"You there," Nic called. "New boy. Take care you don't spook her with that scarf."
"Thomas," said the boy with a muffled sigh, then tucked the trailing end into his coat.
At a plodding pace better fit for a centenarian, Thomas led Merry and the horse through the gate to Regent's Park. From there they clumped past St. Dunstan's Chapel and around the boating lake. Finally, on a quiet stretch of lawn near the wintry remains of the botanical garden, Nic directed them to stop. Even now, with a frosting of snow on the ground, visitors strolled the park. Workmen hurried to jobs, servants walked dogs, and nannies from Cumberland Terrace guided their bundled charges toward the zoo. Two smartly gowned young ladies cantered past them but, to Merry's immense relief, they didn't give her or her companions a second glance.
She caught the tail end of their gossip as they swept by: something about purple gloves and an
unfortunate yellow hat. She couldn't help wondering if their wearer were someone she knew.
For a moment she was split in two, yearning toward her old life yet dreading it as well. She might not know who she was in Nic's world, might indeed be falling on her face, but at least she was free to
choose her way.
When Nic reached up to stroke the horse's neck, her gratitude warmed her smile.
'This spot will do," he said, his eyes crinkling back at her. He jerked his head at the bright, ice-skinned lake. "Plenty of ambient light."
By now, she was used to this being important. She watched as he set up his folding chair and propped
his sketchbook on his knees. He grinned at her once before he started, then was lost to the world-swallowing distraction of his art. The most astonishing grimaces crossed his face, as if these contortions helped him draw. Like a cellist, she thought. Only by using his whole body could his
passion infuse the work.
Young Tom, who had never seen this performance, was even more mesmerized than she.
"Hold her steady," Nic said, when the boy's fascination caused him to slacken his grip on the bridle.
"I'll be at this for a bit."
A bit turned into a quarter hour, then a half. Apart from shifting her weight from one hock to the other and trying to nibble Tom's lumpy scarf, the mare didn't seem to mind the inactivity. Merry entertained herself by watching Tom. Cowed by his recent scold, he was sneaking looks at Nic whenever he
thought the artist wouldn't catch him.
"He won't bite," she whispered from the corner of her mouth, "even if he did forget your name."
Her words startled the boy into looking at her and then she was startled, too. His gaze struck her like a curlew's cry, a piercing tangle of emotion. His eyes were a sweet spring blue, older than she expected
and much, much sadder; adult somehow, though they were not a man's eyes yet. Lashed with starry, light-brown spikes, their clarity amazed. With eyes so lovely, few would mind whatever horror his scarf was hiding. Or maybe they would. Maybe the haunting beauty of his gaze would make the ruin seem even worse.
"Yes, miss," he said, and lowered his smooth young lids.
Color washed his forehead, pink as a country rose. She wondered if he were embarrassed that she'd addressed him. Would it embarrass a boy to speak to his employer's mistress? Assuming that's what she was. Merry wasn't sure there was a name for what she'd become to Nic.
At least, not a name she'd want to use.
* * *
"Do you ride, sir? asked the boy.
Nic glanced at him in surprise. The boy—
Tom
, he reminded himself—hadn't said a dozen words since they'd left the house and none at all since they'd dropped Mary at the ostler's door. He supposed he
asked because Nic had been running his hand down the mare's left foreleg. It was a habit from his
youth, one his mother had insisted on.
You bring them back the way you take them out
, she liked to say.
And if you find a problem, you tell
the groom. A care for the creatures that count on you is the measure of a man.
He'd only forgotten once. The horse came up lame and she'd made him muck out bedding for a month. He could still remember his humiliation. The stable lads had known they wouldn't be punished for taking advantage of the young master's fall from grace. They'd worked him like a navvy. At the time, Nic had hated every minute of the backbreaking work, but now the memory inspired a rueful smile.
The marchioness had known how to teach a lesson. Still did, he imagined.
"I used to ride," he said, smoothing the horse's windblown mane, "when I was a boy."
"Did you like it?" Tom asked.
Nic wondered at his boldness. The boy wasn't looking at Nic but the tension in his gangly frame led
Nic to believe his answer was important. Why that should be, he couldn't guess, but who knew what crotchets boys that age got into their heads?
"I liked riding fine," he said, "but I liked drawing better."
"Guess you liked that better than anything."
Nic squinted. The boy's tone was oddly challenging. Did he think a real man ought to favor horseflesh over paint?
"Yes," he said, still confused, "I liked drawing better than anything. That's why I became a painter."
Tom nodded as if this were no more than he'd expected. His hand stroked the horse's neck. "Guess you've still got the eye, though," he said. "Best-looking horse in the stable. Must have cost you." His glance slid to Nic then back away. "The maid said you bought Miss Mary dresses, too."
Nic's temper pricked. "See here," he said, "if you're trying to cast aspersions on how Miss Mary earned those dresses, you can just—"
"No." The boy lifted one hand in denial. "I was merely noting that you're generous with your coin."
Merely noting!
thought Nic, amusement outweighing his anger. Those national schools must be doing a better job than he'd suspected. "Angling for a rise then, are you?"
"No, sir. You've been generous with my salary, as well."
"That's Farnham's doing."
When the boy shrugged, his eyes disappeared into his scarf. The habit suddenly overwhelmed Nic's curiosity. What was Tom hiding that he thought no one but him could bear? Nic had believed him too
shy to interact with people, but the way he'd spoken today revealed a considerable, if peculiar, self-possession. Maybe all Tom needed was a little encouragement to open up. Nic wouldn't have
minded if he did. He'd never wanted a lot of starch among his staff.
He touched Tom's arm, about to press him, but the narrow shoulders twitched and the boy spun away. He spoke with his head hunched determinedly down.
"I'd better check on Miss Mary," he said, moving toward the cobbled yard. "She's been alone a bit.
Might be a rough crowd out there."
Nic laughed softly through his nose. Far from casting aspersions on her character, it seemed young
Tom had also seen what a prize "Miss Mary" was.
Ten
Merry couldn't believe how quickly her portrait had progressed. Nic worked like a man possessed, or
at least like a man who didn't need food or sleep. At his insistence, she wanned his bed, but on many nights she was the only one doing so. When they did make love, he wasn't truly with her. Oh, his skill was as formidable as ever, and she couldn't deny she enjoyed herself, but somehow—without his full engagement—that enjoyment was not enough.
His distraction would have hurt if she hadn't been concerned for him. Where was the man who'd gone into raptures over a cup of coffee? Who made flirting an art form? Who considered the catnap a form
a prayer? He seemed almost to be punishing himself with his current devotion to toil, though for what
she could not guess.
She kept waiting for the real Nic to return. She didn't know how to be with this one and yet she could
not bring herself to leave. He seemed to want her there, seemed to welcome, however distantly, her presence beside him in the night. He always pulled her close, always kissed her hair and sighed as he relaxed.
She worried that this small bond was enough to hold her. Her heart was too soft when it came to him,
too soft by far.
One night, as he slept, he muttered a woman's name. Bess, she thought, or possibly Beth. It didn't even anger her. Instead, she wondered who the woman was and why her memory troubled her lover's sleep. She would have soothed him if she could, but his manner did not invite it. His Art was all to him now. Merry was merely a convenience.
* * *
Nic paused at the door to the library, his news forgotten in the image that met his eye.
Mary sat by the window, a book on her lap, her profile turned to watch the carriages pass outside. Her hair lay over her shoulders in sheaves of fiery gold, an extravagant contradiction to the primness of her pose. Despite being at leisure, her spine was as straight as a poker in the plain green gown, one of the
few gowns she'd chosen at the dressmaker. High-necked and gently fitted, its sole adornment was a
stiff white ruffle at throat and cuff. Her knees were pressed together, her hands folded neatly on the book. She reminded him of schoolgirls he'd known, well-bred schoolgirls, who do not forget their
posture when they're alone.
His heart tightened unexpectedly at her beauty. He thought his brush had caught her but it hadn't.
Nothing could. For all the time they'd spent together, for all the intimacy they'd shared, this spirited
young woman remained a mystery.
"Mary," he said softly, not wanting to startle her.
She turned her head and the look on her face made the floor shift strangely beneath his feet. Her eyes were huge. In the firelight, they shone like amber washed in tears.
He moved swiftly to kneel beside her, his knuckles white as they closed on the worn leather arm of her chair. "What is it?" he said. "What's wrong?"
Wistfully, she touched his hair. "I was thinking how much I'll miss you when I'm gone."
"Gone! Why should you leave?"
"The picture is finished, isn't it?"
He shook his head to clear it. "How did you know I was going to tell you that?"
She smiled. "You have varnish on your shirt. And you're looking at me again, as if I were really here."
"Oh, Mary. I never meant..." Stricken by his own insen-sitivity, he had to stop and reform the words.
"I never meant to neglect you."
"I know. You were simply caught up in your work." Her eyes shimmered as she cupped his cheek, a mixture of affection and regret. "You're happy with it, aren't you?"
"Yes," he said simply. "It's the best thing I've done."
"Good." She nodded. "I'm glad."
"I thought you might like to see it. Then we could go for a nice dinner at the Cafe Royal. Take in a
show. Celebrate."
For the space of a bream she was silent. Thoughts crossed her face he could not begin to read.
"I can't go out," she said.
"Can't?"
She lowered her eyes. Her stillness frightened him. Suddenly, he didn't want her to explain, didn't want
to know what had saddened her. He laid his hand on her sleeve, stroking her arm through the emerald wool.
"We could stay in." He cocked his head and smiled. "I could make up for my neglect."