Waltz With a Stranger (11 page)

“She’s being entirely too generous.” Trevenan paused, his face still thunderous. “Well, if it’s any consolation, I am sure he’d be kicking himself if he could see you now!”

Aurelia felt herself color. “Thank you. That’s quite a compliment.”

“It’s no less than the truth. You’ve turned your life around since then. You should be proud of that.” He looked at her and smiled, the last signs of anger vanishing. “Very proud.”

Her heart lifted at his words. He was right; no one could take away or mar the triumph of her recovery—least of all the Vandermeres. “I’ll try to remember that from now on.”

“Well, you’ll have Amy—and myself—to remind you, lest you forget.” Leaning back in his chair, he added briskly, “Now, let’s finish our ices before they turn into soup!”

Smiling, Aurelia picked up her spoon again.

A queen in opal or in ruby dress,

A nameless girl in freshest summer greens,

A saint, an angel—every canvas means

The same one meaning, neither more nor less.

—Christina Rossetti, “In an Artist’s Studio”

Amy frowned down at the card in her hand, then looked back up at the house before her. No mistake in the address, although she’d envisioned something quite different from this rather handsome terraced townhouse.

Of course, Mr. Sheridan was grandson to a duke, she reminded herself. Not some penniless bohemian toiling in a squalid garret in Soho or Chelsea. He mightn’t be exceptionally wealthy, but he could certainly afford to lease a house like this and have his studio on the same premises.

No one knew she was here, which was just as well, as she suspected Aurelia at the very least might have tried to talk her out of it. Originally, she’d planned on taking her maid, but Mariette had shown signs of the same cold that had felled her sister’s maid Suzanne. Instead, Amy had donned a hat with a thick veil that concealed her features before venturing out.

Screwing her courage to the sticking place, she marched up the walk and rapped smartly on the door. A middle-aged woman in a severe black dress answered her knock.

“May I help you, ma’am?” she inquired in a pleasant, well-modulated voice.

“Good morning. I am Miss Newbold, and I’ve come to see Mr. Sheridan…in a professional capacity,” Amy added at once.

“Mr. Sheridan has stepped out for the moment, miss, but he’s expected back shortly.”

“Perhaps I might wait for him in his studio?” Amy suggested with her most winning smile. “It is a matter of some importance, I assure you.”

The housekeeper—as Amy assumed she must be—pursed her lips but finally nodded. “Very well, miss. If you’ll follow me?”

Amy obeyed, relieved not to have encountered greater resistance. But then, she reasoned, Mr. Sheridan must receive many visits, whether from potential patrons, collectors, or models.

“In here, miss.” The housekeeper showed Amy into a large salon on the ground floor. “I’ll tell Mr. Sheridan of your arrival as soon as he comes in,” she added, and withdrew.

Left alone, Amy gazed around the studio with interest. Canvases of varying sizes, in different stages of completion, hung from the walls or sat propped upon easels, and the room itself smelled not unpleasantly of turpentine and linseed oil. Too curious to sit down, she folded back her veil and wandered about the studio, examining the paintings one by one.

A few landscapes—certainly not on par with Turner or Constable, but Amy had to admit that they were gracefully rendered, with what appeared to be special attention to the qualities of light and shadow. An autumn scene, rich with images of ripening fruit and turning leaves, seemed bathed in a mellow radiance that evoked a sense of shorter days and cooler temperatures. In another painting, a lighthouse shone blindingly white against the brilliant blue of a summer sky and the shimmering green of a turbulent sea.

Mr. Sheridan was indeed talented, Amy conceded grudgingly but fairly. At sixteen, she’d have given her eyeteeth to paint even half as well; acknowledging her own lack of artistic ability had been a bitter pill to swallow, though she’d come to terms with it, for the most part. Nonetheless, she would have enjoyed finding a serious flaw in at least one of Mr. Sheridan’s paintings. But even his portraits were well-executed, far superior to the stiff family likeness her parents had commissioned five years ago, which now hung in the library of their Fifth Avenue home. Reading the placards, she discovered that several members of Sheridan’s family had posed for him, though not—to her relief—Lord Glyndon. One portrait in particular drew her eye—that of a brown-haired girl in a green dress sitting on a fallen tree trunk. A book lay open on her lap, but she gazed straight out from the canvas with merry brown eyes and the barest hint of a welcoming smile. She looked like someone who had just caught sight of a dear friend and was about to spring up to greet her—or him, Amy amended. Despite her best efforts, she found herself oddly charmed by the sitter’s open, guileless expression.

“The Honorable Elizabeth Martin, Aged 17,” the placard read.

“Honorable”—Amy knew that meant the child of a baron at least. A young girl of good birth, painted with obvious affection—perhaps a cousin, or some other connection? Trevenan had mentioned that Mr. Sheridan was related by blood or marriage to several aristocratic families.

Voices reached her from the passage—the housekeeper’s, and a deeper, masculine one. Unconsciously, Amy straightened her spine, readying herself for a confrontation from which she was determined to emerge victorious.

The studio door opened, and the man she was coming to think of as her nemesis stepped over the threshold. “Miss Aurelia,” he began. “May I just say I’m delighted that you’ve—”

He broke off as Amy turned around, affording him a full view of her unveiled face. The momentary change on his own was startling to behold, eyes widening, lips parting in unfeigned astonishment. Then, just as swiftly, it was replaced by an expression of mild inquiry.

“Miss Newbold. This is most unexpected.” Sheridan’s tone was level, almost uninflected.

“I know.” Amy tried to match his nonchalance. “You were expecting my sister.”

“Indeed, I was, but how may I assist you?” he asked, coming further into the room.

Amy eyed him warily as he approached. For all her distrust of him, she had to admit he was an attractive man: every inch the aristocrat, in fact, with his lean build and fine-boned elegance. His brown hair was slightly overlong, in her opinion, but it suited his narrow, angular face and set off those vivid green eyes. Uncanny eyes that saw things they’d no business seeing, she thought, wishing she could find a flaw in his person as well as in his paintings.

Remembering her errand, she made herself smile brightly at him. “If I recall correctly, Mr. Sheridan, you mentioned yesterday that you paint portraits on commission. I wish to employ your services in that capacity.”

To her annoyance, the smile famous for captivating ballrooms of susceptible men appeared to have no discernible effect on Sheridan, who merely raised his brows. “I am flattered, Miss Newbold, but are you certain I would be the right person for whatever you have in mind?”

Amy flushed; his tone seemed to imply that he expected her to commission a likeness of her dog or something just as foolish. “Indeed, I am,” she retorted with another smile, one that felt more like a grimace—or a snarl. “I wish to give Lord Trevenan a portrait of myself as a wedding present. Whom should I ask but his closest friend, whose work he already admires?”

His eyes widened fractionally; she’d surprised him again, Amy saw with satisfaction, but he made another quick recovery. “I see. So this portrait is actually intended for James.”

“After seeing further examples of your work, I believe you to be eminently suited to the task. I found this one, for example, to be utterly charming,” she added, gesturing toward the portrait of Elizabeth Martin.

To her astonishment, Sheridan tensed at her words, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes. “Thank you,” he said at last, his face and voice equally colorless.

“Such a sweet expression,” Amy went on, eyeing him curiously. “And such speaking eyes. Is she a relation of yours, by any chance?”

He shook his head. “Just a friend—a family friend.” Glancing away from the wall, he asked abruptly, “What had you in mind for this wedding portrait?”

“You’re willing to accept my commission?” Amy tried not to sound too triumphant.

“I am willing to consider it,” he returned.

She chose her next words with care. “If you think the amount insufficient, I am prepared to—negotiate terms. As this is to be a gift for my future husband, I wish to spare no expense. Moreover,” she added, struck by a sudden inspiration, “if you were to agree to paint me, my sister might be more amenable to letting you paint
her
.”

That caught his attention. “Indeed? Has Miss Aurelia said as much to you?”

“Relia has no idea that I’m even here today. But I know my sister, Mr. Sheridan. She’s more likely to agree to a venture that includes both of us. As am I, for that matter.”

Something that might have been humor warmed those cool green eyes. “I suppose that’s only to be expected, given the nature of your bond. Two of my own sisters—while not twins—are quite close in age and similarly inseparable.”

“Relia and I have no difficulty separating from each other,” Amy corrected him sharply. “I came here on my own, after all. We simply—prefer to do certain things together.”

He inclined his head, his expression closed and formal again. “I stand corrected, Miss Newbold. And I should be glad of whatever influence you might bring to bear upon your sister.”

Seeing her opening, Amy pressed, “So, you
are
taking the commission, Mr. Sheridan?”

He stared at her for a moment, then said dryly, “It appears I have agreed to, at that. But then, as you say, it’s a gift for James. And my friendship with him happens to mean a great deal to me, Miss Newbold—perhaps even as much as your bond with your sister means to you.”

Amy just managed not to register her surprise. Perhaps her dislike had blinded her, but she’d always thought Trevenan cared more about Sheridan than the latter cared about him.

“Have you any particular ideas of how you wish to be painted?” Sheridan continued. “A gown you wish to wear, or a place you would like to use as a setting?”

“I—hadn’t quite decided yet.” Indeed, she’d thought no further than achieving her immediate objective. “Not my wedding dress,” she said hastily. “That won’t be ready for months. I’ll look through my wardrobe for something suitable.” She hesitated a moment, then ventured on. “Do all your patrons know beforehand how they wish to appear in their portraits?”

“No, not all. Some have very clear ideas about what they want from the start, while others are perhaps more willing to give me free rein. More often than not, we compromise. They present their idea to me and I…refine it.” A ghost of a smile softened the severe line of his mouth. “One lady envisioned herself as Cleopatra reclining on a hideous Egyptian-style divan.”

Amy felt her lips quiver treacherously at the image, but she had come to charm Mr. Sheridan, not the other way around. “Well, I assure you,
I
have nothing so grandiose in mind.”

“Perhaps not, but I understand your family is both affluent and influential. Do you not wish your portrait to reflect such things about you?”

“My family’s wealth notwithstanding, I have no wish to make a vulgar spectacle of myself, Mr. Sheridan,” she said, with all the dignity she could muster. “My aim is to present my intended with a portrait he will enjoy looking at. Did you perhaps have a theme in mind?”

“Let me think.” He regarded her with thoughtful green eyes; Amy forced herself to remain composed beneath their scrutiny. “Vitality,” he mused aloud. “Candor. Classic beauty…classic.” He lapsed into silence for several moments. “Come to think of it, that might be just the way to go, “ he said at last. “With the Classics. Atalanta, perhaps, or Artemis.”

Amy flushed, stung. Hunting references: Mr. Sheridan probably envisioned her roaming through the forests of England, seeking to fell aristocrats with her bow and arrows. “Classics?” she inquired with dangerous sweetness. “As in nymphs and shepherdesses? But how conventional, Mr. Sheridan! Why not something more—daring?”

His brows arched. “Daring, Miss Newbold?”

“Why, yes. Daring, adventurous…even swashbuckling.” She gave him another of her brilliant smiles. “Do you know, I quite fancy myself as a buccaneer. Pistol at my hip, cutlass in my hand, my hapless victim bound and squirming at my feet…surely there could be no more appropriate depiction of an American heiress in London. Would you not agree, Mr. Sheridan?”

He stilled, his face growing shuttered and wary. “That seems—rather a harsh assessment of yourself, Miss Newbold.”

Amy raised her brows. “Does it, indeed? But I understand that you hold just such a view of my kind. Indeed, I have it on no less an authority than your own words.”

His own brows lanced together. “When have you ever heard me say such a thing?”

“Barely a month ago, at your mother’s garden party.” She noted with wintry satisfaction the realization dawning on his face.

He was staring at her, clearly appalled. “You were there. In the Wilderness Garden.”

Amy nodded. “As you have no doubt guessed, I came there hoping to meet Lord Glyndon. I heard—or more accurately,
overheard
—the two of you discussing me. He quoted you as saying that all American girls were pirates.” She mustered a brittle laugh. “I suppose it’s true that eavesdroppers hear no good of themselves.”

Sheridan was silent for a moment. “That was discourteous of me,” he said at last. “I ask your pardon, Miss Newbold.”

“For saying such a thing, or simply being careless enough to be overheard?”

He met her gaze without a flinch. “Neither is the act of a gentleman. I hope you will accept my apologies, and perhaps we might continue our acquaintance on more—amicable terms now.” He paused, then said almost abruptly, “For what it’s worth, Glyndon has been pursued as a matrimonial prospect ever since he reached his majority. You would not be the first heiress—or even the first American—to hope for an offer from him. Although,” he added, “you might be the first to have tempted him to make one.”

Amy regarded him narrowly. “Is that meant as a sop to my pride, Mr. Sheridan?”

“I wasn’t aware your pride required one.” His tone was dryer than ever.

“Touché,” she acknowledged, feeling a reluctant stirring of amusement. Tempting though it was to refuse this irritating man’s olive branch, she could not let her animosity blind her to her larger goal. “Well, then. For Trevenan’s sake, I am willing to try to set our past differences aside. It would be awkward for him to have his future wife and his friend continually at odds.”

“It would. And James deserves better from us both.” Sheridan paused again, then continued more formally, “I have two commissions that I must complete first. But I could let you know when I can accommodate you with regard to sittings. Is that acceptable, Miss Newbold?”