The Seduction of Lady Charity: The Baxendale Sisters Book Four (11 page)

“I had an ulterior motive,” he said, taking her arm and halting her exit from the room.

“I fear your ulterior motives.” Her wobbly smile made a poor show of hiding her nervousness.

He gave a bark of laughter. “No need to look like I’m going to lock you in the dungeon. I merely want you to paint my portrait.”

Charity sucked in a breath. “Oh, Robin, no.” She took a step back. “You can’t mean it. I am not in that league yet and will most likely never be.”

“You’ve painted a marquess and his wife and now a baron.”

“The marquess is family and the baron, well, he’s a very unusual man.”

“Unusual is he?” He raised an eyebrow. “Come and have afternoon tea, and then we’ll walk over to the lake.”

“That appeals to me far more.” She laughed. He couldn’t be serious.

Chapter Eleven

Charity walked with Robin along a path between clipped yew hedges, the whippet, Henry, scurrying about to sniff here and there. “Have you become more at ease here?”

“Gradually. Things keep cropping up to test my mettle.” He frowned. “The king plans a reception for me at Carlton House in November.”

“Is that so very bad?”

“I don’t care for King George or his set.”

“You’re not alone there,” she said. “How many members of staff do you have here?”

He laughed. “I am told forty servants live in the house. Then there’s the estate manager, the gardeners, some fifty of them, grooms, my coachman, and the gamekeeper, who has his own cottage on the estate. Not to mention the daily staff: a team of carpenters, upholsterers, scrubbing women, a laundry porter, a coal man—the house is impossible to heat—not to mention the amount of windows to be cleaned.”

He shifted to look at her. “When I marry, my duchess shall have a lady’s maid, two sewing women, and a secretary of her own.”

She looked down at her hands. “We employ far fewer at Highland Manor.”

“I’ve inherited a steel factory, a glass works, and an estate in Italy. I shall have to visit them all before long.”

“Hardly a chore to visit Italy.” She bit her lip on a bout of yearning. Through the trees, the lake came into view with a tang of mold and mud in the fresh breeze. “This quite takes my breath away.”

Robin’s grey eyes warmed. “It’s a tranquil place to come and just sit and think.”

Or paint
, she thought. At the shore, they stopped to admire the wide stretch of ruffled, blue-grey water, alive with noisy water birds, ducks, and swans.

“Will you consider painting my portrait, Charity?” he asked, his gaze on the ornate temple at the far side of the lake. “Am I not a good subject?”

She almost smiled but refused to pander to his ego. “It would depend on the composition.” She rubbed her brow. “We would need many sittings. The distance between my home and yours makes that difficult.”

His gaze came to rest on her. “Gunn lives in Scotland.”

“Yes, but he spent a good deal of time in London. He was most obliging. He sat for me there and came to Tunbridge Wells.”

“Obliging, was he?” Robin sounded annoyed. He took her hands and shook them gently. “You are searching for an excuse.”

Charity drew away with an embarrassed laugh. His warm hands grasping hers scattered her thoughts. “I’m trying to be practical. It just seems such an insurmountable task, which I doubt I’m ready for.”

“You won’t know that until you try, will you? I’ll be in London next month. If we begin immediately, we could follow up with more sittings then.”

“It hardly gives me enough time to—”

“What if I allow you the final say as to whether we display the painting? If you don’t care for it, I can have it hidden away in the attics.”

She huffed as her pride took over. “I am sure whatever I paint will be worthy of being hung somewhere!”

“Aha,” he said softly, raising an eyebrow.

He was being altogether too clever. She smiled up at him. “You are teasing me.”

“
Au contraire
. I am resisting the urge to influence you. You must make up your own mind.” His smiled faded. “I have faith in you, Charity.”

She turned away from the bank. “Let me think about it.”

He tucked her arm in his. “I’ll give you until tomorrow to decide.”

She widened her eyes as they strolled back to the house. “One day? What if I decide against it? Which artist would you choose?”

“I am not prepared to consider your refusal. We can begin while you’re here. What else do you have to entertain you?”

She could hardly deny that. She sorely missed painting and was at a worse loose end than Mercy had been. “Tonight, I’ll discuss it with Father.”

“Good.” He glanced at the sky where dark clouds gathered. “It looks like rain. Best we hurry back.” He whistled to Henry, and the dog emerged from a clump of bushes, tail wagging.

****

Two days later, Robin sat on a wing chair opposite Charity while she arranged her sketchpad and pencils on the table.

“First, I need to absorb more about my subject.” She studied him with what he imagined was a critical eye. “I like to sketch freely until I feel I know how I shall go on.”

They were in the small salon where the light was good, a tray of tea things on the table in front of them.

Robin crossed his legs. “How should you like me to pose?”

“Would you prefer to stand? Or shall I paint you seated in your robes?”

“Good God no.”

“What about on horseback?”

“Like Goya’s painting of Wellington? I shouldn’t enjoy the comparison.”

She laughed.

“I could stand near a gnarled old oak tree with Henry at my feet.”

“With your hunting rifle?”

He sighed. “I don’t like any of those ideas. What about sitting in the library at that big desk with some books on it?”

“A portrait is meant to display your wealth and circumstances for posterity,” she said thoughtfully as she poured them both a cup of tea. “But as you’ll have further portraits painted with your duchess and children, I don’t see why not.”

“I daresay,” he agreed, taking the cup and saucer from her. “I don’t expect you to paint that one.” He planned to have her in it. His chest tightened with frustration. How could he best appeal to her? What if he were to leap up and kiss her senseless?

“No, of course not.” She looked at him and widened her eyes, and he almost feared he’d spoken aloud.

She put down her cup. “Let’s begin.” She began to make sure strokes over the page as he watched with interest. “I learn more about a person’s character this way.”

“I would have thought you’d be familiar with my face by now, like this slight bump on the side of my nose.”

“How did it happen?”

“I fell out of a tree when I was seven.”

“Why do small boys wish to climb trees when it so often ends in tears?”

“To see the world from a different perspective, perhaps.” He grinned at her. “I’ve given the practice away.”

She penciled in a few deft lines. “I like to capture an expression, something that reveals the essence of the person I’m painting.”

“What…essence, did you capture of the Marquess of Brandreth?”

“One would expect such a man to be self-assured, almost pompous, but…”

“But what?” He put down his cup and saucer wondering what he was about to reveal to Charity of himself that he preferred to keep hidden at this moment.

“He wasn’t. Entirely. It was as if he’d been tested and found himself wanting.” She shrugged her slim shoulders. “I believe I’ve developed some ability to read character as I paint faces, but I could be entirely wrong.”

“And the marchioness?” he prompted as she measured him with her eyes and turned back to the page.

“Disappointment.”

He raised his brows. “You revealed that in the painting?”

“I found a hint of sadness in her eyes, but my interpretation was subtle. Most who viewed the portrait would admire her beauty.”

“She is a strikingly beautiful woman.” Robin disliked sitting still for long. He shifted in his seat. “And Gunn?”

“Colorful. Outrageous. Warm-hearted. Stubborn, perhaps.”

“You saw all that in him in the brief time you had together?” He grappled with another bout of jealousy.

“Please don’t do that with your lips, Robin.” Frowning slightly, she reached for her rubber.

“Who do you plan to paint next?” He tapped a finger on the arm of the chair, his frustration increasing.

“I’ve been offered another commission but have yet to accept it.”

He frowned. “Who is it?”

“Lord Kirkbride.”

He scowled. “Kirkbride? He has an even worse reputation than Gunn.”

“Does he? Well, Gunn has always been gentlemanly in my presence, so I don’t see why Lord Kirkbride won’t be also.”

He quirked a brow. “You are not invulnerable, you know.”

“No. But neither am I stupid. I shall always be careful.”

“Why haven’t you accepted him then?”

“I’ve been too busy,” she said vaguely.

“Has painting portraits begun to pall?” he prodded, testing her resolve.

She looked up and narrowed her eyes. “Of course not. It’s my vocation.”

“So you have taken on no new work?”

“Only a neighbor’s child.”

“Waiting for another offer to go and paint some fellow in his far-flung castle?” he said, annoyed at himself for his possessiveness.

She glared at him. “I have no idea where my art might take me. I still have much to learn. I’m considering joining the artists at the Royal Academy in the Strand.”

He drew in a breath. “What? I doubt your father will be pleased with that idea.”

“Possibly not, which is why I haven’t yet decided to do it. I’m not even sure I will accept your commission.”

“Then what are we doing here?” he asked, his temper getting the better of him.

“This is research.”

He stood up, his fingers itching to grab her and conduct a bit of research of his own. “Well, why don’t we go for a walk, get some fresh air, before you go on?”

“Sit down please, Robin. I will say when I’m tired.”

“If I must.” He sat again and set his jaw.

“I can see it will be difficult to paint you. You are
so
impatient.”

“Impatient? I am the soul of forbearance, I assure you,” he said, his gaze roaming from her hair to her slim waist.

An hour passed. The room quieted except for the sound of her pencil and the snuffle of Henry asleep by the fire. Robin’s senses came alive. He watched her as she worked, the smooth pale skin of her arm when she pushed back her sleeve, her shell-like ear, the sudden pervasive perfume of lilies in a vase on the table. For a moment, he abandoned his fierce desire to win her and just enjoyed their companionship.

“This is what it would be like if we were married,” he said, suddenly reckless.

Her pencil stilled, and then she added light, feathery strokes to the page. “Married couples don’t tend to spend much time together. At least not those I have observed. For example, Father is busy with his estates and Mama with household matters.”

“I meant to ask. How is your father?”

“He seems better. It’s difficult to tell. He doesn’t complain, except about being confined to the house.”

“He’ll come to the party tomorrow evening?”

“I hope so.” She looked up. “It’s very good of you to entertain my aunt. I believe she has been far too long without company.”

“Lady Huddlestone believes she is launching you into Northumberland society,” he said with a grin.

She grinned back. “I wish her to think so.”

“I plan to ask you to stand up with me for the waltz.”

She put down her pencil. “I wasn’t aware there’d be music. I doubt I shall dance.”

“We have yet to dance together. Perhaps the waltz is new to you? No need to be nervous,” he added in a sympathetic tone.

She narrowed her eyes, and a small smile lifted her lips. “I suspect you’re trying to goad me into accepting, Robin.”

He would have her in his arms, by God. “Surely you’ll save your host a dance or two? It would be rude of you not to.”

“Yes, you’re right it would.” She smiled and put down her pencil then stretched her neck, rolling her shoulders.

“Would you like me to rub your back?”

“No, thank you.” She dropped her gaze to the watch pinned to her bodice, a telltale flush on her cheeks. “The curricle will arrive shortly to take me home.”

“May I see what you’ve done?”

She tied the ribbons of her sketchpad. “Not yet.”

“You are most disobliging.”

“I’m sorry,” she said, wrinkling her brow. “I can’t work that way. When I feel it’s fit to be seen, you, of course, will be the first to view it.”

“I’ve seen many of your paintings, your drawings too.”