S
tepping into the airy rooms that housed his father’s memorial exhibit, Colin was suddenly very glad that he had decided to arrive early. The emotions that assailed him were not completely unexpected, but somehow they still came as a surprise. He turned in a circle, taking in the more than twenty pieces that had been brought together for the event.
No matter what his father had done wrong in his life, he had done his paintings exceedingly right. Colin breathed in a deep lungful of air, pushing against the steel band that seemed to have wrapped around his ribs. It was an odd sort of blissful agony to see the paintings, as bright and vibrant as ever despite the fact Father was gone.
He breathed out, exhaling the pain and regret away with it. This was to be a good day. All he had thought about since the moment he awoke was seeing Beatrice again, with no one between them but a single chaperone. Certainly not that jackass Godfrey. Seeing the man’s face when Beatrice accepted Colin’s invitation had been worth the impromptu proposal a thousand times over—and even that didn’t compare to the thrill of Beatrice’s acceptance.
For some reason, he loved the idea of a little more stolen time with her.
And though the gallery wasn’t nearly as intimate as his aunt’s portrait hall, it was a vast improvement over Beatrice’s crowded drawing room. The space was quiet and bright, two feats he would not have thought possible in this part of London. The plain white of the walls left nothing to distract the viewer’s attention from the highlighted masterpieces. Coming from so many different collections, the frames were a bit of a mishmash, some glinting gold, others silver, and a few polished wood ones mixed in. He rather liked the eclectic feel of the groupings.
He wandered forward, his footsteps echoing in the open space, which was devoid of all but a handful of potted plants and a few strategically placed benches. He could almost feel his father’s presence in the starkness of the room. When he worked, Father wanted nothing cluttering his creative space. His studio was always clean and orderly, in complete contrast to the house itself.
“Sir Colin?”
Colin glanced to the door and smiled, warmth infusing the emptiness inside his heart. God, but she was lovely.
“My lady. I’m honored you could join me today.” He strode forward to greet her properly and was treated to the whispered hint of lilac.
She looked perfectly divine today, in her simple muslin gown and light green spencer jacket. An easy smile curled her lips as she slipped off the jacket, the movement highlighting the delicate rise of her collarbone. “I’m beyond delighted to be here.”
Without the ball gown or opulent furnishings, she was completely approachable—almost the total opposite of what he would expect of the daughter of a marquis. In the diffused daylight streaming in from the open windows, he realized her dark blue eyes held the slightest suggestion of green toward the pupil.
She gestured to a mousy young woman behind her whose presence he’d hardly registered. “Is there a place for my maid to rest while we look around?”
“Yes, of course,” he said, leading them to one of the benches in the corridor outside the gallery. The girl promptly pulled a book from a pocket of her coat and settled in to read. He couldn’t have asked for a more perfect chaperone.
“I would have thought you might have brought one or both of your sisters today.”
“Oh no—they would never have been able to resist chattering, which would have ruined the whole experience. I love them, but I do not want to be listening to their commentary while viewing such dignified works.”
“And your parents didn’t mind letting you join me with only a maid?”
She shook her head. “I convinced them it was more or less just another visit to a museum or gallery. They knew the committee staff would be here as well.”
It was a gift horse, really, and Colin didn’t intend to look it in the mouth.
Offering his elbow, he led Beatrice back to the exhibit. “I was just getting my bearings when you arrived. Mr. Swanson informed me that all but two of the pieces are in place. One from Wales, which is en route as we speak, and the royal portrait of King George, which will arrive shortly before the exhibit’s official opening.”
“What an honor for you and your family that the prince has agreed to lend the painting. You must be very proud.”
He was, actually. Regardless of anything else, his father had come from nothing and had succeeded in earning not only royal favor, but the baronetcy as well. He knew that the title was perhaps not of major significance to someone of Beatrice’s status, but he appreciated her sentiment. “I am. Thank you.”
Her smile was unstudied and natural, revealing a quarter-turned front tooth that somehow suited her, as if it were rebelling against the straight and narrow. “I cannot tell you how much I have looked forward to this afternoon. It may have been only a few days, but it felt much longer. I fear my family may never allow me to utter the name ‘Sir Frederick’ at the breakfast table again.”
He’d been looking forward to it, too, though his reasons had nothing to do with his father and everything to do with the lady beside him. It had been a long week. A very, very long week. In addition to his all too brief visit with Beatrice, he had called on just about every eligible female on his list, making an effort to get to know each of them a bit. If he could have found one, just one, that seemed to be an even halfway decent fit, he would have considered it a success. But so far, none of them had seemed right.
The only bright spot had been the promise of seeing his little
stór
again. It was refreshing to know that she was outside of his reach and he therefore had no need to be on his guard or feel as though he were some sort of hunter stalking an unsuspecting prey. The smile came easily to his lips as he looked down at her. “Well, then, I hope the day lives up to your expectations. Believe it or not, I’m not the best guide when it comes to the works themselves. I know little about the mechanics of painting.”
“I didn’t expect you to. Techniques I understand—it’s the master himself I’d love to hear more about. Feel free to impart any juicy bits of gossip you may have along the way,” she said, tossing a teasing look his way before releasing his arm and turning to take in the room. “Truly, just being here is one of the greatest treats I could imagine.”
He clasped his hands behind him, watching her as her gaze flitted from one portrait to the next. The oddest sense of pride wended its way through his bones, making him stand straighter. There were few things that he had to offer anyone, but it felt damn good to know that he could give her this. In fact, no one else could offer her the sort of insight into his father that he possessed. In this small thing, they were perfectly matched. “Perhaps we should start at the beginning,” he said, sweeping his hand to the back corner of the room.
“Do they have some of his landscapes after all?”
“Sadly, no. Even if the committee had been interested in them, I don’t know of a single owner who would be willing to loan their piece. Several went to friends in and around Edinburgh, and you already know how Lord Northup feels about sharing.”
She chuckled. “Indeed. I remember wondering if he stocked crocodiles in that moat of his. Though I suppose the castle is intimidating enough in and of itself.”
“What, he dinna welcome you with open arms?”
“Hardly. Although, I suppose I should be grateful that no arrows were trained on us nor boiling oil at the ready.”
“That you know of, anyway.”
This time she put a hand to her lips as she laughed out loud. “So true. We could have had an army of archers trained on us from those arrow slits and we’d have never known.”
“Northup was just odd enough to do it, too. Any man who wishes to have his portrait painted in a full suit of armor while holding his small dog and being fanned by his servant has more than a little madness running through his veins.”
Her eyes widened at this piece of gossip. “No! However did your father convince him to forgo such a splendid pose? If I remember correctly, there was no armor or servants, and he was instead astride a rather magnificent black stallion. That much I know for sure, since Papa commented on the impressive stature of the beast.”
Colin nodded, maintaining a perfectly straight face. “I believe it was an argument of the earl’s magnificent figure being obscured by the armor.”
“Oh, well, I can see how that would be a perfectly valid argument.”
“Once the armor was overruled, Northup decided the dog and servant simply wouldn’t make sense.”
“Yes—clearly the armor would have been the linchpin in the whole look.” Merriment sparkled in her eyes as she shook her head. “Well, thank heavens for his reasoning, however odd. It wouldn’t do for his descendants to be able to pinpoint the exact moment in their lineage when the madness broke forth.”
“So true. They should be left to wonder when it hit the family like the rest of us. And more important,” he said, pausing in front of the earliest piece in the collection, “Northup’s old friend Lord Pruitt would never have seen my father’s genius and hired him to paint this.”
Stepping close to the painting, Lady Beatrice let out a breathy sigh of contentment. The sound seemed to go right through him, weaving around his shoulders and tugging him to her. Without looking away, she shook her head. “So marvelous. I can almost feel the warmth of the fire behind him.”
Colin could feel the warmth, too, but it had nothing to do with the painting. He studied her perfect profile, the delicate curve of her ear, the long line of her neck. For the first time in his entire life, he wished he had even an ounce of his father’s talent so that he could somehow capture her image on paper.
He averted his gaze just in time when she looked over at him. “I suppose Lord Pruitt appreciated a more classic portrait.”
“If by classic you mean a full Greek toga, complete with sandals and the hand of Zeus reaching down from the heavens, then yes.”
Her peals of laughter washed over him, freeing his own. “Truly?”
“No, not truly. Lord Pruitt was happy to have as standard of a pose as possible. Father had to cajole him into allowing the use of props in the background. If I remember correctly, he convinced the man that fire would evoke a tone of power and dominance and the mountains beyond a certain permanence.”
Tilting her head to the side, she said, “I suppose that’s true. I wouldn’t have thought of it, but all of those elements combine to create a very compelling, almost authoritative painting.”
“It was utter rubbish. He just thought portraits were boring if there wasn’t enough visual interest added above and beyond the subject. And, as you know, he reveled in the play of light, so fire fascinated him.”
His eyes had strayed from the painting again, taking in the neatly arranged curls of her upswept hair. The afternoon light glinted on the golden strands, shining with every movement she made. Apparently, Father wasn’t the only one who reveled in the play of light.
“I don’t believe you.”
He blinked, raising a brow as she met his gaze. “What is it you’re not believing?”
She moved toward the next painting, depicting Lady St. Clair in a flowing white gown, a mirror on the wall behind her reflecting the room at large. “That he didn’t care about the symbolism in his portraits. Even if he didn’t consciously add them, they are there nonetheless. All of his portraits—well, the ones I have seen, anyway—are rich with subtle symbolism.”
“So subtle, he dinna know he was using them?” He crossed his arms, patent disbelief clear in his tone. He was teasing her, the vaulted daughter of a marquis, without any thought of her station or rank. It was nice, very nice, to feel so at ease with her.
“Yes, that’s it exactly. Mark of a true genius, don’t you agree?” She winked at him before returning her gaze to the painting. “Look at the use of the mirror in this one. First of all, how incredible is his technique here, giving us every angle of the space? But what is he really saying? I think he was adding commentary as to the lady’s reflective nature. She looks very thoughtful, does she not?”
“I suppose. But if I were to hazard a guess, my lady, I’d imagine he liked the challenge of painting the whole of the woman.”
She rolled her eyes, clearly not impressed with his interpretation. “Do you always look at everything so literally? Perhaps it’s not your father who doesn’t appreciate symbolism, but you yourself?”
“No mystery in that. A barrister has little use for symbolism in life.”
“Barrister?” He had her attention now. “I had no idea you were a man of the law. Do you practice in Edinburgh?”
“London, actually. And I’m not quite practicing yet—I’ve still a year left to go at the Inns of Court.” If he could secure the funding. He had no idea that the money his father had been sending all this time had been borrowed funds.
“London?” she exclaimed, her hands going to her hips. “For heaven’s sake, I thought you were merely visiting with your aunt. You’ve been in London for two years and your very first ball was this week?”
Her accusatory glare made him smile. As if he had purposely prevented their worlds from intersecting sooner. “Not exactly on my list of things to do,
a stór
.”
• • •
A stór.
A shimmery thrill raced down Beatrice’s back. She hadn’t realized she’d been waiting to hear the endearment from his lips again. She’d never thought much of a Scottish accent, but the marriage of Scottish and English tones on his tongue was like mixing two uninspired pigments and coming up with a completely unique, perfectly gorgeous color. She swallowed, trying to come up with something clever to say when all she could think about was the look in his smoky eyes the first time he called her that. “Well, we’ll certainly have to remedy that.”
Judging by the look of sudden interest on his face, she probably hadn’t hidden her reaction as well as she hoped. His lips parted, the teasing smile transforming to something more intimate. “Is that so? And why should it matter to you if I’m attending balls or not?”