The Painted Lady (8 page)

He’d seen females do fancywork his entire life, embroidery and tatting and knotting fringes. He had never seen a lady spin. The rhythm, the fluid motion of her hands and her foot on the treadle, the straight line of her back was fascinating to him. The gray of her gown, the brown of the wheel were soft, muted tones against the room’s shadows. Kasey could see the painting he would compose. For once he had no desire to see his model unclothed. Not that he would demur if the demure Miss Bannister offered to pose au naturel, but for this time, this woman, clothing did not impede his inspiration.

The duke’s inspection did, however, make the back of Lilyanne’s neck itch. She knew what he was thinking, all right, and it was not about Uncle’s homily on the virtue of patience. She turned to frown him into obedience, which usually worked with the girls in her charge, and he smiled. The yarn broke. No, Lilyanne told herself, she would not be taken in by the handsome libertine, or his dimples. If he was suffering from aberrations, one of them was definitely not going to be the delusion that Lilyanne Bannister could be drawn into an indiscretion.

She set the carded wool back in her workbasket. “You need some occupation, Your Grace,” she whispered. “The mind wanders without focus, and idleness causes the brain to become overheated.”

He grinned and said, “What do you suggest, cards, chess, rolling back the rugs for an impromptu dancing party? Something else?”

“Something else.” She handed him a pair of knitting needles and a ball of spun yarn. “Here, there is no reason you cannot do something useful with your time while you listen to Uncle Osgood. The children at the poorhouse need scarves and mittens.”

“You expect me to take up knitting?”

“I expect you to do everything in your power to cooperate with my uncle’s teachings, in order to restore your mental well-being.”

Kasey had to admit he’d nearly forgotten why he was in Lytchfield. Teasing a young woman was not going to exorcize his demons. “You’ll have to teach me.”

So she did, quietly, while her uncle droned on and Lady Edgecombe nodded off behind her tambour frame. Kasey could not get the hang of the thing at first, not with Miss Bannister sitting so near where he could study her high cheekbones and delicately pointed chin. He wanted to pull the cap off her head and see her hair, instead of seeing which way the needles were supposed to move.

“Concentrate, Your Grace. I have had fourteen-year-old girts with more hair than wit learn to do this. Certainly a gentleman of your supposed intelligence can accomplish as much.”

Put that way, as an affront to his understanding, Kasey set his mind to watching the needles and not Miss Bannister. The needle went in, the yarn got turned, the needle went over. Simple. In no time at all, not halfway through Sir Osgood’s sermon, Kasey had almost an inch of loops and knots, of which he was inordinately proud. Ah, if his friends could only see him now. Kasey wanted to laugh, but laughing seemed frowned upon here, too. Miss Bannister did smile at his success, though, the first smile he had won from the woman. Upturned lips and crinkles at her eyes changed Osgood’s niece from schoolmistress to sylph, and oh, those eyes.

“Yes, you seem to have the basic stitch in hand. Now unravel it and start over, this time trying to keep the stitches the same length.”

“What, I should destroy this masterpiece? Don’t you have a needy squirrel that requires a blanket?”

“I doubt even a mouse would use your jumble for bedding. Think of the wool as reins, Your Grace, and do try for a steadier touch.”

The needles clacked, Sir Osgood read, Lady Edgecombe snored softly. Kasey was content, concentrating on his stitches, actually making a strip of fabric lengthen as he worked. He was not thinking about painting, not even thinking about how he was going to get some paints. He was not trying to memorize either female’s features for a later composition, and he had not worried about the creature on canvas in hours. Perhaps Sir Osgood had the right idea, and he’d been right to come.

Soon after, one of the servants wheeled in a tea cart. Lady Edgecombe awoke at the sound, but Kasey had to wonder why, since the teacakes consisted of pale slices of toast with a tiny dab of fruit preserves atop each finger. No one bothered to ask Kasey how he took his tea, for neither cream nor sugar appeared on the tray. The tea was not any of the usual China blends, but consisted of some herbal concoction in which Kasey thought he recognized chamomile and a few others. It smelled more of wildflowers than medicine, at any rate, so he drank some. The brew was not half bad, since the cook had added honey to cover any bitterness. He had another cup, missing his evening brandy, well aware he would not find a bottle of wine by his bedside.

“How did you enjoy our reading?” Sir Osgood asked,

Kasey had not heard a word.

“Did you get any benefit out of it, any insights?”

No, but he had learned to knit. How many gentlemen could claim such an accomplishment? Perhaps tomorrow night Kasey would ask the Bannister chit to teach him to spin.

Sir Osgood declared that it was bedtime, and the ladies picked up their candles to light their way upstairs. Kasey thought he and the doctor would now discuss his vision problem at length, but Bannister believed that a weary mind was a troubled mind. Kasey thought he might stay below stairs reading, if Sir Osgood did not mind lending him a book; the physician believed reading into the night strained the eyes, leading to headaches and mental strain.

As the duke made his way to the bedchamber assigned him, he decided that it was amazing anyone whatsoever was sane, if half of Bannister’s theories were true. It also appeared that anything Kasey felt made life worth living—good food, good wine, good conversation, literature, or painting, Sir Osgood felt added to the risk of lunacy. If a week of such boredom did not cure him of his fantasies, Kasey feared, it might have him talking to the walls instead of to a picture hanging on them. He also could not help wondering if Bannister himself was short a sheet in the upper works. Wouldn’t that be perfect, putting himself into the hands of a foggy-headed fanatic?

Sir Osgood’s valet Cosgrove was waiting to help the duke out of his coat. A borrowed nightshirt was laid out on the bed—Bannister did not believe in nudity under any conditions except a bath, and then only as necessary—and a warming pan had been passed over the sheets. The quietly efficient gentleman’s gentleman left, taking Kasey’s boots with him to polish, leaving His Grace wondering what he was going to do for the rest of the night. In Town he would be dressing to begin the evening, not undressing to end it. He looked around the room again, and found no diversions except a Bible, which was not Kasey’s favorite bedtime story. Besides, his eyes were feeling somewhat scratchy, perhaps from the dust of the road he’d traveled to get here.

His Grace opened the drawers of the chest, looking for writing implements, anything he might draw with to pass an hour or so, despite Sir Osgood’s injunctions. His own few shirts and drawers and neckcloths had been neatly laid out, but unless he was willing to prick his finger and use the blood to paint on starched linen, he was out of luck again. Besides, there was no pin handy, either. No pocket knife
...
and no shaving gear. Thunderation! Did they think he was going to murder them in their beds?

Kasey knew he had a pencil in his greatcoat pocket, but that would be hanging in some cubby near the butler’s pantry. He was sure to find paper somewhere about downstairs, too, without having to trespass on Bannister’s private office. He already felt bad enough about creeping around the man’s home. This was no house party, after all.

Still dressed except for his shoes and jacket, Kasey picked up the candle again and went—nowhere. The door was locked.

How dare they! This might not be a house party but he was a guest, by George, a paying guest, not a blasted inmate! So furious was His Grace that he even thought of breaking the door down. Then he remembered poor Miss Bannister’s wariness of him. Lud, she’d think he was stark-raving mad if he started smashing her furnishings. Recalling the wispy female, he realized the locked door must be for her safety, which was understandable, he grudgingly supposed. The Bannisters did not know him, after all, so why should they let a self-professed lunatic wander down their corridors? It wasn’t as if he’d be trapped in case of fire, either, for the balcony outside his window was not a far jump to the ground. Kasey undressed and got into bed, with one last glance at the sampler over his washstand.
TO
THINE
OWN
SELF
BE
TRUE
.
Ha. His own self was so attics to let he did not know what was true anymore.

The soft scratching on his door was real. Kasey waited, in case he had been imagining that, too, but then the doorknob rattled and a woman’s voice whispered his name. Since Miss Bannister would have crawled through glass before calling on a gentleman in his bedchamber, Lady Edgecombe must be the one on the prowl this evening. Kasey was suddenly delighted to have that door locked. In fact, he’d drag the chair in front of it later, in case the viscountess had access to the household keys. A week ago he’d have been crawling through the keyhole to get to such a warm, willing woman; tonight he simply was not interested. He did not answer, feigning sleep.

Of course he’d be awake for hours, Kasey knew, fretting about how his brother would manage his affairs, how Dolly would manage the end of their affair, how the blasted fair-skinned woman in the painting got from there to everywhere. No, he would begin to practice mental control, His Grace decided, utilizing Bannister’s methods. He would simply not think of those troubling matters. Instead, he would choose, consciously, rationally, choose to think about how he could get Miss Bannister to trust him. And what her hair was like under that mobcap. To thine own self be true.

Kasey was asleep in minutes, getting the best night’s rest he’d had in ages.

* * * *

Lilyanne could not fall asleep at all. How could she, with a madman down the hall? His Grace of Caswell did not appear to be a lunatic, but one of the young ladies they’d treated had been perfectly ordinary, until the full moon. Then she’d had to be locked in the Dower House with Little Henry on guard. His Grace was not ordinary, ever. He was a duke, for one thing; he was devastatingly attractive, for another, and he was seeing things, for heaven’s sake! Lilyanne was seeing him in her mind’s eye, the first rake she’d ever encountered and perhaps the most dangerous in more ways than she wanted to enumerate. No, her thoughts were too full of the man for her to sleep. Besides, she hadn’t eaten any of the pudding.

Chapter Nine

Roosters were meant to rise at dawn. Men were not. Kasey patted the hand on his bare shoulder. “Go back to sleep, sweetheart. I’ll be a better man for you in another hour or so.”

Cosgrove gasped.

Oh, Lord. Kasey’s head felt like he had a ball of Miss Bannister’s unspun wool lodged between his ears, with another wad of wool down his throat. Kasey wanted his morning coffee. Or cognac. Preferably coffee with a dash of cognac. He’d settle for chocolate. Cosgrove handed him a cup of tea that looked like dirty wash water.

“Sir Osgood believes in the healthful benefits of exercise before breakfast, Your Grace,” the valet chirped, making Kasey miss his own valet, or Ayers, all the more. Neither of those two would have spoken a word before the duke was washed, combed, dressed, and fed.

“Before breakfast?” Kasey was still hungry for dinner. Whatever exercise Bannister had planned, it had better include a stop by the kitchen, by George.

It did not. Sir Osgood’s idea of a morning constitutional meant a five-mile hike down one muddy, rocky, or overgrown country path after another, with nothing in sight that looked edible except some acorns and a wandering cow. The duke’s boots had never been made with forced marches in mind, so Kasey would have turned back at the first crossroads, except, of course, he was not alone. Who permitted a screw-loose nobleman to meander around the neighborhood? Not Sir Osgood, obviously.

The doctor, equally as obviously, did not believe in the benefits of a good walk before breakfast enough to take one. No, Bannister was likely still snug in his bed, or up enjoying his morning chocolate over the newspapers. Kasey was beginning to heartily dislike the gentleman and his theories. All five miles of them.

On the brighter side, he did have Miss Bannister’s backside to look at as she led the hike, since the path was rarely wide enough to walk two abreast. Her gray gown, however, a different sturdier gray gown, was covered by a thick, dun-colored, hooded woolen cloak that offered the occasional glimpse of a gray-stockinged leg above sturdy boots, nothing else. No rounded derriere, no tumbled curls, no vulnerable neck to strangle as Kasey limped along in her wake. The girl was a blasted gazelle, leaping over fallen logs, skipping over mud holes, hurrying along as if there were actually a decent breakfast awaiting them at home. Kasey’s manly pride forced him to match her pace, no matter that his heart might burst, and his valet’s, when he saw the ruins of Kasey’s boots.

Little Henry, bringing up the rear, was another good reason Kasey did not wish to fall behind. Contrary to the duke’s supposition, Little Henry was not big, or mean, or stupid. His dog was.

Wolfie could have eaten Ticket for a snack, and still had room for His Grace’s leg. As an experiment, before they left the grounds of the Home for Healthful Living, Kasey had reached toward Miss Bannister. Little Henry’s musket had risen; so had Wolfie’s hackles. Some experiments were not worth pursuing.

At last they reached a cart trail, where the ruts and the horse droppings forced Miss Bannister to slacken her speed. Once Kasey caught his breath enough to speak, he approached her side and offered his arm. She shied away and kept to the far side of the path, forcing him either to walk in the wheel-rut, or to keep his distance.

Now here was a problem. It was not a poser on the proportions of the Pygmalion perplexity, but a problem nevertheless, and one Kasey had never before encountered. Miss Bannister was afraid of him. He did not like that at all, even more than he disliked this miserable march. His Grace was not a vain man, but women admired him. He admired them. The scales had always balanced. Miss Lilyanne Bannister, however, regarded him in the same light as what he was now trying to scrape off the bottom of his boots.