Romancing the Countess (12 page)
Taking another breath, Sebastian discovered not the scent of soap, slightly stringent and unapologetic, but . . .
He inhaled again, and wondered.
. . . roses.
Chapter 7
Did she say anything to you? How can you be certain she won’t tell him?
“Yesterday Lord Wriothesly informed me that he and Mr. George shared an affinity for painting. Watercolors, to be exact.” Leah gestured toward the five easels set up on the east side of the house and tried to hide any betraying expression of smugness. “From this view, the gentlemen may paint the first rise of the chalk hills, the Linley Park evergreen garden, or any other subject which catches your eye.”
“The gentlemen, you say?” Mr. Meyer interjected. “What of the ladies? What will you be doing?”
Leah smiled. “Archery.”
Lord Elliot tugged on his ear. “I beg your pardon, Mrs. George, but I don’t know how to paint. And water-colors—”
Beside him, Lady Elliot harrumphed.
“No need to worry,” Leah said. “I’m certain Lord Wriothesly will be more than pleased to assist you in your first lesson. You will help the others, will you not, my lord?”
For the first time since their conversation the previous day at the lake, she addressed the earl directly. That was one benefit of the eight other guests: with so many people claiming her attention, no one noticed when she avoided him for an entire evening.
Leaning back against the house, Wriothesly crossed his arms over his chest and observed her lazily. “The painting is not an issue, madam. But I must confess to being a bit concerned with the prospect of the ladies practicing archery alone. I shouldn’t like for any of you to become hurt.”
Over Miss Pettigrew’s muttered protest and Mrs. Thompson’s subsequent hush, Leah said, “You do remind me of him so much sometimes, my lord. Ian also was very chivalrous. Why, do you remember the time we were walking along the Serpentine and Lady Wriothesly stumbled, injuring her foot? Ian insisted she—”
“I remember,” Wriothesly said sharply, straightening away from the wall. Even through her veil, Leah could see the flare of warning in his narrowed eyes. But there was also surprise. She wondered if he was thinking back to all the times the four of them were together, if he was now questioning every seemingly innocent interaction between Ian and Angela.
Not wanting to see the torment from such knowledge on his face, Leah turned her attention back to the women. “Shall we go, ladies?”
“Perhaps I should join them,” she heard Mr. Dunlop mutter behind them as they began to walk away.
“Leave them be,” replied Lord Cooper-Giles. “If the rest of us must paint watercolors, then you shall, too.”
The women strolled down the hill, southeast of the men, toward the open field where the servants were preparing the targets.
“I’ve never shot a bow and arrow before,” Miss Pettigrew confessed.
“Oh, it’s quite fun,” said Lady Elliot. “Simply imagine the bull’s-eye as someone you dislike. I’ve had the greatest accuracy that way.”
Mrs. Meyer grinned and nudged Lady Elliot’s shoulder. “It also makes living with one’s husband tolerable again, once you’ve imagined an arrow shot through his forehead.”
“My, aren’t we a bloodthirsty group?” Leah murmured, smiling. “Who shall you imagine on the target, Mrs. Thompson?”
Though she couldn’t have been more than ten years Leah’s senior, the severity of her expression often made the other widow appear nearly as old as Mrs. Meyer and Lady Elliot. For a moment she remained quiet, and Leah turned to Miss Pettigrew to save Mrs. Thompson undue embarrassment. But then she spoke . . . or, rather, spat: “Lord Massey.”
Leah exchanged curious glances with Mrs. Meyer and Lady Elliot.
But when Mrs. Thompson offered nothing further, Lady Elliot turned to Leah. “And you, Mrs. George? Who will you be shooting today?”
“Unlike the rest of you, I’m quite civilized, thank you,” Leah answered. “I merely enjoy archery for the sake of the game.”
“Well done,” Miss Pettigrew murmured.
“Nonsense,” Lady Elliot declared, her brow rising slyly. “What of the earl?”
The rate at which Leah’s heart began to race was frankly inexcusable. “The earl?”
“I believe she means Lord Wriothesly,” Mrs. Meyer said.
Lady Elliot shifted her parasol to her other shoulder. “Yes, there seems to be some sort of enmity brewing between the two of you.”
Apparently she hadn’t been as discreet in avoiding the earl as she’d thought, or as subtle in speech. With her heart threatening to break loose of its restraints and fly out of her chest, Leah sighed and lowered her voice. “I’m afraid Lord Wriothesly doesn’t approve of the house party. He’d rather mourn my husband in private, along with Lady Wriothesly, than have such a public spectacle.”
There, that was one truth for the day. Of course, it wasn’t the entire truth: she didn’t mention how she alternated between taking pleasure from provoking him and then feeling distressed when she realized she’d gone too far. Neither did she mention his very clear dislike for her, or that she refused to acquiesce to his demands to act the quiet, mournful little widow.
“But then why did he come?” Miss Pettigrew asked as they neared the table where the archery instruments were laid out for their selection.
Leah shrugged. “He felt it was his duty, I suppose.”
“Well, if you truly don’t wish to pin him on your target,” Lady Elliot said, “then you have my permission to imagine Lord Elliot on yours as well.”
“Such generosity, my lady.”
Lady Elliot winked. “Fortunately, there’s plenty of him to spare.”
With laughter and a faint blush from Miss Pettigrew, the women each selected their bows and arrows, then spread out in a row before the targets. A few yards away, Mrs. Meyer instructed Miss Pettigrew on how to position her arrow. Lifting the veil over her head, Leah lined up her target in sight and pulled back her arm.
“A little to the left.”
Her fingers slipped. The arrow went flying, then landed on the ground several feet to the right of the target.
Whirling around, Leah glared at Wriothesly, who nodded toward the stray arrow and smirked. “As I said, you should have aimed farther left.” He lifted a brow. “Or perhaps you need proper instruction on how to hold your bow?”
Leah smiled sweetly. “Perhaps you should go stand beside the target and show me exactly where to aim.”
He chuckled, and despite still being upset at his words the previous day, Leah couldn’t help but be inordinately pleased with herself. It was the first time she’d heard him laugh since the accident.
“Haven’t you painting to do?” she asked, reaching for another arrow and turning around again.
“It’s the strangest thing,” he drawled over her shoulder, so close her fingers fumbled as she attempted to notch the arrow. “I find I haven’t the faintest idea how to paint watercolors. My instruction of the other men only leads to formless blobs, and the colors end up running together like mud. Odd, isn’t it, considering how much both Ian and I enjoyed the pastime?”
Her elbow made contact with his midsection as she drew back her arm, and although he stepped aside immediately, her entire body froze for at least ten seconds.
Leah narrowed her gaze on the target. “If you mean to forfeit so quickly—”
“Forfeit?” Moving beside her, his fingers wrapped around the arrow, holding it immobile. “Is this a game we are playing, Mrs. George?”
She arched a brow. “I don’t believe I said—”
“If it is, I can assure you I will win each challenge. Boating, painting, or any other amusements you have planned. Even though you seemed to have forgotten the fact that you are now a widow, I haven’t. And unfortunately, to ensure your proper behavior, I can’t allow you to be alone with the other guests.”
“I outgrew my nanny when I was six years old, Lord Wriothesly. I hardly think I need another one now.”
He opened his mouth as if to speak, then closed it. With a twist of his lips he released the arrow and stepped back. “An opponent, then.” He gave a short bow, pivoted, then turned back once more. “Oh, and Mrs. George?”
“Hmm?”
“Do not threaten me again with memories of Ian and Angela. Or you may find that I can best you at that game, as well.”
As he walked away, Leah shot the second arrow . . . and gritted her teeth when it glided to a halt on the ground next to the first.
Instead of notching another one, she waited for a footman to retrieve the arrows while she watched Wriothesly approach Miss Pettigrew and Mrs. Meyer out of the corner of her eye.
She could only make out the sound of their voices, but it was clear from the way Miss Pettigrew’s face lit up that he’d said something charming.
Then he moved on to Lady Elliot. Then Mrs. Thompson, holding her quiver of arrows as she selected one, leaning over her and managing to say something which made even the straitlaced companion laugh.
Finally, he retreated back toward the easels, not looking once in Leah’s direction.
Soon the ladies surrounded Leah.
“Shall we return, then?” Lady Elliot asked.
Miss Pettigrew looked at her companion. “Mrs. Thompson, do you think it’s all right?”
“I can’t imagine why not. There’s certainly nothing improper about the suggestion.”
Leah frowned. “What did Lord Wriothesly say?”
Mrs. Meyer glanced toward the gentlemen and smiled. “The men say they need greater inspiration for their artistry than the landscape. They request to paint our portraits.”
“How . . . charming,” Leah managed, struggling for a gracious tone. Thus Wriothesly ruined another of her amusements by playing on the women’s vanity. And, of course, she couldn’t stay here and continue with the archery, not if she wished to be a good hostess. “How could we resist such a compliment? The targets may wait.”
As they climbed back up the hill, Miss Pettigrew murmured to Mrs. Thompson, “Mr. Dunlop specifically requested me as his subject. Is that not good news?”
“Yes, and I’m supposed to sit for Lord Cooper-Giles,” Mrs. Thompson replied. “The baron may have interest in you as well, if he is trying to cozy up to me.”
Leah found Wriothesly standing before the easels as they crested the hill, his hands behind his back, feet spread, a curl of amusement on his mouth. Waiting. He’d known they’d come, the devious bastard.
“Well, I don’t know what he’s up to, but Lord Elliot wants me for his painting,” Lady Elliot said, then more softly: “The romantic old fool.”
Leah’s steps slowed. It was expected for the bachelors to vie for the attention of Miss Pettigrew. Even though she didn’t come from the best background, she was very pretty, with her dark curls and wide blue eyes. And she was an heiress, which even gentlemen with the most discriminating of tastes couldn’t afford to overlook. But it was quite unusual for a married couple to be paired together.
“It
is
romantic, isn’t it?” Mrs. Meyer said to Lady Elliot.
is
romantic, isn’t it?” Mrs. Meyer said to Lady Elliot.
Then she sighed. And it was a very pleased, contented sound.
“May I ask who you’ll be sitting for, Mrs. Meyer?” Leah asked, with only a halfhearted attempt to keep the dread from her voice.
“Why, Mr. Meyer, of course,” came the happy reply.
Leah glanced at Wriothesly, who returned her gaze with a smugness she deemed as another of his many, many flaws. She scowled. “Of course.”
“Do stop glaring, Mrs. George,” Sebastian coaxed, his pencil pausing on the curve of her right cheek. He peered down at the sketch. “How am I to be inspired if you insist on frowning?”
Like the others who had scattered along the east side of the house, Sebastian had chosen a more becoming background to his portrait than the open sky. Positioned at the juncture of the evergreen garden wall, Leah sat surrounded by white laurel shrubs and red-berried holly. Although the setting was beautiful, the ill-tempered widow in the center left much to be desired.
Behind the easel, Sebastian smiled. “Perhaps you could lift your brows a bit, so they’re not crouched down as low on your forehead? And if you could not purse your mouth quite so—”
“How is this?”
Sebastian leaned to the side to discover that she had pulled her veil back down over her face. Every feature was obscured; only the whiteness of her skin could be glimpsed behind the dark shadow.
Tapping the pencil against the easel’s frame, he said, “I begin to think, my dear Mrs. George, that you have no desire to be painted.”
“Not at all, Lord Wriothesly. It’s only that I fear my appearance is too offensive to you. How do I know that if I sit here for an hour, it is my portrait you will have painted and not that of your wife? It’s difficult to sit here for such a length of time, knowing I will continue being compared to a paragon.”
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