Rogue Grooms (9 page)

In short, it was looking to be a rather perfect evening, aside from one small flaw.

Well, a rather large flaw, actually. Alex had not yet appeared.

Every time the drawing room opened to admit a new flood of guests, Georgina would turn eagerly, searching their faces, only to be disappointed.

What was wrong with her, behaving like a silly schoolgirl when she was all of thirty years of age? Men handsomer than Alex Kenton had taken her driving before, had escorted her to balls and routs. They had been charming, pleasant company, enjoyable to flirt and dance with. And she had forgotten them almost as soon as they were out of her sight.

Why should this man be any different?

Because, she admitted to herself with a rueful sigh, he was different! She had so wanted him to see her paintings, to see how admired they were, that she had a talent. That she was not a mere empty-headed Society matron, dabbling in watercolors.

Because she wanted him to admire her, blast it! To be intrigued by her.

As she admired him. And was intrigued by him.

But how could she win his admiration if he was not even here!

“... do so love this one, Mrs. Beaumont!”

Georgina turned her attention from the door to smile at the woman beside her, a small, blonde viscountess who had been examining her paintings. Georgina could not, unfortunately, remember which viscountess she was.

“Oh, yes?” she said helpfully.

“Yes!” The viscountess gestured with her glass of champagne at an informal study Georgina had done of Elizabeth, Nicholas, Lady Kate, Isabella, and Elizabeth’s brother and sister-in-law, Peter and Carmen, the Earl and Countess of Clifton. They were gathered around a tea table on a country house terrace, a scene of domestic harmony and great friendship, much laughter and love.

Georgina smiled to recall that particular golden afternoon at Evanstone Park, when she had been sketching away to capture the scene.

“I would vow I was there!” the viscountess—was it Lady Dalrymple?—continued. “You have captured the scene so beautifully. Is it perhaps available for purchase, Mrs. Beaumont?”

Georgina shook her head. “I fear not. That was done only for my own pleasure. As was that one.” She indicated her other work on display. It had the setting of the same terrace, but it was a solitary portrait of Carmen. A tall, raven-haired, striking Spanish woman, she was posed dramatically against the white marble of the terrace in a mantilla and gown of black lace.

Georgina had resisted all the efforts of Carmen’s husband to buy it from her. There was something about it that reminded Georgina so poignantly of her days following the drum on the Peninsula with Jack.

“An excellent likeness of Lady Clifton,” Lady Dalrymple said. “Such a pity neither of these works are available! Perhaps, however, you will be in London long enough to begin a new work? I had been thinking of a new portrait of myself, to present to Lord Dalrymple on our anniversary.”

Georgina smiled, sensing a new commission. “Perhaps, Lady Dalrymple, you would permit me to call on you some time next week, so we may discuss it further?”

“I would be ever so delighted, Mrs. Beaumont! Now, I must go and speak with Lady Elizabeth. Her
salon
has been such a quiz!”

Georgina watched her leave, then turned back to her own painting. It truly was a scene of great marital harmony; Nicholas standing behind Elizabeth, his hand on her shoulder as he looked down at her open sketchbook. Little Isabella cuddled on her father’s lap, while her mother leaned forward to tie her little slipper ribbon. Lady Kate dozed contentedly in a patch of sunlight.

A perfect instant, captured forever.

Georgina loved it, this scene of her dearest friends. It cheered her immensely; yet it also made her feel rather wistful. Lonely, even.

“It is truly exquisite,” a man said from behind her.

Georgina looked over her shoulder, and gave a small cry of delight. “Alex! You have come.”

“Yes. I do apologize for my lateness.” He moved up beside her, peering closely at the painting with his quizzing glass. “I am just an old army man, of course, and know little about art. But I can truly say that that is one of the loveliest paintings I have ever seen.”

Georgina had received many compliments on her work over the years, many of them from more knowledgeable critics than this one. None, though, had ever made her feel like crying with utter joy.

Just as his compliments on her beauty had made her feel like giggling and blushing.

“I thank you,” she said. “This is my favorite painting I have ever done; it brings me great happiness.”

He nodded. “A scene of great beauty. I can see why it would make you happy just to look at it.” He looked down at her, and smiled. “Though I do wonder, Georgina, why you looked so sad as you examined it a moment ago. Was there a flaw that you just detected?”

Georgina’s gaze flew up to his. “I did not—how did you... ?”

“Oh, I have a rather embarrassing confession to make,” he said with a rueful little laugh. “When I first came in, I stood over there and watched you in secret for a moment.”

Georgina looked away, flustered. And very pleased. “Alex, how silly! Why would you do that?”

“Because you looked so very pretty,” he said softly. Then his jaw tightened. “That was a very clumsy compliment. Forgive me.”

“What is there to forgive? First you admire my painting, then you say I look pretty. Such calumny!” she teased.

He smiled, and turned rather awkwardly to the portrait of Carmen. “Is this your only other work displayed?”

Georgina nodded, letting him change the subject. “Yes. Do you know the Countess of Clifton?”

“I have met her once or twice. She was of invaluable service to us during the war.”

“She is a very fascinating person, and a joy to paint. I think she has passed on her beauty to Isabella!”

“So she has. But I am rather surprised, and disappointed, not to see more of your work.”

“Oh, Elizabeth would have covered the walls with my paintings if I had let her. I did not want to appear
ostentatious
, though.”

Alex threw back his head and laughed extravagantly, a deep, warm sound that caused heads to turn in their direction. “Georgina,” he said, “I fear you cannot help but be a bit ostentatious! Your beauty will always make you conspicuous.”

“A-ha!” she cried. “Another compliment. That is three in one evening.”

“I seem to be quite the poet tonight.”

“So you are. Well, Lord Byron, if you would truly like to see more of my work, and are not just being polite, I would be happy to show it to you. I am sharing Elizabeth’s studio while I am here, and I have several pieces in there.”

Alex glanced around uncertainly.

“You needn’t worry about my reputation,” she said. “I am no young miss you will be forced to wed if you’re found alone with me! I am only going to show you my paintings; it’s all quite respectable, and we will not be gone long.”

He grinned. “You will think me quite old and fusty.”

“Not at all! But maybe
you
should be wary of your reputation, being seen with a lady rogue like me.” She caught up some glasses of champagne from a footman’s tray. “We will just take these with us.”

 

The studio, faced on two sides with windows and with a skylight overhead, was flooded with moonlight. Silvery shadows were cast around props and easels; satin drapes seemed to undulate from the corners. It all seemed terribly romantic, a perfect spot for secret trysts and whispered, passionate words.

Georgina forced such fanciful thoughts from her head, since it was obvious that Alex had no such intentions on this night. She lit a lamp that sat on a small table, and set about taking holland covers down from her finished paintings.

“These are mine,” she said.

Alex stepped closer to examine them. They were mostly portraits, of course; two of a duchess and a baroness that were waiting to be sent to their subjects, and one of Isabella. There was a wedding portrait of Elizabeth and Nicholas, and several small studies of Lady Kate.

He spent the longest time on the last three works. He even drew out his quizzing glass to look at them, turning his head this way and that.

Georgina could hardly stand it. She hated it so when people looked at her work and did not say anything; she always imagined the worst, that they disliked it.

“What do you think?” she asked at last.

“Beautiful,” he breathed. “You are truly gifted, Georgina. Even I can see that.”

She laughed in profound relief. “Did you think I was just some fluffy-headed female, dabbling about with watercolors?”

“Certainly not! No one ever
buys
fluffy watercolors. But to see them—thank you, Georgina, for giving me this privilege.”

“I am the one who is privileged, to share what I love so much with someone who appreciates it. Which do you like the best?”

“Well, your portraits are certainly fine. You have quite captured your subjects, both their outward appearance and their personalities. Why, I can almost see the mischief in Isabella’s eyes!”

“Yes! It was quite a struggle to make her sit still for longer than two minutes.”

“They are lovely. These, though—I feel I am
there,
in all three of them.”

Georgina examined the paintings under discussion. “Landscape is rather new to me. I have always sketched the places I have been, but I never tried it on a larger scale until recently.”

He gently touched the painting hanging in the middle. “This is your villa in Italy?”

It was a sun-drenched scene of a white stucco villa, crowned with red tiles and iced with wrought-iron balconies. In the distance could be seen the azure expanse of Lake Como.

“Yes,” said Georgina, “that is Santa Cecilia.”

“And the others?”

“This one was painted in Scotland when we were there on holiday last year.” She indicated the vision of a ruined castle, set atop a hill covered with purple heather. Then she turned to the last, a small, cramped, dark-stained house, set back in a tangled garden, with a storm breaking over it. “This is the house I grew up in.”

Alex looked from the painting to Georgina, his blue eyes serious. “Not a very cheerful aspect.”

“No. Never go to gloomy Sussex, if you can help it!” Georgina forced a light laugh, and turned away from the painting. She went to sit down on the chaise she used for her models, and poured herself a glass of champagne.

“Is Sussex so gloomy?” Alex leaned back against the wall, watching her.

“Perhaps not so very, all of the time. Perhaps just the home of the Reverend and Mrs. Smythe.”

“Your parents?”

She shook her head fiercely. “Never! My aunt and her husband. I painted that when I went back there a few years ago, for my aunt’s funeral.” She held up the glass. “Care for some champagne?”

“Yes, thank you.” He came and sat beside her, taking the glass she handed him. “Would you tell me about them? About your childhood?”

“It is very dull.”

“I don’t care,” he answered, surprisingly intent. “I find I want to know everything about you, Georgina Beaumont.”

Georgina studied him carefully, longing to see the truth of those words in his eyes. Longing to trust this man, this perfect man, with the truth of her less than exalted past.

Then she nodded.

“My parents, Gerald and Maria Cheswood, were carried off by a fever when I was just ten years old,” she began. “My father was the youngest son of a baronet. His family disowned him when he married my mother, the daughter of a merchant from Bristol. They refused to take me in when my parents died, so I had to go to my mother’s sister, my Aunt Hortense, and her husband, the Reverend Smythe.”

“They of the gloomy house.”

“Yes. It was not very much like living in my parents’ home! My mother was a very
joyful
woman, and so affectionate. She was always devising games and parties, so we were very merry, even though there was not much money. And she and my father were very much in love.” Georgina paused to take a deep sip of the champagne. “In the vicarage there was no joy, no affection. Only sermons and housework. Endless housework. They deeply disapproved of me, you see; disapproved of my red hair, and the fact that I laugh at things that are funny.”

“It sounds dismal,” Alex said quietly.

“So it was! It certainly showed me what I did
not
want my life to be like. But then, when I was fourteen, a miracle happened.”

“What was it?”

“My aunt decided it would be best if I was sent away to school.”

“School was a miracle?”

“To me it was. You see, three things happened to me there. Mrs. Bennett, who taught art, was the first. I had always scribbled, you see, but she taught me technique, color. She made me see what a wonder art could be, what a salvation.”

“The art world owes a great thanks to Mrs. Bennett, then!” he exclaimed. “What were the other things?”

“When I was sixteen, Elizabeth came to the school. She also loved art, and we became bosom bows. As we remain to this day.”

“And the other?”

Georgina looked down into her glass, deep into the golden bubbles. “When I was almost eighteen, the brother of a schoolfriend came to visit her before his regiment went to the Peninsula. His family did not approve of me, just as my father’s did not approve of my mother, but Captain Jack Reid and I went to Gretna Green a month after we met, and then I followed him to Portugal.” She looked up at Alex. “He was killed almost two years later.”

“I am sorry, Georgina. So many good men were lost there.”

“Yes.”

They were quiet for several minutes, wrapped in moonlight and champagne and thoughts of times past.

“I have bored you quite enough, I think!” Georgina said at last, with a laugh. “I want to hear about
your
childhood now.”