful presence of the artist before him.

The scent of narcissus filled the air, sweet with an edge of citrus. Lady Mary turned her page over, the rustling of paper like the hush of palm fronds on a tropical shore. He was filled with a quiet regret that he and Lily could not enjoy an easy companionability. The shadow of yesterday stood between them.

At last she set down her brush and took a deep breath. “I am done. Or near enough that you are now free, Mr. Huntington.”

James rose and stretched. He and Lady Mary moved to join Lily at the easel.

“Oh, Lily!” Lady Mary exclaimed.

He could not speak at first, only look. His figure was cast against subdued greens, making it stand out strongly in vivid tones of gold, white and warm brown. Behind his shoulder the palm fronds were parted, revealing a shining glimpse of white petals.

She had painted him looking slightly to the left, focused past the viewer as if searching for something in the far distance. The longing he saw there startled him. Was it so obvious? It was his yearning as the ship pulled away from the dock, the ache he still felt when he thought of the happy days when his father was still alive.

But she had not just shown his longing—she had shown his hope. Hope that this mad adventure to Tunisia would succeed, that he could save Somergate and at last find a place he could belong to. Lily had painted more than his physical form, she had described his deepest emotion. It was something he had not anticipated—that her skill had transmuted him to this. His heart contracted painfully. He looked down into her upturned face, seeing the unspoken question there.
Is it you?

“It is wonderful,” he said softly.

Her sea-green eyes smiled into his. Once again he felt the absurd impulse to reach out and gather her into his arms—but there was no place for him there.

Chapter 7

James ignored the buzz of conversation that followed him through the club as he made his way to the back and selected a chair facing the fire. London, it seemed, had not yet forgotten his duel with the Duke of Hereford’s son.

Sinking back into the supple leather of the armchair, he accepted a glass of brandy from the waiter. He had come to town for a day to take care of the last details of the journey. Passage to Tunisia was booked and all the arrangements made for loading their supplies and equipment. In all, preparations were going remarkably well despite the extra work necessary to accommodate the Strathmores’ entourage.

It was good, too, to be away from Brookdale. To be away from Lily, if he were truthful. James felt more than distracted by her. All day his thoughts had returned again and again to the conservatory and to the painter with the blue apron and soft, kissable lips.

“Well, well, if it isn’t my cousin, the celebrated duelist.” The taunting voice intruded into James’s thoughts.

“Reggie.” His pleasure dimmed as he watched his raven-haired cousin slide into the adjacent chair.

“I see you are riding out your notoriety in the bottom of a glass. Capital idea. I’ll join you.” Reggie signaled the waiter.

“I wasn’t aware you were a member of this club. Their standards must be slipping.”

His cousin arched a brow. “Since they let you in, I’d have to agree. Look at you, James. You are under a cloud of scandal, you have no prospects, a pitiable income—and your boots are a disgrace.”

James glanced down at his boots and frowned. “Why are you here? And more to the point, when will you be leaving?”

“You wound me. I have searched high and low to compliment you on your marksmanship, and all you are interested in is when you might be rid of me. I say, your years in savage India have done nothing to improve your manners.” Reggie leaned closer, his eyes dark as coal smoke. “I hear you’re being exiled. A shame, but family honor and all that.”

“I’m touched by your concern.”

“Don’t mention it, coz.” He accepted a glass from the returning waiter and drained it. “I would have thought you’d be long gone by now, hiding under some rock. Tsk, tsk. Father will be disappointed. You were always such an obedient child. Did they issue you a new backbone in the army or are you still planning to leave town like a good little boy?”

“My plans are not your concern.”

James had hoped that after his long absence in India his relations with his cousin could be more civil. They had been at odds since the day he and his sister had arrived as children, orphaned. Every act of kindness displayed by their uncle toward them was taken as a slight by Reggie, and often accompanied by some petty payback—a broken toy, a missing letter crumpled and tossed in the wastebasket before it could be read. It was as if Reggie believed that there was not enough love in the world, or that his father’s heart could not expand to include three children in the household.

Whatever his motivation, Reggie appeared intent on picking up where the two of them had left off. If anything, he seemed more hostile than ever. Caroline had shared some of the darker gossip circulating about their cousin. His erratic behavior, disappearing for weeks at a time, the frequent shouting arguments with Lord Denby—and the troubling rumors that he was deeply in debt and financing his excesses by taking loans against his inheritance.

Reggie fixed James with a dark-eyed stare. “As I am the Huntington heir, your plans are very much my concern. Particularly when my sources tell me that since gunning down poor Hereford in Hyde Park you have been tearing about buying tents and pack-saddles and such. Hardly necessary if you were planning to retreat for a few weeks to the country.” He sat back and steepled his long fingers. “I must admit, I became curious. What is my cousin up to? Why is he down at the shipping-line offices inquiring about passage to the Mediterranean?”

James felt the familiar cold fire burn through him. “You have no right to spy on me. You’re meddling in affairs that are none of your business.”

“James, James. If you’re planning what I suspect, it is very much my business.”

“What business might that be?”

“The absurd quest for Grandfather’s journals.”

So that was Reggie’s game. James took a sip of brandy.

“You know about the will, then.”

Reggie’s mouth twisted unpleasantly. “I have a keen interest in how
my
property is disposed of. Grandfather’s scheme to give away Somergate is mad. My solicitor will contest any attempt to transfer the property to Kew Gardens.”

“Why don’t you go recover the journals yourself?”

“Because I’m not fool enough to believe that the journals can be found. Are you?”

“I am going to Tunisia at Lord Denby’s request.”

Something like pain ghosted in Reggie’s eyes. “Yes, father is playing favorites again. You have always jumped when he snapped his fingers, haven’t you? Dutiful and domesticated.”

James should have expected it. The fact that Lord Denby had asked him to go to Tunisia to search for the journals would provide one more arrow in Reggie’s quiver of grievances. Why did his cousin have to take everything as a personal slight?

Despite his animosity, a sliver of pity stirred. Reggie was a difficult son, compelled to set himself at odds with his father. It had sometimes been easier for Lord Denby to display warmth toward his nephew and niece than his own child. But Reggie was not blameless. James had been away for seven years. It was more than enough time for Reggie to show himself worthy of his father’s respect.