Cecilia smiled. There was no doubt that the Earl of Charrington was a very clever and observant gentleman indeed. “If I am extremely fortunate, I know precisely where the painting is to be displayed and I can plan accordingly. Otherwise, I must do the best I can by discussing with my patron the location in which the picture is most likely to be placed, and then hope for the best.”
“In that case, would you not prefer to work here where you will constantly be aware of the play of light and shadow throughout the day and into the evening? I can certainly arrange to have candles lit in the chandeliers just the way they would be lit during a ball.”
She drew a sharp breath. Here it was again, his offer for her to have her studio in his house. But she simply could not spend her days, and perhaps evenings in this room—the room where he and Barbara would be welcoming and entertaining their most important guests in the years to come.
No, it was utterly impossible. She did not wish to think of it filled with chattering strangers, or, worse yet, with the Earl holding Barbara in his arms as they waltzed under the thoughtful gaze of
her
paintings,
her
muses. She preferred to have the ballroom remain in her imagination as it was now, large and gracefully proportioned, but empty except for the two of them. “That is very kind of you, but I prefer to work in my own studio, where I am assured of having all my supplies about me.”
“Whatever you wish, but if you change your mind, you have only to say the word and I shall have all your supplies brought here. But forgive me, I am taking up too much of your precious time. Let me help you take your measurements.”
As they talked, they had moved to stand next to one of the panels to be filled with a painting. Cecilia had pulled the measuring tape out of her reticule before they had become engrossed in conversation. Now as he reached out to take one end of it from her, his fingers accidentally grazed her palm.
It was the lightest of touches, but it was enough to make her tingle all over. The warmth of his touch seemed to flow up her arm to her cheeks and throughout her entire body, galvanizing her and melting her all at the same time.
Barely conscious of what she was doing, Cecilia took the other end of the tape and held it to one pilaster, while he walked to the other and she recorded the figure he gave her.
They proceeded to do the rest of the room in the same way, but she was barely aware of doing so. All of her attention was focused on Sebastian—the way he moved, the fineness of his hands with their long, sensitive fingers, the tilt of his head, the squareness of his jaw, and the look of concentration on his face as he read the figures from the tape. What was it about a simple touch that had made her so intently aware of him, of his sheer physical presence, of the energy that always seemed to radiate from him? And why was she so drawn to him, like a magnet to a lodestone?
At last they were finished and he handed her the tape, which she took gingerly, hastily thrusting it back into her reticule as if she could bury the memory of what a simple touch of his fingers could do to her.
“When we put up the scaffolding, I shall ask Mr. Wilkins to measure the medallion for you. In the meantime, I hope you are satisfied with the results of today.”
“What? Oh, yes, the measurements.” But she was not satisfied. She was not satisfied at all. She did not want to be mesmerized by this man. She did not want to be so affected by his very touch. She did not want to feel that the two of them shared a special bond that only seemed to grow stronger every time they met. She did not want that at all. She wanted to return to the way it had been before she had met the Earl of Charrington, when nothing and no one disturbed her in this way, where the only two emotions she felt were annoyance with her brother and passion for her art.
No, Cecilia was not satisfied. She wanted his touch to become an embrace, the embrace to become a kiss, the kiss to become ... but that could never be. What was wrong with her? She had never had thoughts like these before in her life. In fact, she had always denied the very possibility of their existence. How could this be happening to her now?
It was time to leave, to escape the dangerous magic of his presence and return to the safety of her studio, her own little world, where, even if she were not completely satisfied, at least she was in control.
“Thank you. For your assistance, I mean.” Even to Cecilia’s ears, her words sounded stiff and awkward.
“I was happy to oblige.” His eyes still fixed on her, Sebastian moved toward her to take her hand in his. “I enjoyed it very much. I always enjoy our conversations, and I look forward to many more.” He raised her hand to his lips, and again the liquid warmth spread throughout her entire body.
Cecilia fought against the dizziness that threatened to overwhelm her, as she tried to extricate her hand with as much dignity as she could muster. “I... I must be going.”
She turned and fled into the hall, down the stairs, out the door, and into the street. Susan, who had been waiting for her in the anteroom off the hall, hurried to keep up with her.
She must get home, back to her studio, back to the life she had lived before the Earl of Charrington had come into it, a life which, if it had not been exciting, had at least been calm and well-ordered.
Chapter Nineteen
Entering her studio, Cecilia tore off her bonnet and pelisse and, tossing them onto the sofa, plunged immediately back into her work. With each pencil stroke that filled in the sketch for the first panel in the ballroom, she felt her breathing grow more regular and her pulse slowly return to its normal pace. That was what she needed: work. A few days of sketching and painting would be the perfect antidote to the dangerously upsetting thoughts that kept intruding on her peace of mind.
Work might be the antidote, but only some types of work. She could not, for example, face the nearly completed portrait of Barbara Wyatt, because it only conjured up images of Barbara and Sebastian waltzing together in their gracious ballroom. So the picture, minus the finishing touches, sat on its easel off to one side of the studio.
Involuntarily, Cecilia glanced over in the direction of the shrouded portrait, covered to protect it against the light and possible accidents while she worked on other projects.
In reality, she ought to be grateful to Barbara, for without her steadying presence, Cecilia might find truly herself attracted to the Earl of Charrington—something which she, as a woman who intended to devote the rest of her life to her art, could simply not afford. But with Barbara soon to become his countess, ill-matched though they were, attraction of this sort was simply not an issue.
All her life, Cecilia’s only passionate relationship had been with her art. It was the path she had chosen for herself, and nothing had tempted her to stray from it, until now. It had allowed her to remain coolly unaffected by anyone and everyone, blissfully secure in the belief that it would always be that way. Now, much to her horror, she had discovered that it was not necessarily so. But fortunately, the person who had so recently entered her life and turned it upside down would soon be leaving it.
Cecilia bit her lip and went back to her drawing, taking herself severely to task for inadvertently allowing herself to be distracted by thoughts of the Earl of Charrington.
But she was soon interrupted by a distraction of another and less pleasant sort. Just as the clock was striking two, Neville sauntered into the studio, a picture of sartorial splendor in biscuit-colored pantaloons, an exquisitely cut coat of Bath superfine, gleaming Hessians, and a snowy cravat artfully arranged
en cascade.
“You can put up your brushes and paints now, Cecy—your days of scrimping and saving are gone forever.” He spoke in his usual breezy manner, but there was a hint of self-consciousness in his tone that made his sister scrutinize him warily.
“And why is that? I have no intention of giving up my
brushes and paints,
as you call them. But I would not mind not having to worry about bills.”
“There, see?” Neville beamed. “You are always complaining that you are the responsible one. Now someone else is going to take over that responsibility.”
“You cannot tell me that you—”
“You and all your bills will be your husband’s responsibility now.”
A cold wave of fear swept over Cecilia. “My husband? What husband? Neville, you
know
I have no wish to be married.”
“I know, I know, but this is different. Melmouth bears one of the most ancient and honorable titles in the country. He is rich beyond our wildest dreams, and he is not some young man who still has his wild oats to sow.”
“No, he is an old reprobate who is still sowing his wild oats. Neville, are you all about in the head? I would
never
marry such a person as Lord Melmouth. I would never marry anyone,” she added hastily.
“But you
have
to marry him, Cecy.”
“No, Neville, I do not
have
to do anything.”
“I shall be ruined otherwise.”
His sister’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “And why would that be?”
“I lost everything to him last night at White’s. Well, not everything, but ten thousand pounds might as well be everything. I’ve done all that I can to raise the wind, but the estate is already mortgaged to the hilt, and the rent we are getting from the tenants is already spent. The damn cent-percenters will not even talk to me, much less lend me money at a ruinous rate.”
‘Ten thousand pounds?” Cecilia paled. It would take her years to earn that much money. And even then, she might not succeed in doing so. “And why not ignore this debt as you ignore every other one?” she asked bitterly.
“Because tradesmen’s bills are one thing, but debts of honor are quite another. You cannot be serious, Cecy!”
“Apparently not. But I fail to see what all this has to do with my marrying Melmouth.”
“Because he agreed to forgive the debt if I would consent to your marrying him.”
“I hesitate to point out, Neville, that your consent has absolutely nothing to do with it. Mine, however, has everything to do with it, and I shall not consent to marry anyone at all, much less an aging roué. How could you, Neville?”
“But Cecy”—his voice was pleading now—”I shall be ruined otherwise. All you have to do is give Melmouth an heir, and then you are free to paint to your heart’s content—or whatever else you want to do—in the most elegant of circumstances, without having to bother yourself about money again.”
“There is no such thing as never having to bother about money again. Fortunes, as you very well know, can be won or lost on the turn of a card or the roll of the dice, and even respectable inheritances like ours once was can disappear at a very rapid rate. No, I simply shall not do it.”
“But Cecy, I am a ruined man!”
Her face softened. Neville was irresponsible, irritating, and more than a little shallow, but he was still her brother. “I said I would not marry him. I did not say I would not repay your debt.”
“But Cecy, how can you? Papa sold Mama’s jewelry long ago, and the rent on Shelburne Hall is not due until next quarter day, and all that goes for this anyway.” He waved his hand disparagingly at the studio.
“Never mind, I shall think of something. But marriage is absolutely out of the question. Now go away and let me think.”
But all the thinking in the world was not going to remedy the situation. She had no money, only the power to earn it. But earn it she would, even if it took years to pay back her brother’s debt. There was nothing for it but to speak to Lord Melmouth herself—to plead with him, if necessary, to allow her to pay back the money a little at a time.
There was no time like the present to speak to him, and Cecilia was a firm believer in dealing with the unpleasantnesses in life immediately. But, impatient as she was to get the interview over, she knew she could not hope to find his lordship at home at that hour, so she was forced to summon up all the patience she could muster, and wait until the next morning to call on him, regardless of how it might look. Of course she would take Susan with her, but still it was not the thing for a woman to call on a man like Lord Melmouth—not even a woman of a certain age who was a professional painter.
Lord Melmouth was a close enough acquaintance of her brother’s that Sedley, who had delivered the occasional message from her brother to him, was able to give her his direction in Upper Brook Street. “I shall be happy to deliver a message for you, too, if you wish, my lady,” the footman volunteered when she asked him for it.
“Thank you, Sedley,” Cecilia’s mouth set in a grim line of determination, “but this is one message I prefer to deliver myself.”
That determination faltered the next day, however, when she found herself on the steps of Lord Melmouth’s discreetly elegant town house. Discreetly elegant though his house might be, there was nothing discreetly elegant about his reputation, and Cecilia could not ignore the misgivings that rose inside her as she reluctantly climbed the steps.
Cecilia had only seen the man once at the theater, when Neville—in an expansive mood after a successful night at faro—had treated her to a box. Lord Melmouth had called on them in their box and insisted on an introduction to Cecilia, though it should have been clear to even the most obtuse of observers that she had eyes only for the action on stage and not for the dissipated older gentleman who eyed her with such patent approval.
She had taken an instant disliking to him then and there. The stories she had subsequently heard about his whoring and his mistresses, his obsession with gambling of any sort—cards, the turf, the fancy—had done nothing to improve her impression of him. In fact, the only thing that could be said in Melmouth’s favor was that, gamble though he did constantly, he only succeeded in winning and adding to the vast fortune he had inherited from a legendarily parsimonious father.
No, Lord Melmouth was not the sort of man on whom Lady Cecilia Manners was likely to waste the time of day, much less consider bestowing her hand in marriage. And as Susan lifted the heavy brass knocker on the forbidding-looking door, Cecilia did her best to suppress an involuntary shudder at the thought of even being in the same room with the man. But now was not the time to be missish—not when her brother’s very existence, not to mention her own, was at stake.