Текст книги "Lady Jenny's Christmas Portrait"
Автор книги: Grace Burrowes
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Текущая страница: 16 (всего у книги 19 страниц)
Elijah vaulted across the trunk, turned, and pulled her the rest of the way over the fallen tree. “You’ve snow all over you. Hold still.”
She tolerated his brushing at her cloak, stood still like some martyr enduring blasphemy. “Will you tell me about Paris?”
A small, chilly question, though it lit a flame in him. He finished dusting her off. “Anything you want to know. Ask me anything.”
To his relief, she wanted to know practical things: where to stay, where to procure food, where to never, ever go, even with an escort. To whom might she apply for instruction, where might she display finished works. How did one procure a horse and keep the beast and any conveyances, grooms, or coachmen? Where did one find domestics?
The last question comforted most, because it meant Jenny contemplated a cozy establishment, not some drafty garret where she’d enjoy only mice as companions.
Their pace slowed as they wound through the home wood, and at some point Elijah took Jenny’s hand. When they emerged from the trees, she stopped again but kept her fingers laced with his.
“I want to paint this. I want to paint Eve’s cozy little manor house, the snow coming down, the greenery adorning the windows. I want to paint it for myself.”
Because she’d miss this too. Elijah let her look her fill, the wind whispering through the trees behind them, flurries dancing on the frigid air. Snowy days had a scent to them, a subtle, different feel to the air.
Jenny was talented enough that she could probably paint even the scent of snow.
“Come, my lady. You’ll become an ice sculpture if we stand here long enough.”
She turned the same regard she’d shown the house onto Elijah, a memorizing sort of look that conveyed both affection and impending loss. He marched away from her, intent on escaping her scrutiny and the longing it held.
“Have you any more questions about Paris?”
She huffed out a sigh that made a little cloud before her. “I have nothing but questions, though I didn’t want to distract you from your painting. Have you ever come across a female sculptor?”
“I have not, thank God. Do you have a key?” The knocker was down, and staff likely let off for the holidays.
Jenny withdrew the key and handed it to him. “Why ‘thank God’?”
He pushed the door open, admitting them to an entryway that on a sunny day would glow with the light of polished wood, but at present was gloomy and cold.
“Thank God, Genevieve, because you probably have some notion of becoming the first internationally renowned female sculptor. Do you favor the proportions of a stevedore on a duke’s daughter? Bad enough you’ll heft heavy canvases. Sculptors wrestle their art from stone, you know, and—”
She stared at the floor immediately inside the doorway, making no move to free herself from his scarf or her gloves. He’d probably driven her clear off to Moscow this time.
He unwrapped his scarf from her, shook the snow from it, and draped it over her shoulders. “You aren’t listening to me.” Her gloves came next. “If you want to become a sculptor, then you must, because you’ll be brilliant at that too, but I cannot—hold still.” He used his teeth to get his own gloves off and went to work on her frogs. “I cannot countenance that you will face difficulties and you will have no support. You will have no one. Your art must stand or fall on its own merit—such as merit can be subjectively determined—and as much as I want to, I cannot be there to temper the winds of fortune for you.”
He stepped back and yanked at his buttons, lest he start shouting. She wasn’t asking him to temper any winds of anything for her, and she never would.
She stood there, her cloak hanging open and his scarf adorning her shoulders like some bishop’s stole. “That’s why you’ve taken me to task so much over my painting? You’ve carped and criticized because you think that’s what awaits me in Paris?”
The daft woman was smiling as if he’d given her some sort of holiday present.
“The French regard criticism as sport, Genevieve, and none are immune. Your gender, your birth, your looks– nothingwill preserve you from their verbal violence if you cross the wrong Frenchmen in the wrong mood. They are utterly democratic in the sense that no one, not they themselves, not the masters of antiquity, and certainly not English aristos are spared when inspiration strikes—”
She stopped his ranting with two chilly fingers pressed to his lips. “Get your coat off, and let us find Eve’s present.”
So calm, and yet humor lurked in her green eyes. He was mad with worry for her, and she was amused. He pitched her cloak and his coat onto hooks, tossed his hat onto a sideboard, and let Jenny lead him through the gloom.
“This is a pretty little place. Was it part of your sister’s dowry?” And why, even when barely heated, did it have to smell so wonderfully of pine, cedar, and something else, something comforting—lavender?
“It was. Our grandmother thought, as the youngest, Eve might be older when she settled down, having to wait for her sisters to wed first. Eve got property, and the rest of us got competences, which have been invested for us. Westhaven has agreed to continue handling my finances for me after…” She started up a wooden stair. “After the holidays.”
Elijah followed her, resisting the urge to tackle her on the landing and make her say the words: After I leave everyone who loves me, and every comfort I’ve ever known, because I must be a martyr to my art.
She led him down a dim hallway then opened the door to a peculiarly cozy guest room.
“Ah, there it is.” Jenny crossed the room and picked up a little box done up in green velvet with red ribbon. “Eve was beside herself. Whatever this is, Deene had best appreciate—why are you staring at me like that?”
He closed the door and stepped closer. The room was unusual, built with a small balcony overlooking a conservatory that might have been added as an afterthought, hence its relative warmth and humidity, and the lush scent of foliage blending with all the other fragrances wafting through the house. “Looking at you like what?”
“Like… you just lost your best friend? Won’t it be wonderful to go home to Flint Hall, Elijah?”
Elijahwas better than my lord, and because she seemed to need it, he lied for her. “Wonderful, indeed. Have you told your parents yet that you’re going to Paris?”
He had the sense she was waiting for him to leave Morelands first, unwilling to have his support even tacitly.
“Not… not yet.” She set the perfect little gift down. “Louisa says I must, and she grasps tactics with an intuition I can only admire. I wish…” Her gaze went to the elegant little parcel. “I wish…”
While Elijah watched, Jenny lost some of that distant, preoccupied quality that had characterized her since they’d finished their paintings. She gazed on that parcel as if it held secrets and treats and even a happy ending or two.
Once they completed the twenty-minute walk back to Morelands, they’d have no more private moments ever. He’d leave for London at first light; she’d sail for Paris, probably before the New Year.
“What do you wish, Genevieve?” Because whatever it was, he’d give it to her. His heart, his soul, his hands, passage to Paris—passage homefrom Paris. How he wished she’d ask him for that, but passage home was something she could only give herself.
“Will you make love with me, Elijah? You’re leaving tomorrow, I know that, and I shouldn’t ask it. I shouldn’t wantit, but I do. I want you, so much. Please?”
Sixteen
Not touching Elijah Harrison over the past days had been the hardest thing Jenny had asked of herself, ever. Harder than admitting her mistake with Denby, harder than giving up Antoine’s instruction, harder, even, than watching her siblings find true love, one by one.
She blinked at Eve’s gift and expected to hear the sound of the door slamming. A lady would never proposition a gentleman, especially a gentleman who’d gently, even kindly, already rebuffed her advances.
A lady would never run off to the Continent and abandon every notion of familial support and love.
A lady would never curse, though if Elijah stalked away, Jenny was going to curse loudly and at length. Also weep, damn it.
A hand settled on her shoulder, bringing warmth and ineffable relief. “Woman, you will send me to Bedlam.” He turned her into his embrace, just like that.
“You’re always warm, Elijah. I love that you’re warm.” She also loved that he was never in a hurry—usually, she loved this—but she could not allow him to deliberate his way out of the last lovemaking she might ever experience. “You will indulge me, then? I didn’t plan this, not even when I realized the staff—”
He cradled the back of her head in his palm and urged her to rest her cheek against his chest. She felt his mind come to a rest, felt him give up on common sense and gentlemanly scruples, felt him relinquish for a time the struggle of being both protective and proper.
“I will pleasure you. We’ll let everybody think we traveled the lanes, and take our time with each other here instead.”
“We left tracks.”
“The wind and weather will obliterate them easily.” He spoke so gently, Jenny felt tears threaten yet again. She wrapped her arms around him, holding him tightly and thanking the powers who looked after wayward spinsters that Eve had left her gift behind.
Jenny kissed him first, unable to tolerate the emotions washing around inside her. She wanted him, for Christmas, for herself, for her memories; this one last time, she wanted him.
And she wanted this stolen pleasure to last, so she kissed him slowly and gently, the way he often kissed her.
Gradually, his arms tightened around her. His fingers tunneled through her hair, and Jenny felt the solid, incontrovertible proof of his passion rising against her belly.
“Bed, Elijah. On the bed, please.”
“Not please.” He growled the words against her mouth. “You don’t have to beg, only ask. Never beg.”
With that, he heaved her up, boots and all, and deposited her sitting on the edge of the bed. This was fortunate, because Jenny had abruptly become breathless and a little stupid with the fruits of her boldness. She ran a hand over Elijah’s damp hair as he knelt at her feet. “I’m only being polite.”
Foolish words, but they made him smile, and Jenny knew then that this interlude, this purloined hour of passion, was going to be wonderful.
“You’re being insecure, rather, and you’ve no need to be.” He eased a boot off her foot then started on the other. “France will be good for you. French women do not suffer fools. They know how to enjoy themselves without guilt and hypocrisy, and French men—”
He fell silent, his brow against Jenny’s knee. She was certain he’d been about to say, “and French men know how to appreciate such women,” or something along those lines. His silence was more of his worry, more of him being protective.
“French men could never appeal to me.” She shifted, silently reminding him that she still wore a boot—and a great many other items of apparel.
The room wasn’t warm, but neither was it as frigid as the rest of the house. Because of the balcony overlooking the conservatory, the little chamber had the feel of a bower—a marvelous trysting place for a lady who’d given up her virginity in a dusty minstrel’s gallery nearly a decade ago.
Elijah soon had her down to her shift, and when Jenny would have assisted him to disrobe, he instead flopped back the covers. “You warm up the sheets. I cannot vouch for my restraint if you’re the one undressing me.”
How stern and unyielding he sounded as he wrenched off his cravat. Jenny scooted under the chilly covers and let herself watch.
This was Elijah Harrison in a hurry. With impressive dispatch, his boots, stockings, coat, shirt, waistcoat, and breeches ended up in a haphazard pile on a chair. Jenny had just a moment to admire the line of his spine, buttocks, and legs—a mere instant to long for her sketchbook—before he turned and revealed the impetus for his hurry.
“You are aroused, Elijah.” The longing for her sketchbook evaporated in a longing for him. “You are quite, quite aroused.”
His stride across the room blended a prowl and a swagger. Jenny wanted to ask him—not beg him, though—to do it again so she could watch more closely how his muscles and sinews moved.
Except she couldn’t quite find the words. She instead reclined against the pillows, while Elijah climbed directly onto the bed and commenced kissing her.
Really, truly kissing her. Kissing her while he positioned himself on all fours over her, kissing her while she twined her arms around his neck and let herself kiss him back.
He pulled back, frowning down at her. “Your hair—”
Jenny tugged the covers up under her arms and wondered what it was about Elijah’s kisses that addled her wits. “What about my hair?”
“I want it down, Genevieve, and you don’t fool me. When you’re about your pleasures, you’re about as modest and demure as a tempest. Sit up.”
Elijah, dear, reserved, composed Elijah, was very managing when naked. Maybe that was the cause of her witlessness, because in this context, she quite liked him giving orders—and she sat up.
“How many pins does it take to hold up a single braid?”
“Twenty four.” Twenty-two of which were piled up on the night table in an instant, and as for the other two, Jenny would find them when she went hunting for her wits—later.
Elijah lifted the covers and joined her beneath them, the bed rocking and bouncing with his movements like a heaving sea. “You are very bold, Genevieve, but you haven’t let yourself acknowledge this yet. Make love with me.” He wrestled her into his arms then rolled with her so she was straddling him, her hair streaming down around them like so much swagged Christmas greenery.
“Make love with you.”
Splendid notion, particularly with his erect member very much in evidence against her sex. He traced her hairline, pushing her errant locks back, the movement slow and sweet.
Abruptly, sadness threaded through the glee and anticipation fueling Jenny’s arousal. “You should not have taken down my hair. I’ll be forever putting it back in order.”
“You should not consign yourself to Paris. And as for your hair, I love it down. I love every single—” The look in his eyes shifted, as if Jenny’s sadness were contagious. The sternness became tenderness. “I’ve loved every time I’ve seen it down. I’ve loved knowing that while others might see you only properly tucked up and pinned into place, I know the truth.”
His hands cradled her breasts, and lest he embroider further on his metaphor—for it was a metaphor—Jenny closed her eyes and arched into his touch. “I love it that you know, Elijah, and I love it when you do that.”
For he’d applied a sweet, steady pressure to her nipples, the exact right touch to illuminate her insides like one of her German grandmother’s decorated Christmas trees—all candles and sparkle, sentiment and joy.
“Elijah—I love…”
He was wiser than she. Before she could let fly with her folly, he leaned up and kissed her, nothing tucked up or pinned into place about it. His tongue came calling, and one strong arm wrapped around her back while his free hand continued to tease at her breasts.
“Love me, Genevieve. You asked for what you wanted, and I intend to see that you get it.”
When had she started to move? When had she begun to drag the slick, secret folds of her sex over him, to initiate the true prelude to their joining? Jenny curled forward, bracing herself over her lover on one hand. With the other, she positioned him for her pleasure, and paused.
Elijah’s hands slid to her hips. “Minx. Tease. Siren. Houri. Mad woman. Brilliant, talented, daft, mad—”
He might have aired his vocabulary the livelong afternoon, but Jenny rolled her hips forward and took him inside her body in one slow, glorious slide.
“Holy, perishing—some warning might have been in order, Genevieve.” He sounded dazed and witless.
She leaned down, resting her forehead on his. “Do I make you want to curse, Elijah?”
“Curse, sing, laugh, pray. Love me.”
She did. She most assuredly, absolutely did love him. Because he did not stop her from following her dream, because he’d told her where his second cousin might let rooms to her, because he’d suggested she might find instruction with another second cousin who was cranky but very astute and well connected.
More than that, she loved him because he’d taken her seriously and he’d insisted that her family take her seriously.
Mostly, though, as her body began to sing with the joy of intimate congress with his, Jenny admitted to herself that she loved Elijah because she was leaving, and this was the last they would ever be together.
* * *
Elijah watched as pleasure suffused Genevieve Windham’s features, watched as she shifted from beautiful to transfigured. Her body clutched at him, wrung every ounce of self-restraint from him, to the point that he had to close his eyes or lose control.
And that he could not do, not when she was so close to realizing her dream, and he was… a gentleman.
As Jenny subsided onto his chest, Elijah wrapped his arms around her and revised his word choice. No gentleman would take a lady other than his wife to bed, though he might take other women to bed under certain conditions.
And Elijah had, from time to time, but he could not recall their names, their faces, their scents, anything about them.
“Hold me, Elijah.”
Always.He kissed her hair and snugged his arms more closely around her. “You’re all right?”
“Mmm.” Not even a word, but it conveyed profound contentment.
The moment was tender, dear, and for Elijah, not content at all. His cock throbbed with wanting, and while he could not recall his previous partners, he would not be able to forget Genevieve. He couldfollow her to Paris, of course, and she’d probably bestow more of such moments on him.
More crumbs for him, more risks to her safety, her reputation, and her dreams.
“I want more, sir.” His sleepy, sweet tempest began to move.
“Then you shall have it.”
He’d never intended to spend. He’d intended to let her have her pleasure of him, to stretch out this joining as long as he could, to make as many memories with her as she could bear to share with him.
A man in love treasures even the pain of his affliction, after all.
Jenny ambushed him, though, moving on him with increasing power and speed, her arms lashed around his shoulders, and then, without warning, she pitched off to the side, dragging him over her.
Exactly where he longed to be.
“Genevieve…”
She silenced his warning with kisses, with her body determined to shower pleasure upon them both, with her hand gripping his hair, and with—a curious, fierce sensation—her fingernails gripping his buttocks. “Don’t beg, Elijah. Never beg. Love me. Love me now.”
He could not refuse his lady’s command. He loved her, and he made love with her, and when she slept in his arms, sated and sweet, her hair in complete disarray, he only loved her more.
* * *
Jenny watched as Elijah tugged on his boots then paused while he examined his footwear. “If there’s a baby—”
She cut him off with a look and a nod. “Of course. I wouldn’t visit illegitimacy on my child. Our child.”
The words, even the very words, our child, weakened her knees to the point that she had to sit on the bed. She might have just conceived a future Marquess of Flint. The notion was upsetting, for any number of reasons.
Paris had loomed like an artistic haven, of course, and like a sanctuary from her family’s well-intended, smothering attentions. Paris was the antidote to everything stupid and backward about the present version of English chivalry too, and to all of Polite Society’s idiot notions about a true lady being a useless, decorative, porcelain figurine.
Paris was where she could keep her promise to Victor and put her entire focus on her art.
At what point had Paris also acquired the lure of a coward’s way out?
Elijah took the place on the bed beside her and extracted the brush from her limp fingers. “I’ll do that.”
He tended to her hair, just as he’d assisted her to dress, with brisk competence that suggested regret for what had passed between them.
“Elijah, are you angry?”
He tucked the last pin into her hair and drew her back against his chest. “If I am angry, I am angry for you and with myself, not with you. We’d best be going.”
Not an answer she could comprehend, not with her body that of a sexually sated stranger, her mind in a complete muddle, and her heart…
Her heart breaking.
She let Elijah lead her through the house, sensing darkness gathering even earlier than usual.
“The snow has picked up,” Elijah said as they donned coats, gloves, and scarves. “You will take my hand, Genevieve, damn the appearances, until we’ve reached a cleared path on Morelands property.”
That he’d understand she needed some lingering connection with him was a relief. That he’d do her the further courtesy of making it a command was a blessing.
“I don’t need to hold your hand to make my way through a few inches of snow.”
He tucked the ends of his scarf under her chin. “Perhaps I need to hold yours.”
She held his hand until they’d reached the very steps of the Morelands back terrace.
* * *
“Lovely. Lovely, lovely, lovely.”
Jenny watched while His Grace the Duke of Moreland gushed—that was the word—gushed about the portraits on display, and the duchess quietly beamed her satisfaction with the duke’s praise.
Also with His Grace’s portrait, which, now that Jenny considered the image dispassionately, emphasized not only the man’s ducal consequence but also his regard for his duchess. Percival Windham as rendered in oil on canvas was a man capable of humor and sternness, of loving his country fiercely and his duchess gently.
Elijah had caught that heart, and caught it wonderfully. He might also have caught a sudden case of lung fever, because the entire family had assembled in anticipation of the open house, while the artist in residence had yet to come downstairs.
“Both portraits are quite good,” Her Grace said. “I am particularly pleased with how my surprise turned out.”
Her surprise being the portrait of her, done for His Grace’s holiday present.
When Elijah dared to venture down the steps, Jenny was going to ask him some pointed questions about that portrait, but for now, her siblings and their spouses were adding their choruses of appreciation for the art they beheld.
“I do think that portrait of Her Grace is better even than the one he did of the children,” Sophie allowed. “Sindal, would you agree?”
Everybody agreed, and in the middle of all this smiling and agreeing, Louisa sidled up to Jenny, bringing a hint of cinnamon and clove with her. “Have you told them yet?”
“You are like the bad fairy, Louisa, insisting on difficult tidings when they’ll easily keep for a day or two. I don’t intend to leave until after the New Year. There’s time yet.”
Louisa’s mouth flattened, but she kept her voice down. “You cannot hare off as if you’re eloping with a disgraceful choice, Jenny. That’s not fair to you. It’s even less fair to Their Graces. They’ll need time to adjust, to strike terms.”
“I am going to move to Paris,” Jenny said, just as firmly. “I do not expect you to understand, Lou, but I do expect you to keep my confidences, within reason.”
Louisa opened her mouth to say something, likely something articulate, insightful, and painful—though not mean—when her expression shifted. “It’s a bit late for that.”
Jenny glanced over her shoulder to find both of her parents hovering only three feet away, the good cheer of the season apparent in the eyes of neither.
* * *
Elijah hustled as far as the first landing, then paused, took a deep breath, and came down the last set of stairs at a pace that befit a gentleman and a guest in a ducal household.
Though Jenny would likely skewer him for leaving her in the grand parlor alone amid the milling, smiling herd of her family, all decked out in their holiday finery, all blessedly ignorant that Lady Jenny had trysted away an hour of her afternoon.
With him.
As they’d left Lavender Corner, she’d seemed right enough, seemed composed, for all she’d gripped Elijah’s hand the entire distance back to Morelands. And yet, he hadn’t wanted to leave her, not when her undisclosed travel plans hung like the holiday equivalent of the sword of Damocles over the entire family gathering.
He came through the doorway at a pace halfway between dignity and panic—an enthusiastic pace, perhaps. A holiday pace adopted when a man needed a clear shot at the punch bowl—only to stop short.
His Grace was glowering mightily at Jenny, who was resplendent in red velvet and white lace. Beside the duke, Her Grace looked concerned, and Jenny looked… determined. Mulishly determined.
“What is this tripe about moving to Paris?” His Grace asked.
God help them and their chances for a happy Christmas. Elijah sidled through a crowd of Windham lords and ladies, the women’s expressions mirroring concern for their sister, the men’s eyes guarded and their arms around their wives’ waists.
“Mama, Papa, I’m moving to Paris to study art. I trust you’ll wish me well.”
She hadn’t asked; she hadn’t begged or prettied up a request with pleases and perhapses. Elijah had never been more proud of his Genevieve.
“Percival, talk to your daughter.” That from Her Grace, whose tone conveyed bewilderment. “The strain of holiday entertaining has taken a toll on her.”
“You, Genevieve, are distressing your mother,” His Grace began. “I know not what wild start you’re positing, but no daughter of mine is going to waste her youth and beauty getting her fingers dirty in some frozen French garret, when her proper place is here, among the family who loves her. A husband and children—”
“I beg Your Grace’s pardon,” Elijah cut in.
“Elijah,” Jenny muttered. “Keep quiet.”
Oh, of course. She must be a martyr in this too. “I cannot keep quiet, my lady. You will say things you regret to people who love you, but I can speak reason to them.”
Artistic heathen though they might be.
He could wallop them over the head with reason if necessary, or with truth, or with any other blunt object heavy enough to dent the legendary Windham pride, but he would not let Jenny rain down her frustration and ire on her own parents.
That way lay ten years of estrangement, and they would be long, cold years too.
“You are interfering, Bernward,” His Grace spat. “I have no doubt you’ve abetted this rebellion in a girl who used to be the example I held up to her sisters of all that is admirable in a lady.”
“Jenny is no longer a girl.” Her Grace’s soft observation suggested Jenny’s mother was coming to this realization only as the words left her lips. Perhaps some feminine sympathy informed the duchess’s thinking, or maternal prescience.
“Lady Genevieve has artistic talent beyond anything possessed by a mere girl,” Elijah said. “The evidence lies right before your eyes.”
He gestured to the portraits, sitting side by side in temporary frames on their easels. On canvas, the duke and duchess sat facing each other at a quarter angle, each work complete in itself, and yet the two together formed a greater composition. His Grace held a volume of Shakespeare sonnets, as if reading to his wife—which he had been for much of their sittings.
Her Grace worked a bit of embroidery, a peacock and a unicorn full of colors and soft textures.
“Which is the better work?” Elijah asked.
Her Grace’s eyebrows rose, suggesting more of her intuition already grasped the problem.
“The portrait of Her Grace,” said the duke without hesitation. “The subject is more pleasing, of course, but—from the perspective of one who knows nothing of art—the execution is flawless, Her Grace to the very teeth. You’ve outdone yourself, Bernward, and I am most pleased with the result, even if you’ve been fomenting insurrection while you paint.” The portraits dismissed, the duke turned a blue-eyed glower on Jenny. “I am not at all pleased with a daughter who exhibits crackbrained notions about dabbling away her looks and youth when she ought to be about the business of finding a husband and setting up her nursery. What can possibly—?”
Elijah felt Jenny draw herself up, and he let her be the one to wield the only relevant truth.
“ Ipainted that portrait of Her Grace, Papa. Idid. Not the much-lauded associate to the Royal Academy, not the artistic heir apparent to Sir Thomas, not the man with years of training and experience. Idid that painting of Mama, and it is beautiful.”
She’d spent her ammunition, fired off powder she’d been keeping dry for years, and her eyes were painfully bright as a result. Elijah twined his arm through hers, slipped her his handkerchief, and took up her cutlass for her.
“Lady Genevieve outpainted a much-vaunted professional portraitist, and she did it easily, without support from her family, without much training, without anything approximating true encouragement. She kept up with me when I worked hour after hour, then she turned around and endured more hours of hoodman-blind and whist, when all she wanted was to be back up in the studio, creating more beauty. She deserves to go to Paris, and I very much doubt you could stop her, in any case.”
Which was a damned shame, because she needed to be stopped.
Someone cursed, someone else muttered a refrain about prophets and honor. The duke stood glowering for a moment then winged his arm at his duchess. “Genevieve, you will attend your mother and me in her private parlor at once. You, Bernward, come along too.”
The duchess took her husband’s arm. “Percival, the guests will start arriving any moment.”
“Hang the guests. Our children can exert themselves to be charming to the neighbors while we sort through Jenny’s contretemps.”
Her Grace looked like she’d say more, but processed from the room with a dignity that reminded Elijah of his mother.
“You don’t have to do this, Elijah,” Jenny said as he moved her toward the door. “But I love what you did.”
Her love, given in his direction in any sense, was reward enough.
“Blame the cat,” he murmured as her brothers and sisters parted to let them leave the room. “Timothy rolled a paint brush off the mantel—one I’d not collected at the end of a session—and a dab of green splashed into the middle of the fire on my version of Her Grace’s portrait. I could either display a wet canvas of my own or take the wiser course suggested by Providence.”
