PortraitofPassion (7 page)

“Do you like it?” she asked in the softest of voices.

“Yes,” he whispered back, though he hadn’t a clue to what
she referred. Her bare shoulders? Her bare toes? Her braided hair? Her
ridiculous dress? Her kissable mouth?

“Good,” she said. “Here, wash it down with some more milk.”

Simon looked from the glass she had handed him to the
half-eaten muffin and let out a bark of laughter.

“The muffin!” he exclaimed before taking a quick sip of
milk.

“What did you think I meant?” she asked as she stepped back.
The twinkle in her eyes told him she knew. “Did you think I was fishing for
compliments?”

“It crossed my mind,” he replied, stepping farther into the
room to set aside the now empty glass and his hat. He leaned one hip against
the table, much as Mabel the Hun had done, and withdrew a handkerchief from his
pocket to wipe away the crumbs from the muffin.

“Don’t be silly, Easton,” she said. “I have no need to fish
for compliments from you.”

“No?” he asked. God, she was beautiful. The light from the
window above the sink drifted over her, bringing out myriad colors in her hair
and bouncing off the freckles on her shoulders. Her entire countenance shone
with happiness and warmth.

“No,” she said looking him straight in the eyes. “I know
that you want me.”

Would she ever stop surprising him?

“Want is too mild a word for it,” he told her. What a relief
to be able to say what he meant.

“Have I rendered you speechless, Beatrice?” he asked when
she only stood motionless, quietly watching him.

Beatrice slowly nodded, her brown eyes huge.

“Come here,” he ordered. He tried to keep his voice light,
easy, but it came out hard, gruff.

She walked silently to stand in front of him. Simon twisted
so that he was leaning back onto the table and opened his legs just enough for
her to step between them. He told himself he wasn’t surprised when she accepted
the silent invitation, but he was. He was also surprised when she rested both
her hands on his chest and leaned in to kiss the cleft of his chin. He was
beyond surprised when she followed with a row of featherlight kisses along his
jaw to his ear. He held himself still by sheer force of will. He wanted to grab
her and ravish her mouth. He wanted to plunder. She seemed to have other ideas.

“I want you too,” she whispered in his ear.

Simon would have ravished and plundered right there, but the
door through which they had entered only minutes before was suddenly thrown
open. Moorehead stood there gaping at them as Beatrice jumped back and spun around.

“Bertie,” she exclaimed, “you scared me to death.”

“I didn’t know I must knock before I enter my kitchen,” he
replied. “Morning, Easton.”

“Good morning, Moorehead,” Simon replied.

“Run along and finish dressing, Bea. Our guests have
arrived. Easton and I shall entertain them in the front parlor while we wait
for you.” Moorehead shooed her out of the kitchen, much as one would hurry a
small child off to bed.

Simon followed his host back across the hall.

“Kindly refrain from kissing Bea in the kitchen,” Moorehead
said, looking back over his shoulder. Simon was relieved and somewhat confused
to see a smile on the other man’s face. “There are a variety of rarely used
rooms in this mausoleum where you are not nearly as likely to be found out.”

Good God, Simon thought, entering the parlor. Moorehead was
as mad as Beatrice. As mad as she had made him.

“Good morning, Lady Palmerton,” Simon said as he raised his
cousin’s gloved hands to his lips. “You look especially lovely today.” And she
did. Olivia was a pretty lady of five and twenty. Rather than taking after her
father, as Henry did, she looked like a younger and happier version of her
mother, the Countess of Hastings. She wore her dark-brown hair bobbed so that
the curls framed her heart-shaped face and long, elegant neck. She had
inherited her mother’s gray eyes. She was petite and a bit plump after the
birth of her much anticipated son, Charles, named for his father, her husband,
Charles Gibbons, the Earl of Palmerton. Her daughter Francis had just turned
three.

“Simon, surely you may call me Olivia,” she replied with a
smile. “We are an informal group today, I believe.”

Moorehead bid everyone be seated and the small group fell
into conversation about the Fairchilds’ recent ball while they awaited their
hostess. They did not have long to wait.

Beatrice appeared in the room much sooner than Simon would
have thought it possible for a lady to dress. When he saw that she still wore
the silly blue frock, he had to choke back a laugh. The only difference he
could see in her appearance was that she now sported the scrap of straw and
pink ribbon she called a bonnet and pale-pink slippers upon her feet.

“Lord Hasting, Lady Palmerton,” she said, making the
smallest, most proper curtsy to the siblings. She made straight for Olivia with
arms outstretched. “I am so happy you could join us.” She clasped the lady’s
hands warmly in hers. She wore no gloves, Simon saw. As usual.

“Thank you for inviting me,” Olivia replied. To Simon’s
surprise his cousin did not immediately release Beatrice’s hands. Instead she
held their joined hands out to the side, to better study her hostess from her
bonnet to slippers. “What a lovely dress. It looks positively marvelous, so
light and airy, perfect for such a warm day.”

“Oh thank you, my lady,” Bea replied.

“You must call me Olivia. I understand that we five are the
entire party, and we are, most of us, related in one fashion or another.”
What?

“Olivia then,” agreed Bea and the smile that bloomed upon
her face caused Simon to suck in a great gulp of air. “And I am Beatrice. Shall
we enjoy the garden?”

Beatrice and Olivia led the way, arms looped together as if
they had known each other forever.

Simon allowed Moorehead to precede him and walked down the
hallway with Henry.

“Are you so certain she is not a…” Henry began in a whisper.

“Do not even say it,” warned Simon.

To Simon’s surprise, Moorehead’s garden was not the tight
city garden he had expected. Verdant green lawns extended far into the
distance, with trees and neat little flowerbeds, all enclosed by a tall stone
wall. A pretty white gazebo sat to the right of a splashing fountain. A giant
hedge, easily as tall as the wall, could be seen toward the back left corner of
the garden. A maze? Simon’s thoughts immediately strayed toward images of
capturing Beatrice in the shade of those tall hedges. They could be lost for
hours.

“I say,” exclaimed Henry, “what a hidden gem you have here.
How did you manage it?”

“I bought the house expressly because there was space for a
garden,” Moorehead replied, leading the group onto a stone path that meandered
about between the various flowerbeds, artfully arranged benches and pools. “The
lot behind had not been sold and was standing vacant, so I bought it too. Bea’s
mother helped me to plan the gardens. She has a knack for gardens.”

Does she indeed?
Simon filed away the information,
not that she had a knack for planning gardens, but that Beatrice’s mother had
known Moorehead long enough to have helped him with his garden. He’d lived in
this house as long as Simon could remember, twenty years at least. He wondered
again if Beatrice was his daughter. It would explain much. Surely, though, a
father would not have invited him to kiss his daughter.

Apparently her mother was still living, as Moorehead had
quite clearly not used the past tense in his praise of her.

“Does your mother reside in London?” Olivia asked. How like
a woman to simply ask the question, Simon thought.

“Oh no,” replied Beatrice, “not for years. She lives in Rome
at present.”

A small table and chairs had been placed beside the gazebo
in the shade of a large oak tree. The gazebo itself was furnished with a
cushioned bench that hugged its white lattice walls, forming a perfect circle
of shaded seating within. Pillows were thrown upon the benches and the wood
floors in abandon. Once again, Simon imagined Beatrice reclining there, arms
raised to welcome him.

“I know it is early yet, but would you care for champagne?
It is a wonderful vintage I brought with me from France. I have been saving it
for a special occasion.” Beatrice held the dripping bottle above the ice
bucket.

“I don’t normally,” said Olivia, with a tinkling little
laugh, “but as you said, it is a special occasion.”

The ladies shared a smile before Beatrice turned to the
gentlemen. “Please have a seat wherever you are most comfortable. I think
Olivia and I will sit here in the gazebo and become better acquainted.”

Simon was amazed at the instant familiarity between Olivia
and Beatrice. Not that Olivia was not a warm, friendly woman, but he could not
recall the last time he had seen her so carefree and relaxed. Certainly not
since she had married Lord Palmerton six years previously. Why was he
surprised? It seemed he wasn’t the only person entranced by the lovely Miss
Beatrice Morgan. She had woven a spell around them all.

“I willed you to kiss me.”
He was beginning to wonder
if it weren’t true.

Henry joined the two ladies in the gazebo where they had
both seated themselves on the bench. Olivia sat upright, feet primly together,
both hands holding her champagne glass. Beatrice perched next to her, one
shoulder leaning upon a pillow, her body turned toward Olivia, her legs curled
beneath her. She placed her glass on the floor and began an animated discussion
with Olivia about her favorite aspects of the garden. As she spoke she waved
her hands about, pointing out this and that.

Moorehead removed his coat and slung it over the back of a
chair before angling it to face the gazebo and lounging upon it, perfectly
relaxed. Simon spun another chair about and straddled it, arms crossed over the
wicker back. He felt decidedly relaxed himself, but for the sweat he could
already feel gathering between his shoulder blades. He’d worn a lightweight
jacket and no waistcoat in deference to the heat. He envied Moorehead his ease
in removing his jacket before two ladies.

As if reading his mind, Beatrice stopped in mid-sentence to
look over at him with a smile and said, “Easton, you must be ever so warm.
Please remove your coat. You are making me positively heated just looking at
you.”

Simon let out a bark of laughter, causing Beatrice to giggle
and wave her hands about. “Oh you!” she exclaimed. “You know what I mean.” She
then turned back to a startled Olivia and took up the conversation right where
she had left off.

Simon removed his jacket and immediately felt cooler. He
idly sipped the cold champagne while he listened to Henry, Olivia and Beatrice
converse. Moorehead fell silent, a fond smile upon his face as he seemed to
take in the chatter of the young people. Simon watched as Beatrice retrieved a
sketchbook and charcoal and began to draw as they talked. He was amazed at the
things he learned about the mysterious Beatrice, just sitting quietly as late
morning turned into early afternoon, and servants quietly served a cold repast
before disappearing into the house.

“But how old were you when you left England?” asked Olivia
at one point.

“Just after my eighteenth birthday,” Beatrice replied. “We
went to Paris first, where I continued my studies with Monsieur Pointier.”

“Oh, but he is quite the famous artist, even I have heard of
him,” exclaimed Olivia, “and I know nothing of art.”

And later, “You lived in Athens? But how exciting.”

And later still, “It must be wonderful to have such a
talent, to be able to make your way in the world.”

“I am blessed to be allowed to make my living at something I
love. I would paint even if it didn’t provide a living. But thank goodness it
does.”

“How much do you charge for a portrait?” Olivia asked.

“Olivia!” Henry exclaimed. “You must not ask such
questions.”

“Oh pooh,” Olivia replied. “Beatrice and I are friends and
she is an independent lady, why shouldn’t I ask?”

Simon suspected she was a might tipsy.

“Oh no,” Beatrice came to her defense. “I do not mind at
all.” She proceeded to name a sum that clearly startled them all. Save
Moorehead, who only laughed.

“My God,” cried Henry. “As much as that?”

“For a large portrait, something intricate and unique to the
individual. I once painted a life-sized portrait of an aging dowager duchess as
she looked as a young girl, posed as a siren on the bow of a ship. She paid me
my largest commission to date.” She named a sum nearly double the previous one.
She shrugged, as if to say the money did not matter to her.

“Then you are quite rich,” Olivia said in awe.

Beatrice laughed gaily before casting a quick glance at
Moorehead. Out of the corner of his eye Simon saw that gentleman give the
barest of nods.

“I have been saving my money, every penny I can. Bertie has
helped me to invest it. I have a tidy sum.”

“Are you saving for something special?” Olivia asked. It was
apparent to Simon that she found Beatrice, her talent as an artist, her
independent situation, quite amazing. And why not? She had likely never met
another such woman. Could there be another such woman? Simon doubted it. She
was one of a kind. And soon she would be his.

“She will be in London for only a short while.”
He
was surprised by the pang he felt in the vicinity of his heart at the thought.

“A trip to Istanbul, perhaps?” supplied Henry. “A carriage
and four?”

Beatrice looked at Henry for a moment, her eyes serious,
almost beseeching. It seemed to Simon that they all held their breaths awaiting
her response.

“My home,” she said finally, her voice both soft and fierce.
“I have come to England to acquire my home.”