There was only one answer to this dilemma, and that was to return the picture to its rightful owner: its creator. In some measure, it would repay her for her father’s original betrayal, and, at the same time, it would assure her as to the picture’s continued privacy and protection.
But then he would be left with nothing, in a house that was not truly his own.
While it was true that Sebastian owned the house in Grosvenor Square, he had only just recently acquired it, and he had acquired it with Barbara in mind. It was just the sort of house that a woman who wanted to make a name for herself in society could flaunt before the beau monde, a house where she could entertain on a scale lavish enough to ensure her a place in the
ton.
It was not the sort of house in which Sebastian felt at home. And now he was about to rid himself of one of the few things that would have made it feel like home.
Yet he had shied away from admitting to Cecilia that the mansion in Grosvenor Square had only recently become his. Why was that? He suspected that it had to do with his relationship with Cecilia. Though he had not precisely deceived her, he had been eager for her to think that the house in Grosvenor Square was the family town house—lost to creditors, perhaps, and in need of repair and redecorating, but something that had been part of his birthright—not something that he had just acquired to gratify the social ambitions of his wife-to-be.
Why had he allowed her to think that? Why had he avoided all discussion of the mansion’s background and provenance? Sebastian could not say precisely why it was, except that redecorating one’s own house to suit a prospective wife’s taste was a great deal different from acquiring one just for her. That was not the gesture of a man who was making a marriage of convenience. And the more he came to know Cecilia, the more Sebastian wanted her to understand that his marriage to Miss Wyatt was precisely that.
Having decided on a course of action as far as Cecilia’s self-portrait was concerned, Sebastian’s first inclination was to seize the excuse to see her again, and deliver it immediately to Golden Square, thus reassuring himself that she would still see him.
When she had left Grosvenor Square that day, fighting back tears of shock and outrage, he had not been at all sure that she would want to see him ever again. And while it was true that she had thanked him in a way for giving her self-portrait a home after her father had so carelessly disposed of it, she had not been best pleased that he had kept its existence a secret from her once he had become aware of her identity.
Should he take it to her and risk her displeasure by intruding on her privacy, or should he simply have it delivered, and hope against hope that she would feel compelled to see him and thank him for giving it to her?
But Sebastian had reckoned without Cecilia’s dedication to her profession; several days later, when he went once again to confer on the drawings Mr. Wilkins had prepared for the Grosvenor Square house, he was astounded to discover Cecilia there, engaged in a lively discussion with Mr. Wilkins himself.
For a moment, Sebastian paused on the threshold of the ballroom, envying them and their easy conversation about position and perspective—the obvious sharing of professional experience and opinions, as well as the clear respect they held for one another’s skills and talents.
Then, as if she sensed his presence, Cecilia turned around and greeted him. “My lord, I had not expected to see you here today. I have just come to confer with Mr. Wilkins regarding the precise dimensions and exact positions for the panels, and he has most graciously offered to have them measured for me so I may order the canvas.”
Her voice was crisply professional, her manner businesslike, but just for a moment, when he bad first entered the ballroom, Sebastian thought he had seen a smile of welcome in her eyes. Or had he wanted to see it so much that he had simply imagined it?
He longed to recapture those moments in the ballroom when he had held her in his arms and whirled her around the floor. There had been a smile on her face, a glow in her eyes as though she were truly enjoying herself. And he was the one with whom she had enjoyed herself.
But now, oddly enough, he was purely and simply proud of her—proud of her professional attitude toward her work, proud that, ignoring the upsetting circumstances of the last time she had left Grosvenor Square, she was continuing with the project she had agreed to do. “Of course, Lady Cecilia. I beg your pardon for interrupting. If there is any way in which Mr. Wilkins or the workmen or I can assist you, please do not hesitate to let me know.”
Lord, he sounded like an old stiff-rump, but his delight at seeing her there had taken him quite by surprise, and it made him as awkward as a schoolboy. “Forgive me for not offering before—I mean, I am not well versed in these things—but you must tell me what you require to work here. We shall create a studio for you exactly as you wish it to be.”
“Oh no. I can easily do the work in my own studio.” Cecilia began before she realized that she could not easily accommodate canvases the size that would be required for the ballroom. But the idea of working there day after day in a room where he and his wife-to-be would be entertaining all of London was something she was not ready to contemplate.
“As you will. I was only thinking of what would be most convenient for you, and—”
“I appreciate that, and indeed, I thank you for it”—she interrupted him hastily—”but truly there is no need.”
“And it would give me great pleasure to think of you working here in my house,” he finished softly, so softly that only she, who was standing closer to him than the architect, could hear.
Spots of pink glowed in her cheeks, and she hastily lowered her eyes to the pad of paper on which she had been writing measurements.
So she was not indifferent to him, he thought triumphantly. Then, taking pity on her, he excused himself. “Forgive me. I intrude upon your work. I shall just take a look in the drawing room and then be on my way.”
Lady Cecilia hastily replaced her expression with the coolly businesslike appearance she assumed with most of her patrons, but the ice had been broken, and the awkwardness of the initial encounter after the revelations concerning her self-portrait had disappeared. Sebastian now felt free to call on her in Golden Square, to return her picture to its rightful home.
Selecting a day and time when he knew there was to be an auction at Tattersall’s that no admirer of horseflesh would miss, Sebastian appeared at Golden Square with the heavily wrapped picture under his arm.
This time when Tredlow announced him. Lady Cecilia truly did seem glad, but—as she launched immediately into a discussion of her plans for the panels with the muses—Sebastian realized, with a lowering feeling, that it was excitement over the project, and not his arrival, that was responsible for the welcoming smile on her face.
“See here.” Cecilia opened to a sketch of Polyhymnia. I know that it is only pictures of the muses and not a history painting, but I have taken the opportunity to suggest the heroic and the ideal in all of my presentations, by including in the background various scenes from mythology that exemplify the power the arts hold over us—their power to ennoble us and inspire us, to overcome our selfish natures and our aimless lives. Not,” she added with a rueful smile, “that anyone dancing in your ballroom will either notice or care about being ennobled or inspired.”
“Perhaps not.” Sebastian smiled in return. “But I know I shall. As you know, I do my best to avoid dancing, and therefore I am constantly in search of distraction at these wretched affairs.”
Again there was the conspiratorial twinkle in his eyes that made her feel that he and she alone in all of London knew what it was like to be bored at a ball. Cecilia could not help chuckling. “Well, if I can provide even a moment’s diversion for you, then I shall consider my paintings a success.”
So he was not particularly looking forward to leading the future Countess of Charrington onto the floor. The thought should not have brought such immense satisfaction to Cecilia, but it did.
Sebastian watched the variety of expressions flit across her face, from eagerness to amusement, to something else that looked remarkably like a flush of self-consciousness—a self-consciousness he wished desperately he could interpret, but it was gone as quickly as it had appeared.
“It was not, however, to ask you about your plans for the ballroom paintings that I am calling on you, but to give you this. If you will have it.” Awkwardly he thrust the bulky package toward her.
Mystified both by the package and his abruptness, Cecilia struggled to untie the string and undo the wrappings. “Oh my!”
“I felt it was high time it was returned to its rightful owner, and restored to its original surroundings.”
“But you paid for it. I mean, I couldn’t accept—”
“Why ever not? Not only were you its original owner, you were also its subject and its creator—and a very youthful creator at that. I hope that, in some way, having it with you in your studio will bring back some of those memories of happier times that you were so good as to share with me.”
“You are far too kind,” she whispered as tears stung her eyelids. “How can I ever thank you? You are always looking out for me, it seems—though until I met you I was under the impression that I was doing a rather good job of it myself.”
“You can thank me by continuing to let me look out for you.” Sebastian replied softly. Then, afraid that her independent spirit might balk at such a notion, he raised her hand to his lips and was gone.
It was not until the door shut behind him that Cecilia realized that she infinitely preferred having her picture remain where it had been all this time: in his library, keeping him company.
Chapter Seventeen
Companionship was very much the topic of conversation the next morning at the breakfast table in Golden Square, as Cecilia, wiping the last few crumbs of toast from her fingers, rang for the footman and handed him a hastily scrawled note. “Please deliver this to Miss Wyatt and wait for an answer, Sedley. Thank you.”
“Don’t bother to send Sedley. He can be better employed picking up the new waistcoat I ordered. I shall convey whatever message you have for Miss Wyatt,” Neville offered as he polished off his rasher of bacon.
His sister eyed him with considerable astonishment.
“I am escorting Miss Wyatt and her great-aunt to see Napoleon’s carriage and all the other entertaining sights to be found at the Egyptian Hall.”
“The Egyptian Hall!”
“Just because you consider specimens of cameoleopards, elephants, and rhinoceri to be unworthy of your notice does not mean that everyone does.”
“I suppose so,” his sister responded doubtfully. “But I would have thought that Miss Wyatt’s fiancé would already have introduced her to the delights of the place.”
Neville snorted. “What? Charrington? He is as high in the instep as you are where amusements are concerned, which is to say that nothing seems to amuse him. Besides, he is too busy in the City to escort her there or to a concert in the Argyll Rooms, which she has also never seen. Even
you
will admit that they are worth a visit.”
“With you, Neville? To what purpose?”
“What do you mean,
to what purpose?
Why does there have to be a purpose to everything? For the sheer fun of it. Little though you may appreciate it, Cecy, I am highly sought after as an escort. I always look the fashionable gentleman—complete to a shade, if I do say so myself. And I am thought to be a most entertaining companion.”
“That is just what I am afraid of. Have care, Neville. Miss Wyatt may be the Earl of Charrington’s fiancée, but that does not mean her reputation is unassailable.”
Neville stared at her.
“You
are speaking to
me
about reputation? That’s rich. Do not be such a little prude, Cecy. Every matron has her cicisbeo to see to it that she always has an escort to amuse her, to advise her on her appearance, to counsel on the best articles to be found in the best shops in London, and to accompany her to any amusement her heart might desire. In short, to fulfill those functions that husbands are too bored or too busy to take an interest in. If anything, I will enhance her reputation in the way a particularly fine lap-dog or an appealing page enhances a lady’s social cachet.”
Cecilia still looked skeptical.
“The problem with you, Cecy, is that you take everything far too seriously. Not everything is of such momentous importance. Not everything has to have a reason. If every once in a while you did something simply for the sheer enjoyment of it, you would be far better off. All that frowning and fretting is giving you wrinkles, in addition to turning you into a dead bore.” Neville flicked an imaginary crumb from his coat, lay down his serviette, and rose to leave.
His sister opened her mouth to retort that if every once in a while her brother did something for a reason, or invested more things in life with momentous importance, they would
all
be better off and she would not have the worries that gave her wrinkles and turned her into a dead bore. But she thought better of it. It was a waste of breath trying to talk sense into Neville—a useless expenditure of energy trying to make him see reason.
“And what is the message you would have me deliver to Miss Wyatt?” Neville glanced in the looking glass over the mantel to assure himself that his cravat was as spotless and as exquisitely arranged as it had been when he left his bedchamber.
“Just that I am ready for her approval of the results of her final sitting.”
“But I am not. I find it quite enchanting to have a charming and beautiful woman haunting my abode on a regular basis.” Neville grinned mischievously as, delivering this parting shot, he sailed from the room.
“Neville!” Cecilia half rose from her chair in frustration, but it was too late. Her brother was already gone. And he was just teasing her, anyway.
There was no real harm in Neville, other than his unrelieved commitment to his own amusement and his steadfast refusal to involve himself in anything that brought with it the least hint of responsibility. In years gone by, she had been able to laugh at his antics. What had changed? Had she in fact become the joyless prude he had accused her of being?