“Good day, my lord. Miss Wyatt.” Cecilia held out her hand in a frank, friendly manner.
A moment of uncomfortable silence ensued as Cecilia, scrutinizing her guests’ rigid faces, tried unsuccessfully to stifle another grin. “I gather that you were expecting C. A. Manners to be a Charles or a Cedric rather than a Cecilia. I admit to promoting that impression, but I assure you that I am no less an artist because I am a woman. In fact, many people—Lady Cowper among them—are of the opinion that because I am a woman I am able to appreciate and capture the essence of my female subjects far better than any man could hope to do.”
“But, but...” Barbara was still reeling from the shock of hearing the butler say,
I
shall see if Lady Cecilia is ready to receive you.
“But Charrington says that he saw your portraits at Somerset House. You cannot be in the Royal Academy. A female?” Miss Wyatt did not look as though she considered membership in the Academy to be the considerable distinction that it was.
“Why yes, I am a member of the Academy. After all, Angelica Kauffmann, with whom I studied briefly, was one of its founding members.”
Barbara’s blank expression confirmed Cecilia’s first quick impression of her: She was a beautiful widgeon who had not the least idea of anything—especially something like the identity of Angelica Kauffmann.
Barbara turned to her fiancé. “Charrington, are you quite sure...”
The earl, who had been staring bemusedly at Cecilia the entire time came to his senses at last. “Clearly Lady Cecilia is an exceptionally skilled artist.” He glanced at the half-finished portrait of Sir Jasper. “And”—he pointed to a rough drawing in a sketchbook that lay open on the stool next to the easel—”that is a superb likeness of Countess Lieven.”
“Good heavens!” Cecilia snatched up the sketchbook, hastily closing its cover. “You must disregard that. It is the merest sketch, done the other day when she was here. She knows that I find her face to be most interesting and, as a close friend, she allows me to practice my skills while we are talking.”
“It is an excellent portrait, nevertheless. It has captured the very essence of her spirit and her character as you seem to do in all the portraits of yours that I have seen. But you have a greater affinity for portraying women than men, I think.” Sebastian strolled over to Sir Jasper’s portrait and surveyed it thoughtfully before turning back to her.
“So I have been told.” Cecilia prided herself on a scrupulous professionalism that kept her fully alive to her own artistic weaknesses, but it galled her to have them pointed out to her by this arrogant-looking gentleman who was now examining her with as critical an eye as if he were examining another one of her creations. Why should it matter to him what the artist looked like as long as the artist’s skill was irrefutable? But apparently it did matter to him, for he continued to stare down at her intently, an unfathomable expression in his dark eyes.
Cecilia could not help wondering what was in his mind. Was it that he, too, like his fiancée, objected to her sex? Somehow she did not think it was that, for his face remained utterly expressionless. Yet the intensity of his gaze conveyed that it was not so much her person as her very soul that he was questioning. Again she wondered why he should care about her person or her soul as long as her work was good.
The Earl of Charrington’s fiancée, on the other hand, was clearly taking stock of Cecilia’s person, or at least her simple attire. Cecilia could see her mentally cataloguing the plainness of the outmoded trimmings, the signs of wear on the collar and cuffs, and comparing the entire ensemble most unfavorably with her own elegant carriage dress, which was the very latest in fashionable style and materials. It was also vastly becoming, from the triple fall of exquisite lace at the throat to the richly braided spencer cut tight to reveal a voluptuous figure, to the leghorn hat whose brim, turned up in the latest French style, framed her exquisite features, to the glossy black curls so artfully arranged to show off the perfect oval of her face and the delicacy of her complexion.
From the top of the ravishing bonnet to the tips of her green kid sandals, Barbara Wyatt was such a dazzling example of feminine beauty that Cecilia could only wonder that the earl had eyes for anything else, especially a paint-daubed artist of middling height with flyaway hair, eyes that fluctuated from hazel to green, and an unremarkable nose whose light sprinkling of freckles had stubbornly resisted applications of Roman balsam and repeated washings with Atkinson’s Ambrosial soap.
But the earl continued to ignore his fiancée. “I gather, Lady Cecilia, that you have spent some time in Naples. Is that where you acquired your artistic training? Undoubtedly that is where you must have been introduced to Miss Angelica.”
“Yes, we did live there for a number of years, but how did you know?” Accustomed to studying and analyzing her subjects without their being aware of what she was doing, Cecilia was not at all sure that she liked being studied that way herself. Again, she could not help wondering what difference it made to the Earl of Charrington whether or not she had lived in Naples as long as she produced a portrait of his fiancée that would take every viewer’s breath away, which was just what she intended to do.
“Your studies of Vesuvius there in the corner, the sketches of vases which can only have come from Pompeii.” The dark eyes took in every aspect of the studio, from the clutter of artist’s tools—palettes, brushes, stones for grinding pigments, and jars of oil—to the shelves crammed with books of all sorts, ranging from the Earl of Shaftesbury’s A
Notion of the Historical Draught
to Winckelmann’s
The History of Ancient Art.
“Surely that is an obvious conclusion for one to draw from the furnishings of your studio?”
Cecilia ground her teeth. Now that she thought about it, it
was
obvious, but she did not need to have it pointed out to her in that coldly superior way.
She drew a deep, steadying breath as reason reasserted itself. What did it matter to her, after all, if the man was odiously condescending? He was not
her
fiancé, thank heavens. But for a beautiful widgeon like Barbara Wyatt, he was perfect. At the least sign of difficulty or discomfort. Miss Wyatt could direct a helpless look and a plaintive
Charrington
to her lord and master and he would take care of anything and everything for her. And in all fairness, Cecilia could hardly condemn Miss Wyatt for that. For most women of Barbara Wyatt’s station in life, that was the sum total of their existence—looking beautiful for the man who took care of them. Just because Cecilia refused to give over her freedom and independence to a husband—or a brother, for that matter—meant nothing as far as the rest of the world was concerned. It was Cecilia who was at odds with the rest of the world, not Miss Barbara Wyatt.
And there was no doubt about it, the Earl of Charrington looked masterful indeed, and capable of handling any situation. From the proud way he carried himself to the dark eyes that missed nothing, to the powerful shoulders and athletic frame, he was clearly a man to be reckoned with—a man accustomed to making his own way in the world. Hadn’t Neville said that he had made a fortune on his own? Looking at the firm mouth and square jaw, she could readily believe it; he was not a man to be ignored or dismissed lightly. The thought of it made her own jaw lift just a fraction higher than normal. The Earl of Charrington might be a man to be reckoned with, but Lady Cecilia Manners was more than equal to the task.
“Now,” she began briskly as she reached for an account book on one of the bookshelves, “what sort of portrait would you like me to paint? Full-length or half? Standing or seated? Formal or allegorical?”
Sebastian was opening his mouth to reply when Neville, a vision of sartorial splendor in a beautifully cut coat of blue Bath superfine, biscuit-colored pantaloons, and an exquisitely tied cravat sauntered into the studio.
“I beg your pardon, Cecy. I had no idea that you were expecting visitors.” Utterly ignoring his sister’s ironic look, he executed a graceful bow in Barbara’s direction. “I hope you will forgive me for intruding, but my sister does not often entertain, especially visitors of such distinction and, ah ... charm.” He favored Barbara with a disarming smile that managed to be both reverent and frankly admiring. “I am Shelburne, by the way, and you—”
“May I present Miss Wyatt and the Earl of Charrington,” Cecilia supplied, trying not to grind her teeth too audibly. Ordinarily, Neville did his utmost to ignore both her
hobby,
as he disparagingly referred to it, and her customers. Now, knowing full well that she was expecting a visitor whom Neville himself had dubbed
rich as Croesus,
he had suddenly appeared in what could only be called a suspiciously coincidental way.
“But”—Neville glanced around in horror—”can it be, Cecy, that you have offered no refreshment to our guests?” He strode over to the bellpull and gave it an exasperated tug. “You must forgive my sister,” he cast a deprecating look at Cecilia, “but she is so devoted to her art that she forgets that all the rest of us poor mortals require sustenance. Why, look at me.” A graceful wave of his hand called attention to a figure that could only be called willowy. “If it were not for the hospitality of our friends, I would be skin and bones, so absorbed in her work is she. Ah, Tredlow”—he acknowledged the butler with a nod of his head—”we have guests in desperate need of refreshment.”
By the time Tredlow had reappeared, bearing a tray of biscuits and ratafia, Neville was regaling his sister’s visitors with stories of her most illustrious clients. “Of course, having lived on the Continent, we came to be on excellent terms with Prince and Princess Esterhazy. It was on a visit to Naples that they remarked upon my sister’s talent. Naturally when they called upon us here, the Prince, being a kind-hearted man, encouraged Cecy in her hobby by begging her to paint a portrait of his wife. Since then we have had a regular stream of patronesses from Almack’s begging her to do their portraits as well. I keep telling her that she must stop indulging them so, or it will become a regular habit, but she insists on ignoring me. You have no idea what it is like to live with the smell of paint and turpentine.” He smiled conspiratorially at Barbara as he handed her a glass of ratafia. “However, in your case, I shall make an exception to my usual objections, for clearly such beauty as yours must be immortalized. And if it means that such beauty and grace will frequent our humble abode, even for a little while, then I shall rejoice in my sister’s talent, inconvenient though it usually is.”
“Why, thank you.” Barbara was too bemused by the patent admiration of such a dashing young man to remember that until the moment of his arrival she had been campaigning to be immortalized by an artist more universally recognized by the
ton.
But now she was considering herself fortunate to be having her portrait painted by someone whose birth and family were equal to if not greater than her skill as a painter and certainly far more illustrious than Miss Wyatt’s.
Chapter Four
In fact, Barbara could not help remarking on this half an hour later as she allowed her fiancé to help her back into the carriage—half an hour during which Neville had regaled them with the latest
on-dits
gleaned at the most fashionable haunts of the
ton.
Clearly the Marquess of Shelburne was a regular fixture at all the places which, until now, had been quite beyond Barbara’s reach. “How charming Lady Cecilia’s brother is. I have no doubt he is much sought after at Almack’s—such an air of fashion, and surely he must dance as delightfully as he speaks. I wonder that we have not seen him there.” Barbara spoke with all the world-weary boredom of one who had been forced to spend countless evenings at the ton’s most exclusive establishment instead of the one blissful night she had enjoyed there, courtesy of her fiancé’s aged great-aunt, who had managed to secure a voucher for her great-nephew’s future wife.
This artless speculation met with a silence so profound that even Barbara, who was accustomed to chattering on at length without interruption or response was moved to pause and look up at her fiancé in some surprise. “You are so silent. Are you quite well, Charrington?”
“What?” Sebastian roused himself from his reverie. “Er, yes, I am quite well, thank you.” He was, to be exact, not only quite well, but better than well. He was ecstatic.
She is alive! She is real! She exists after all!
The words kept repeating themselves in his head over and over again as he relived the moment when the door to the studio in Golden Square had opened to reveal the artist—
his
artist—bathed in a glow of afternoon light that poured through the windows.
A man of science and a man of business, Sebastian had never had the least bit of patience with people who put their trust in fate, coincidence, or even the Almighty. If something could not be observed, measured, calculated, or demonstrated, then it did not exist. But as the breath was being squeezed from his lungs and his heart pounded so hard that the blood throbbed in his temples, Sebastian had at last acknowledged that there were some things that simply could not be explained by science or mathematics—some things that existed or occurred simply because they were meant to be.
Something—some unknown power—had made him discover Lady Cecilia Manners’s self-portrait in a print shop that ordinarily did not deal in paintings. That same unknown power had drawn him irresistibly to the portraits by C. A. Manners exhibited at the Royal Academy, and now he knew why. It was clear that these coincidences were somehow fated to lead to her, his idealized woman, now existing in the flesh as Lady Cecilia Manners.
It was also clear, however, that C. A. Manners, or Lady Cecilia Manners as she had turned out to be, did not regard this incredible encounter as anything but a purely professional meeting. It might even have been inferred from her frosty replies to the few remarks Sebastian had addressed to her that she not only considered him simply a customer, but as an unfortunate but necessary accompaniment to the ravishing subject of her next portrait.