“It was small consolation to me when my uncle died unexpectedly the very next year. I inherited the title, but very little else, for, as he said in his will, leaving me a fortune would only encourage me in the spendthrift ways of my father. He left all his money to the Church—a place he had little enough contact with in his lifetime, but which he found useful for spiting me in death. I was left with the estate, for he could not will that away from me, but not the wherewithal to run it properly. His niggardly ways had left it in such desperate shape that it has taken me years to restore it properly. It did, however, provide me with enough income so that I did not have to be a scholarship student at Cambridge, which would have made me a total outcast. As it was, the fellows at school avoided me because of the unsavory circumstances surrounding my father’s death.”
Knowing very well what it was like to scrimp and save after an improvident parent’s death, Cecilia nodded sympathetically.
“Fortunately for me, however, the isolation I had endured at school had turned me into something of a scholar and I did rather well at university, which, while it did not make me popular with the bulk of the students, did win me friends among the like-minded ones.
“By the time I graduated, I had gained enough of a reputation for cleverness that I was able to find a position in the City, where men are rewarded for their talents rather than their social standing. The men who rule the City do not care what one’s father did or did not do; they only care for the skills one possesses. But by the time I had reached that more forgiving and congenial society, I had been forced to rely on my own resources for so long that I no longer cared one way or another whether they accepted me socially, just so long as they accepted me professionally. There is nothing so cruel as the taunts of fellow schoolmates or as brutal as the way they treat anyone who is set apart from them, especially by misfortune, and I learned early on that it is a rare person who will stand as your friend if you are different from the rest.”
A lump rose in Cecilia’s throat at the thought of the poor lonely little boy he must have been. “The orderliness of mathematics must have been most reassuring to you. I do hope that you were able to take some comfort at least from being able to apply yourself in an area where your success depended only on you, and not on the superficial likes or dislikes of other people or the fickle nature of society.”
Overwhelmed by the sympathy in her eyes and the simple joy of being understood, Sebastian raised her gloved hand to his lips. “You are a woman—no—a
human being
of rare understanding, Lady Cecilia. Small wonder you are such a talented artist. You see through to the souls of your subjects, and you capture them in your painting.”
It was Cecilia’s turn to find herself at a loss for words. Nothing in a very long time had made her feel as appreciated as Sebastian’s simple, heartfelt words of admiration. And it had been years since anyone had held her hand—not since she had been a little girl climbing the hills overlooking the Bay of Naples with her father. She had forgotten what it felt like, the touch of another human being, warm and reassuring, and infinitely comforting.
“Oh my lady, I do beg your pardon. I hope you have not been waiting long, but the man in the shop took an age about his business.” A young maid, cheeks flushed with exertion and very much out of breath came hurrying up to the earl and Lady Cecilia as they stood there in the vestibule.
“Do not worry, Susan. I have only just got here myself.” Cecilia was both annoyed and grateful for the interruption. Her latest subject’s fiancé was having an oddly disturbing effect on her, and while Cecilia might allow, or even encourage, her imagination to take over when she was painting, she was not about to do so in her own life. Up until the moment Susan had appeared, she had been dangerously close to letting that happen.
Chapter Seven
The trancelike state of warmth and intimacy that had come over Cecilia when Sebastian had taken her hand in his was not easily banished, despite her best efforts to focus her thoughts elsewhere. Much to her disgust, Cecilia spent the entire ride home thinking over the conversation they had shared in the vestibule of Somerset House.
Who would have thought that a man engaged to a shallow beauty like Barbara Wyatt would exhibit a profound interest in anything—especially something as intellectually rigorous and demanding as mathematics? In fact, the more she considered it, the more Cecilia was forced to revisit her original opinion of the Earl of Charrington, and to ask herself if the man she had dismissed so easily as cold and arrogant was perhaps as deep and complicated as the field in which he had expressed so much interest.
While Cecilia had welcomed her maid’s sudden appearance, and had been glad of an excuse to end a conversation that threatened to involve her more closely than she had any desire to be, Sebastian, on the other hand had done his best to prolong it. He had even offered to take them home in his curricle, insisting that he had nothing better to do with his time—no other destination in mind than a certain house in Golden Square.
But the more he had insisted, the more Cecilia had resolved to take a hackney as she had originally planned until at last, smiling ruefully, Sebastian had given in. “Very well. I shall not insult your intelligence any further by claiming that I have not a single obligation today; but believe me, none of them is so important that it begins to compare with the pleasure I would take in furthering our conversation. However, I can see that you are not only very determined, but also very independent, and, as someone who values his own independence highly, I cannot in all conscience press you to change your mind, though I am sorry that you won’t.”
He did, however, help her into the hackney, retaining her hand in his for a few moments longer than was absolutely necessary. “Thank you for a most enjoyable conversation.”
The words were wholly inadequate for the message he wished to convey—his sense that he had just discovered the rarest of treasures, someone who truly understood him—but he was forced to be content with them. He ground his teeth in frustration as she took her seat, but as he looked into the hazel eyes gazing down at him, he saw that somehow, miraculous as it was, she seemed to comprehend all that he was trying so hard to make her understand.
“I enjoyed it too.” Cecilia replied so softly that he had to bend close to her to catch her words. And then, before he could say or do anything more, the carriage began to roll forward, its driver eager to take advantage of a break in the press of traffic on the busy thoroughfare.
Regretfully, Sebastian closed the door and stood there watching as the carriage made its way up the Strand. And it was not until it had completely disappeared from view that he realized his own curricle was right there as well, with Sam waiting for him expectantly, a hint of impatience in his stance.
Hoping he did not betray how sheepish he felt at being caught staring like a mooncalf after a departing hackney, Sebastian took the reins from his tiger and climbed in. But even as he negotiated his way in front of a cart horse that took great exception to the curricle’s very presence in such a commercial area, Sebastian’s mind lingered over the conversation with Cecilia.
How could he have gone on about himself in that nonsensical fashion when there was so much he wished to know about her? Where had she learned to paint with such power and skill? Why was it that she, a gently born young lady, was now apparently supporting both herself and her brother by painting portraits? How was it that a young woman of such obvious intelligence, determination, and talent, had a brother who equally obviously possessed none of these characteristics? And why had Sebastian never met her before?
The answer to the last question, he suspected he could provide for himself. From the little he had seen of Lady Cecilia Manners, it seemed relatively safe to assume that she had as little inclination for frequenting the fashionable haunts of the
ton
as he did, and, given their mutual lack of interest in such things, it was not surprising that they had never encountered one another.
Fighting the almost overpowering urge to drive after her and put these questions to her immediately, Sebastian forced himself to head in the opposite direction of Golden Square toward Change Alley and the congenial distractions to be found among the patrons of Garroway’s coffeehouse. Perhaps the negotiation of a few canal shares or the purchase of an interest in a water company would take his mind off the intriguing question of Lady Cecilia Manners.
Lady Cecilia had played a big enough role in his life when she had been nothing more than a portrait on the wall, though it had not been obvious to him how big a role she had played until the day came when he had made his formal offer for the hand of Miss Wyatt. Heading out the door, he had met the portrait’s gaze and it was then that he had become blindingly aware of all the silent conversations he had shared with it, all the unuttered confidences he had entrusted to it over the years that it had graced his rooms in Curzon Street. But now that he had discovered that the lady of the portrait was actually flesh and blood, she had become far more than a mere confidante. She had become a real threat to the very essence of Sebastian’s well-ordered life.
An unknown lady who happened to embody all the characteristics of his ideal woman, his ideal companion, was one thing. She could be admired from afar without requiring any involvement on his part. Furthermore, her shining example could make all others—the real women he encountered in his daily life—pale in comparison so that they had no real effect on him whatsoever. Thus he had been able to insulate himself from all of them, remaining comfortably immune to the charms of even the most beautiful and enticing women who vied for his attention. He had even been so arrogant as to congratulate himself on having avoided all the inevitable pitfalls and traps of romantic entanglement that had plagued the rest of his acquaintances.
But now that Sebastian knew his lady of the portrait was a real person, there was no avoiding the effect that she had on him. Worse yet, everything he had since learned about her, every word that had come out of her mouth after the initial shock of the introduction, had only served to confirm that his ideal companion did exist and that she was Lady Cecilia Manners. But what in God’s name was he to do about it?
As Sebastian drew his team to a halt in front of Garroway’s and handed the reins back over to Sam, he came to the unnerving realization that he had been very comfortable in his previously held belief that his ideal companion did not exist. In fact, this belief had given him the protective isolation that had allowed him to focus all his energies and attention on other things. While other men—his competitors in the financial world—had had their attention diverted and their time taken up by lovers, mistresses, and wives, Sebastian had been able to forge ahead single-mindedly, secure in the belief that he was, and always would be. alone in the world. No one had ever truly understood him or even cared about him when he was growing up, and there had never been any compelling reason to believe that life would ever change. Until now.
Now he did not approach Garroway’s with his customary anticipation. Now the warmth of the smoke-filled room and the comforting hum of dozens of speculative financial discussions no longer compelled him to come home. He had experienced the warmth of sympathetic understanding in someone else’s eyes, known the comfort of a compassionate smile, and shared his story with a person who not only could appreciate it, but who also appeared to share much of his outlook on life.
And for the first time in his life, Sebastian, who had come to feel at home in the risky but rewarding world of the stock exchange, now wished he were somewhere else. He wished he had insisted on escorting Lady Cecilia back to her studio in Golden Square. He wished he were sitting there now on the sofa by her easel, talking about her paintings, discussing the books that crammed the shelves, and learning as much about her life as he had told her about his. Clearly, her life had been even more unusual and adventurous than his had been, and it had certainly produced an unusual and adventurously self-reliant woman.
“Charrington, I was hoping to find you here. Saves me from having to send a footman over to Curzon Street.” A firm hand gripped Sebastian’s shoulder, and he turned to see his prospective father-in-law smiling jovially at him.
“Come join us over here, lad.” Sir Richard indicated a group of men gathered at a table in the back of the room—not Sir Richard’s customary table in the corner, but a more discreet setting away from the crowd.
“There are some fellows here who would like to talk to a man warm enough in the pocket to take a considerable risk, and farsighted enough to appreciate the rewards that can be reaped from a daring venture. The proposed scheme they have for lighting up the city of London should appeal to a man like you. And, as a man of science, you are better able than most to evaluate the validity of the proposed scheme.”
Sebastian sighed inwardly. The distraction he had hoped for had just arrived. Why, then, did he not welcome it? Ordinarily his prospective father-in-law was one of the few men he was always happy to see, but at the moment, Sir Richard’s appearance only reminded Sebastian of his daughter, and the woman who was to paint her portrait.
As he followed Sir Richard through the crowd to the table, Sebastian wondered idly what Lady Cecilia, a woman who possessed intellectual taste, would find to discuss with his fashion-mad fiancée. For surely there would have to be some sort of conversation between the two of them in order for Cecilia to understand Barbara’s distinctive personality and convey it on the canvas.
Did Barbara in fact
have
any character? Sebastian wondered as he nodded to the men seated at the table. Certainly she was strong-minded enough, and not the least bit shy about expressing her likes and dislikes, but did she possess anything more than a decided preference for the latest Egyptian-inspired furnishing over the more restrained classical style of Adam, or an inclination toward the high-crowned Angouleme bonnet rather than the flatter one favored by the Duchess of Oldenburg? But neither of these previously articulated tastes revealed anything more about Barbara Wyatt than an unerring instinct for placing herself in the setting most likely to show off her striking attributes to their very best advantage.