The Beautiful One (11 page)

She picked up a hammer from the pile and looked around for something suitable to damage. Her eyes passed over the bench, which, if wrecked, would only make more work for the gardener, and she searched farther, swaying as she stood. She was frustrated to find only bushes and pebble paths, none of which would be much affected by hammering.

Her eyes were just skipping past the pair of statues at the far end of the garden when she arrested their movement.

Apollo and Diana stood pristine in the moonlight, almost glowing in their white marble purity, with strands of dark ivy shining glossily at their feet.

Perfect
.

She made her way over to the sculptures, stumbling at the edge of the path, and came to stand before them. They were about her height and important-looking with the weight of their classical heritage. Before she could lose her nerve, she raised the hammer to give Apollo a good crack in his muscled abdomen.

His stomach was not where her hammer landed. The blow fell instead against something near the vee of his legs. She gasped as Apollo's male parts fell away from his body in a chunk that landed in the ivy with a heavy rustle.

She gazed in horror at the jagged emptiness where once the stone had been carefully shaped. All her anger and frustration turned instantly into fear.

What
have
I
done?

If Grandville might have overlooked her conduct at the dinner table, he would surely never forgive her after he'd seen what she'd done to his statue. It now looked obscene, and as though the site of the damage had been purposefully chosen.

Damn!

Her heart pounding, she looked around frantically for some means of fixing what she'd done. But the garden offered nothing but bushes, pebbles, and ivy. Had she expected a pot of glue to have magically appeared? She was doomed.

A wave of nausea washed over her and she sat down by Apollo's feet. Her head felt thick and achy, her tongue horribly sour. She hugged her knees to her chest and buried her head in her arms, unable to bear the sight of the statue.

Wait
, she thought after a moment—the
sight
of it. She couldn't undo the damage, but she could cover it up. And the perfect solution was right to hand: ivy. Ivy took over everything when neglected—it was already twining about the statue's ankles. All she needed to do was to coax the ivy up the statue and drape it so it hid the broken area. Who would notice? It was not as if Grandville strolled about the gardens all the time, and this part was at some distance from the manor.

She realized then that she'd have to cover both statues for it to look natural, but no matter. She set to work, tugging and draping the long strands of ivy and eventually going to the tool pile for a pair of pruning shears.

Finally she stood back and surveyed the effect. Apollo looked a bit like he was wearing a nappy, but that couldn't be helped. And some of the pieces she'd draped around Diana's waist looked precariously like they might fall away, but she was so tired now. This would have to do.

The shears and the hammer returned to the pile, she started for the manor, exhausted, terribly thirsty, and unhappy.

She crept quietly through the manor and dropped into bed with all her clothes on. But hardly had she closed her eyes when her queasy stomach sent her running for the chamber pot. Afterward, she climbed shakily back into bed.

Her hands felt raw, and she slipped them under her pillow and stifled a sob. She had no home anymore, and she missed her patient, kind father almost unbearably. Tears pooled in the corners of her eyes, and she slipped into a miserable sleep.

* * *

Bile pressed at the back of Jasper Rawlins's throat, and he cursed the heavy meal he'd had to eat that night. The Marquess of Henshaw had an iron stomach, and judging from its girth, it was used to rich food, but Jasper's was not, nor was it accustomed to so much riding.

Henshaw had been in a celebratory mood because they'd found a fellow that day who'd seen Anna Bristol: the driver of a coach that stopped at towns along the route leading out of Cheldney. Jasper had made a drawing of Anna to show around, and when they presented it to the coachman, he'd remembered her from weeks before because she'd seemed furtive, and he'd thought she was perhaps escaping an angry husband. She'd asked him if he knew of any young ladies' schools in the area.

“That's where she'll be,” Jasper had said to the marquess as they left the driver. “At a school, likely teaching drawing.”

They'd stopped at a school near the town where the coachman thought he'd left her, but had no luck. Still, now they had a plan: to visit all the young ladies' schools in the area.

The marquess's mood had only improved when they'd stopped for the night and he'd encountered one of his peers, a Mr. Thomas Halifax, at the inn. The handsome young Halifax, who was brother to Viscount Grandville, didn't seem to know the marquess well, though he'd been happy enough to run into him. But then, he'd already heard about the book.

Henshaw had delighted in talking to Halifax about
The
Beautiful
One
and its mysterious model, and hinted heavily all night that he had the book with him and would bring it out. But not long after Henshaw had secured the gentleman's promise to attend his house party, the marquess had lied and said he didn't have the book with him. Halifax had left the dining room soon after, with the marquess's promise that he would see the book and the painting at the house party.

“Can't say when last I've had such fun!” Henshaw chortled now, and poured more punch for himself. “
The
Beautiful
One
's the best two hundred pounds I've ever spent. Worth its weight in gold, it is!”

“I'm glad it pleases you,” Jasper said.

But they still didn't have bloody Anna Bristol in their grasp so he could paint her. Every day they lost to the hunt made him more furious with her.

The marquess drained his glass and stood up, from all signs little affected by the night's excesses.

“We'd best retire, man, if we're to get an early start tomorrow. The innkeeper says there are three schools for young ladies between the next four villages—I'll be bound she's found work at one of 'em. ”

Anna awoke early the next morning, her heart pounding from a dream in which the Marquess of Henshaw had been hunting her with a pack of dogs.

She reminded herself that there was no reason he should look for her at Stillwell, unless he somehow traced her to Rosewood. It was not at all impossible that he might do so, if he persisted. The thought made her ill, and she knew she couldn't afford to entertain it. There was nothing she could do about him.

Besides, she had an important job this morning: making sure Lizzie apologized sincerely to her uncle.

He would likely soon be walking out to the cottages as he did every morning, and she got dressed and sat on the window seat to put on her shoes and watch for him.

Something fluttered inside her when his dark figure appeared, striding on long legs across the land that had been in his family for generations. From this distance he looked jaunty and vigorous, master of his world, and as she finished tying on her half boots, she watched him.

Indulging herself foolishly, she imagined the two of them dancing a waltz, together out in the world with no fear of scandal or judgment. How she yearned for him to kiss her again.

Her eyes were only half-focusing on his figure, and now they caught sight of something irregular just beyond where he was, in a formal garden where a pair of statues stood, looking decidedly different today. Her eyes widened as she saw that their heretofore whiteness was draped with something green, and in that second, it occurred to her that Lizzie might not have been sleeping in her room when she'd knocked after dinner.

Not bothering to twist up the long braid that had held her hair while she slept, she dashed out of her room and flew downstairs and out to the garden.

* * *

Will's mind was determinedly focusing on the final work that needed to be done on the cottages and not on a certain black-haired woman when he passed beyond the arborvitae that framed the far garden. The sight that met him startled a laugh out of him.

The once-regal Diana and Apollo that reigned over their natural setting now looked silly and not a little lewd. Apollo's crotch was heavily draped in ivy that drew attention to the area, and Diana's top half had been covered in such a way that it looked like she was wearing a green shirt and nothing else, which only accentuated her lower nakedness. A particularly hairy tendril of ivy rested across one of her graceful nipples like a growth of fur.

He recognized the hand of a drunken young person and laughed a little, remembering how his cousin Louie had once inked a mustache on an ancient female ancestor depicted in a painting in the Stillwell gallery. He hadn't seen his Halifax cousins—Louie, Andrew, and Marcus and their sisters, Emerald and Ruby—since Ginger's funeral, and for the first time in a year, he thought that maybe it would be good to see them again.

The sound of quick footsteps drew his attention, and he turned just in time to see Anna emerge from the arborvitae at top speed. She looked even younger than usual, and he realized this was because her hair was not jammed into its customary knot but hanging down her back in a long, black braid, with wayward curls poking out here and there. It seemed as if she had just moments earlier jumped from her bed, and inevitably the thought continued along a lusty path.

She stopped abruptly when she saw him, but she was clearly not surprised by the appearance of the statues.

“Well, Anna? This is obviously Lizzie's handiwork. Or will you deny it?”

“No…” she said, though she sounded as though she'd like to. In the bright sunlight she looked pale, and there were dark smudges under her eyes, as if she hadn't slept well. Hell, he doubted anyone had slept after last night. Dinner had been a disaster, but even before then he'd felt stirred up by Anna.

What on earth had he been thinking, kissing her? And how could he have let himself get so carried away by desire for her? Because he'd wanted to do far, far more than they'd done. He'd spent an uncomfortable night tossing in his bed, wracked with guilt that he could allow himself to be so tempted, as if his body had forgotten the wife he loved.

Anna had suggested that he'd made some kind of saint out of Ginger. He'd felt traitorous even listening to her.

Yet something in what she'd said had continued to tug at him amid the guilt, and he'd arisen from bed that morning tense and itching to put his hands to work.

He crossed his arms and gave her a viscount's distancing stare. “And what do you have to say for your charge now, especially after her behavior last night?”

“Er…it was only a prank.”

“Done by a young woman who was by her own admission meeting men at night outside her school. Not good.”

“Surely you see that she got herself sent away from Rosewood on purpose, exactly so she would be sent here. To you.”

He muttered a curse.

She lifted an eyebrow. “Really, my lord, you ought to curb your coarser expressions, at least in Lizzie's presence. She is impressionable.”

“Impressionable be dam—” He caught himself. He
was
beginning to sound like a sailor, but he didn't need her pointing that out to him. “She is obviously quite familiar with such terms. And I'm beginning to think that maybe she would do best in a school abroad, where she could start afresh. Perhaps there is one that can take her right away.”

Although if Lizzie went, Anna would go too, and he didn't like that idea. It gave him a lonely, deserted feeling he didn't want to examine.

“Oh, no, you can't—” she started to say, and he gave her his haughtiest look. “I mean that if you would just be a little patient and forgiving with her, I know she'll settle down.”

He smacked a hand to his head. “I know not where to begin. With the seductive clothes, the wine guzzling, the little-girl voice that I can only guess was meant to attract me?”

“At least she cares enough to want to gain your attention!”

“Or she has a diabolical plan to trap me into marriage.”

She had the grace to look sheepish. “But you know that's not really what she wants. What she wants is simply a guiding male figure, like an older brother, or…” She looked at him out of the corner of her eye.

“A father,” he finished for her. “Exactly what I cannot be. And I would like to point out that I'm only thirty-two.” He sighed. “I like Lizzie. And I actually, fool that I am, like her spirit. But I cannot be her brother or her father or anything else she dreams up. You do see that, don't you?”

“Then ask Lady Grandville to take her.”

She would ask this. “Absolutely not.”

“I know you don't trust your stepmother, but I think if you gave her a chance, you'd see she's changed. I think she's sorry about the way she used to be and wants to make amends. Or will your pride not allow you to ask a favor of her?”

“I'm not fooled by Judith, as you obviously have been. But then, she always did have a talent for charming some people. She's not a fit companion for Lizzie.”

He read the frustration in her sherry eyes. Such pretty, light-filled eyes. He thought she would try to push him further, but instead she stepped forward and grabbed a handful of Apollo's ivy nappy and tugged it briskly off.

And gasped. Apollo's genitals had been hacked off.

“Well,” he said, “I hope that's not a message for me.”

“Oh dear. Was it a very valuable statue?”

“I didn't particularly like it, but Lizzie didn't know that.”

Wondering if Diana had suffered similarly, he pulled off the ivy strands that had been twined about her torso. She appeared intact.

“Surely there is some way,” Anna said anxiously, “that she might make reparation for this?”

He pulled the last of Diana's ivy free with a ferocious tug and dropped it on the pile at the statues' feet. “Has she a particular talent with a chisel? Or perhaps some powerful glue?”

She looked genuinely dismayed, but then, her fondest wish was for his ward to succeed in endearing herself to him.

“You're right,” she admitted. “This can't be fixed any more than she can return to Rosewood. But I'm certain,” she said, a steely glint coming into her eyes, “and in fact I will promise, that nothing like this will happen again.”

He crossed his arms and treated her to a withering stare. He didn't care about the statues, but he couldn't let her know that. He couldn't let her see that, in another life, he would have been perfectly happy to have his niece stay with him, because Anna would definitely take a mile if she saw him budging an inch.

“See that it doesn't. I've said she may stay a month, but if she's bent on being outrageous, she may find her stay cut short.” His eyes wandered over her form. “Are you wearing that repulsive brownish gown again?”

“Of course not. This gown is blue. Since it offends you so much, just stop looking at it.”

He ignored her. “That gown is not blue; it is the color of boiled dust.” He tipped his head. “You don't have anything else, do you, but those two offensive items that should be retired to the ragbag?”

He could practically see her spine stiffening. He'd managed to crack her sturdy outer shell, and over something about which he wouldn't have guessed she truly cared. But he didn't feel ungentlemanly in the least, partly because she was hiding herself, trying to cover her beauty, and that was wrong.

“I shall summon the dressmaker. You really need to order some gowns.”

She bristled; he could almost see her black curls growing tighter, and it made a grin tease the edges of his mouth. “I will pay, of course,” he added, before she could unleash her outrage.

“I don't need new clothes! Just because you're paying me a salary, you're not entitled to consider me a doll, to be dressed for your—”

She shut her mouth and blushed.

“Pleasure?” he supplied.

Black eyebrows lowered ferociously over her light brown eyes. He should have felt like a beast, but he didn't. She was a worthy opponent. He stepped closer to her.

“What is it with you, Anna?” he asked quietly, telling himself he only pursued this conversation for her benefit, even though he knew he was lying. “I know you were mistreated before you came here, but you have too much spirit to respond by hiding yourself, if that's what you're doing with these horrible gowns.”

“Must you go on so about my clothes?”

“Yes. Because you are beautiful.”

A blush swept over her face, but it looked like awkwardness, not pleasure in his words.

“Most women would dress to accentuate their prettiness,” he continued. “But your clothes say ‘I don't care what you think of me.'”

“What next? Messages from my shoes?”

Being so close to her was making him very warm, but he ignored the thought that he should move away. “Be serious, Anna. Are you perhaps
afraid
of attracting men? If so, your plan has failed. You have attracted me, for one.”

Her lips thinned. “Stop talking nonsense.”

He cocked his head to the side. “You can't accept a compliment, can you? Or have you never been complimented? Is it that no one has ever noticed your beauty under that carapace of clothes and careless hair? For those with eyes to see, their drabness only puts your beauty into relief. ”

She crossed her arms. “You seem inordinately interested in feminine attire—perhaps you have yearned to become a dressmaker? I might teach you a few stitches.”

He laughed softly. “You are all prickles on this subject, aren't you?” But underneath her bravado, he saw her vulnerability. Perhaps, after all those years in a man's domain, she was afraid of her softer side. But he wanted this for her: that she would understand her allure as a woman.

Her eyes regarded him with all the warmth of a falcon's beady glare.

He leaned closer. “You are very beautiful, Anna,” he said softly. He wanted like anything to kiss her, though he knew he must not. “But your beauty is not showy. It's a glow that shines out of you.”

“I…” She lifted a hand and placed it against his chest, where it burned through his shirt and made him want more of her.

Her eyes closed, and the air between them seemed to shimmer.

He placed his hand on top of hers where it lay against him. “I'm sorry if no one whose opinion you respected ever honored what is so lovely about you. Perhaps, growing up without a mother, you had no one to celebrate the feminine in you. Perhaps, in this, you were at a disadvantage compared to the other young ladies of your neighborhood.”

Her eyes flew open and the moment of quiet connection was gone as her hand dropped from his chest. “On the contrary. I felt myself to be infinitely more fortunate. I had no deportment lessons to waste my time, no one asking me to sit all day inside with a needle while outside life was happening.”

“You have many unusual talents for a young lady, and Lizzie is fortunate to have you for her governess. But did you never dream of a handsome gentleman to sweep you off your feet?”

Her pert chin lifted. “I've always preferred doing to dreaming.”

He laughed. “Yes, I believe that. And perhaps no gorgon of a governess could have succeeded in hammering the feminine graces into you. Perhaps,” he said, “I'm glad none did.”

She had her own charms, and they were unique. She might have allowed herself to become brittle or bitter after whatever that man had done to her, but she hadn't. She was
noble
. And also playful in ways that continued to surprise him, and he was finding it impossible not to think of her all too frequently, each new occasion followed always by stabs of guilt. Because though his heart was ruined, his body was whole, and it ached for her.

He wanted more for her than life could offer a young woman on her own, forced into whatever work she could find. She deserved far, far better.

“And perhaps my words will fall on resistant ears as well,” he said with a regretful smile, “since I know that my opinion may not be of much worth to you either.”