PortraitofPassion (2 page)

“Gentlemen.” Moorehead bowed. “Until tomorrow.”

With a final smile and a little wave, Beatrice Morgan took
Moorehead’s arm and sailed from the room.

Simon and Henry stood together and watched her go. Neither
said a word for some time.

“Did you ever see such a thing?” one female voice behind
them asked.

“That curtsy,” hissed another.

“Irreverent is what it was,” yet another said.

“And what was she doing, holding his hands that way?” asked
the first.

“Who is she?”

Simon wasn’t sure which of the three had asked the question,
but it was surely the question in everyone’s mind, especially his.

“Shall we go?” asked Henry. “This ball seems a bit dull,
doesn’t it?”

Simon couldn’t agree more.

Comfortably ensconced in his carriage, he turned to his
cousin and demanded, “Who is she?”

“I haven’t a clue.”

“What do you mean you haven’t a clue? You clearly know her
from somewhere.”

“We met in Paris, at one of Mrs. Forsythe’s salons.”

“What on earth were you doing at one of Mrs. Forsythe’s
salons?”

“Anna Forsythe is all the rage in Paris. You know they have
a—what is the word I want? Liberal. Parisians have a much more liberal
attitude. They are more interested in amusement than propriety. Anna Forsythe is
a charming woman and she invites the most interesting people to her salons,
poets and writers and actors and such.”

“And artists?” Simon asked.
“They say she is an artist.”

“Oh yes.”

“Courtesans?”
“Is that what they are calling them these
days?”

“I’m sure there were a few of them sprinkled about the place
as well.”

“And Miss Morgan? Which is she?” Simon asked.

Henry chuckled before replying, “She is certainly an artist.
As to the other, I don’t believe so.”

“What was she doing on Moorehead’s arm?” he asked.

“She and Mrs. Forsythe were quite tight. They were seen
everywhere together. They had only just arrived from Italy. I believe they were
in Greece together before that. As Anna Forsythe has been linked to Moorehead
longer than I’ve been alive, if you are wondering if Miss Morgan is Moorehead’s
mistress, I would have to think not.”

“How well do you know her?” It galled him to ask, but he
needed to know. It seemed of paramount importance that he determine who kept
her in diamond hairpins and silk dresses.

“How now, cousin, that’s a mite personal, isn’t it?” Henry
asked. He was smiling, smirking really.

“Miss Morgan indicated that she knew my father.” He was
loath to broach the subject but knew he must.

“Surely you are not suggesting that she and your father were
lovers.” Henry nearly howled with laughter now. “First Moorehead, then me, and
now your father? Simon, you are jumping to wild conclusions, even for you.”

“Even for me?” he demanded.

“Come now, you are the most suspicious, cynical person I
know.” Henry propped his feet upon the carriage seat next to Easton, crossing
them at the ankles. His cousin was getting comfortable before he shared some
insight or idea. Simon had seen him do it a hundred times.

“Simon, I’ll tell you everything I know about the lovely
Miss Morgan, but I’m warning you now, I don’t know much.”

“You met in Paris months ago and now she is in London.” Let
Henry think him suspicious.

“That is a bit odd,” Henry agreed.

“What is she doing in London?” Simon asked, although he
thought he knew the answer.

“I’ve no idea.” Henry’s eyes lit up. “But what a pleasant
surprise.”

“Tell me you did not send for the lady,” Simon said.

“I did not send for the lady,” Henry responded with a laugh.

“So she followed you quite on her own?”

Henry paused to consider Simon’s words. “I doubt she
followed me,” he finally responded.

“You meet a mysterious woman, an artist apparently, in Paris
months ago, and as if by magic she just happens to appear in London not two
weeks after your return?” Simon did not believe in coincidence.

“When you put it like that,” Henry responded around a
chuckle, “I’d have to agree. She followed me. Well, I’ll be. I didn’t think she
was interested in me beyond as an amusing fellow countryman with whom to flirt
and dance. Leave it to you to figure it all out in less than five minutes,
Simon.”

“You had no indication in Paris that she might be interested
in forming an attachment?” Simon asked, ignoring Henry’s sarcastic response.

“I had hoped so upon first meeting her,” Henry replied.
“After all she is quite friendly, and clever and worldly. And she did bestow
marked attention upon me. I hinted at deepening our friendship. Repeatedly.
Subtly, of course. She has the most charming way of ignoring a man’s amorous
intentions. She simply pretends she is unaware of them. Or perhaps she really
is unaware of them. She’s damn hard to read. She laughs and smiles at everyone.
I saw the way she held on to your hand and caressed it that way.”

“I think it is safe to say that everyone saw that.”

“It’s just her way. She touches your arm and leans in close
when she speaks to you. She says whatever pops into her mind. She teases near
strangers in a way that most people reserve for their family or closest
friends.”

“So when the subtlety didn’t produce the desired effects?”
Simon wanted to know.

Henry turned to look out the window, but not before Easton
saw the blush.

“I attempted to kiss her one night. Well, actually I did
kiss her one night. She had asked me to accompany her out onto the terrace
after we had danced a set.”

“She asked you to escort her out into the night alone?”
Simon asked.

“She only wanted a bit of air. She has an aversion to
crowds, says she can’t breathe with too many people about her.”

“And she encouraged you to kiss her?”

“I don’t know as I’d say she encouraged me. I leaned down,
she didn’t move away. So I kissed her.”

“And she?”

“She took my kiss and turned it into a—well, she turned it
from a kiss between a man and a woman into a kiss between friends.”

“I have quite a number of friends and I don’t think I’ve
ever kissed a one of them,” Simon pointed out.

“I know, but that’s what she did. I kissed her, she kissed
me back, a great big smacking kiss, like I’d give my niece. Then she took both
my hands in hers, smiled at me and told me how happy she was that we had met
and she was certain we were going to be the very best of friends.”

“What was that business about her giving me leave to call
her by her given name?” It had seemed to Simon as if she were warning Henry
that should he fail to attend her on her morning ride, she would turn her
attentions to him. And that wink! What did she mean by winking at him?

“Oh I had warned her that she would cause damage to her name
by inviting a young gentleman to use it. She merely smiled. She has this way of
smiling as if she knows a secret that no one else is privileged to know, and
said—and I remember it exactly as it was such a strange thing to say—‘one of
the most wonderful things about living outside Society is that I need have no
fear of damaging my name, as no one knows it’.”

Simon said nothing, for what was there to say to that?
Living outside Society indeed. Where did she think she had been tonight? She
had been at one of the
ton’s
leading hostess’s annual ball. Where did
she think she went when she attended Anna Forsythe’s salon in Paris? Even Mrs.
Forsythe, for all her sordid past and banishment to the continent, still
traveled on the fringes of Society.

“They’ll know her name after tonight,” he finally said.

“They knew it all over Paris,” Henry replied.

Simon lifted one dark brow in question.

“They were clamoring for her to paint them,” Henry answered
the unspoken question.

“So she is a well-known artist then?” Simon inquired.

“You don’t know?” His cousin was clearly surprised. “I
thought you had put that much together at least. But of course not, or else you
would not wonder how she knew your father.”

“What?” Simon asked.

“Beatrice Morgan,” Henry prompted. When Simon did not reply
he added, “Bea Morgan.”

It took him a moment and then, “B. Morgan? The portrait
artist?”

“The same,” Henry assured him.

“But— I had no idea he, I mean she, was a woman.”

“She is.”

So that was how she knew his father. His father had bought a
number of her early works. He had even commissioned her to paint his portrait.
The portrait still hung above the fireplace in the dining room of his town
house where it had held that honored spot for years.

“But how can that be possible? She is a young woman, what,
five and twenty perhaps? My father began collecting B. Morgan’s works nearly
ten years ago, before the portraits, when they were landscapes. I remember the
first one he brought home, a beautiful painting of an old fountain overgrown
with bright red and yellow flowers. He gave it to my mother for Christmas. Yes,
ten, maybe eleven years ago.”

The carriage came to stop and Henry sat up once more.

“She must have started quite young as she is six and twenty.
She’ll be seven and twenty next month.”

“You seem to know a lot about her considering you told me
not half an hour ago that you know very little about her.”

“She mentioned it to me once. She dreads the month of June
and her birthday in particular as her father died just before her eighteenth
birthday.”

“Who was her father?” Simon asked.

“I’ve no idea. I haven’t asked and she hasn’t offered. Nor
do I know who her mother is. But I suspect they were Mr. and Mrs. Morgan, minor
gentry or perhaps well-to-do merchants, as she is clearly well-educated. Better
educated, really, than any woman I have ever known.” The carriage door opened and
Henry stepped down onto the street before his town house. He leaned back in
long enough to say, “She is a beautiful woman, and amusing and intelligent. I
enjoy her company and believe she enjoys mine. She isn’t trying to trap me into
marriage, Simon. It was one time, years ago, and I learned my lesson.”

“So well that you kissed Miss Morgan on the terrace outside
a crowded ballroom for the entire world to see?”

Henry slammed the carriage door and bolted up the steps, his
raucous laughter fading away as he entered the front door to his home.

Simon watched his cousin as he disappeared through the door.
It was not marriage Simon worried the lovely Miss Morgan was after. Even a
woman who claimed to live outside Society must know that was impossible.

Henry had been correct when he said he knew little about
Miss Beatrice Morgan. All Simon had learned was that she moved about in a world
in which the Earl of Hastings had no business visiting.

Who was she?

“I don’t believe they are coming,” Bea said, turning in the
saddle to face Bertie, whose horse pranced impatiently beside hers. “Shall we
go on?”

It was already quarter past eight and she and Lancelot, the
gelding she had purchased upon her arrival in London, were both in need of a
swift ride through the cool morning air. She hadn’t slept well the night
before. She was anxious and unsure as to the reason. Everything was moving
along according to plan. She had been in London for less than a week and
already she had reacquainted herself with the earl.

She had not wanted to attend the ball last night but Bertie
had convinced her she must.

“Where else do you expect to happen upon him?” he had asked
when she had resisted the idea of moving about so flagrantly in Society. “You
can hardly walk up the steps of his Berkeley Square town house and knock upon
the door.”

Bea thought that sounded like a fine idea. Why couldn’t she
just go and visit him? She had hoped to keep to the very edges of Society, to
quietly complete her task and depart. But she knew better than to argue with
Bertie. When he had agreed to help her in this mad scheme, as he termed it, she
had agreed to adhere to his advice.

“Your time is limited in this,” he had explained during the
crossing from France. “You have a few weeks, at most a month before doors are
closed to you. If you have your heart set upon this course, we must act in
haste. London is not Paris. It will not be enough that you are a beautiful,
mysterious and talented artist. Those qualities that served you so well in
Paris and Rome and Athens will be the same ones that will put off the
ton
eventually.”

“Then how will I see him? How will I get close to him?” she
had asked. So much depended upon Lord Hastings coming to care for her.

“Oh they will allow you amongst them briefly for the novelty
of it,” Bertie had assured her. “You must not try to conform to their
standards. If they suspect you are trying to ingratiate yourself to them, or
fit in among them, they will shun you immediately. And, too, there will be
those who knew you in Paris and those who have heard of you. You must be your
usual charming, impertinent self.”

“Surely he attends the theater or the opera. Could we not
happen upon him during the intermission?” she had asked when Bertie had told
her he planned to escort her to one of the most anticipated balls of the
Season.

“We do not know when he would be at either of those places.
We know he will be at Lady Tattensley’s ball tonight. We shall arrive late and
stay only long enough to accomplish our goal.”

“Why did he have to leave Paris?” she’d asked. She had been
asking this same question since the morning she had learned of his departure.

“Do not fret, Bumble Bea,” he had said. “We shall see this
through as planned. Then we shall open up the house and call your family home
from the continent.”

The previous night had gone better than she could have
hoped. She had worried that Lord Hastings would have forgotten her. That once
back in London he would be immersed in his everyday life and their time
together in Paris would be a distant memory. Even in the carriage on the way to
the ball, she had imagined him looking down at her with those beautiful blue
eyes, boredom apparent, as he politely greeted her, spared her a few moments of
his time and bid her goodbye. And that would be that. Her carefully
orchestrated plans finished before they had even begun.

But oh, it had been wonderful. He had immediately presented
her with that silly extravagant bow and she had fallen right down into her
lowest curtsy. They had greeted each other just so countless times in the
months they had known each other in Paris. The weeks between had seemed to
disappear. They might have seen each other just the day before. There was no
awkwardness between them. They had fallen right into teasing and laughing
together.

There had been that moment of confusion, though. A swift
jolt of joy followed quickly by a shaft of terrible pain just before she found
him. Dobson had told her he was there and she had stepped away from the throng
to search for him. As her eyes swept the ballroom she had thought she saw
William Easton.

For those few seconds she had been overwhelmed with
happiness. There was William, not dead at all, but standing right before her,
younger and more handsome than she remembered. He had been looking right at
her. William, with his solemn hazel eyes and dark wavy hair, with his
wonderfully aristocratic nose and stern mouth that so rarely smiled. Ah, but
when he had smiled! And when he had laughed, his booming laughter had been so
precious to her for its rarity.

Of course reason had returned almost immediately. William
would never have dropped his eyes to her breasts as this man had done. She had
been stunned and confused. William was gone. He had been gone for more than a
year. It had been nearly three years since she had last seen him. Even then his
health had been declining. She had known it would likely be the last time she
would see him. He had known it as well.

But standing before her was a man so like him in nearly
every way. He stood tall and proud in his dark evening clothes. When he had
finally raised his eyes to hers she had the impression that he was as confused
and startled as she was. And his eyes, William’s eyes, had caught hers and
trapped her.

Lord Hastings had stepped forward to break the spell and she
had known then that she was looking at William’s son. Simon. The young man he
had talked about with such pride and love. The young man about whose scholarly
achievements and athletic ability he had boasted. Simon, who would carry on the
Easton name when William was gone. The man he had worried would become too
serious and somber when he inherited the title and accompanying responsibility
before he had time to enjoy his youth.

And he was standing with Hastings. Oh it was too perfect. She
could not have wished for anything more perfect. The two sons, of course they
would know each other, they were cousins by their mothers, after all. But who
could have guessed she would find them together. She had not even thought to
seek out William’s son. But here he was and she would not waste the
opportunity.

And there was Lord Hastings raising her from her cheeky
curtsy. And he too took her breath away. He was even more beautiful than she
remembered with his curly blond hair and laughing blue eyes.

It had been so natural to stand and speak with them both.
Her nerves had evaporated in the sheer joy of the moment. This was where she
belonged. Oh not for long, a few weeks, a month at most.

So why had she slept so poorly? And why was this gnawing,
anxious feeling eating away at her this morning?

“Yes, we might as well go on without them.” Bertie’s
pronouncement pulled her from her thoughts.

They set off down the path that would lead them to a long
meadow where they could allow their mounts to gallop across the grass.

This was what she needed, Bea thought as she flew through
the air atop Lancelot’s muscled back, the wind and the freedom. If only she
could have been riding astride; the lady’s sidesaddle did not allow for the
feeling of oneness with her horse that she craved. She smiled, imagining the
looks she would have received had she donned well-worn breeches and ridden
astride the big gray gelding through the streets of Mayfair.

She was finding London to be terribly confining. She had
lived in some of the largest, most populated cities in the world during the
last nine years, but never had she felt so hemmed in by the hordes of people
always about, so stifled by the inquisitive eyes of its populace. Some days it
was all she could do to force herself to leave the comfort of Bertie’s house
and the sprawling garden enclosed behind it.

As they crested a gentle rise and saw the Serpentine flowing
before them, Bea heard the thunder of hooves behind her. She brought Lancelot
to a gentle canter and swung him about to prance upon the rise. Off in the
distance she saw two riders coming up the path toward them. Hastings and Easton
were racing up the hill, neck and neck. They slowed their mounts as they
neared.

“Good morning, Miss Morgan, Moorehead,” Lord Hastings called
out cheerfully. He turned to his companion to say, “I told you we would catch
up with them.”

“And so we have,” replied Easton. He inclined his head in
Bea’s direction. “Miss Morgan, a pleasure to see you again. Moorehead.”

“Hullo, my lords. We had given up on your joining us,” Bea
replied with a smile. She looked from one pair of smiling blue eyes to the
grave hazel pair looking at her as if he could see right into her heart and
mind. Just as their fathers had looked at her all those years ago.

Wonderful, she thought. She could feel a silly grin upon her
face. It was so wonderful to be here looking at these two gentlemen, so like
their fathers. It brought back memories of carefree days when she had known
nothing of the world beyond the walls of her childhood home, Idyllwild. She
hadn’t yet learned what a perilous place the world was, how people judged and
gossiped and envied one another. She had only known the love and acceptance of
her family and friends, and the freedom to be herself among them. Soon. Soon
she would have that life again.

“Lancelot is impatient to run,” Bea said, caressing the
gray’s neck and then scratching behind his ears as she knew he enjoyed. He gave
a soft nicker and pushed his head back into her hand for more. She did not have
to see his eyes to know they had rolled back in ecstasy.

She looked from Hastings to Easton and saw that the latter
was watching her hand upon her horse. He appeared mesmerized by the movement.

“Race you to the old oak tree?” Hastings challenged.

Without a word Bea turned Lancelot toward the open field
spread out before them. She could see the huge old, gnarled tree a ways off to
the right of where the Serpentine ran. It was a fair distance but she knew
Lancelot was up to the task.

“I’ve had my eye on a pretty little bonnet in a shop window
on Bond Street,” she said.

“A wager then,” he agreed. “I myself have had my eye upon a
gold cravat pin, also in a shop window on Bond Street.”

“Easton, would you be good enough to ride ahead to judge the
winner?” Bertie asked.

“With pleasure,” he responded with a nod. Bea watched him
go, his posture upright and graceful in the saddle, his black stallion’s
strides long and even. She watched him until he stopped just to the left of the
tree and turned with a wave.

Bea turned back to her two remaining companions. She held
out her hand and leaned from the saddle to place it in Hastings’. They smiled
at one another.

“Perfect, we can stop at Gunter’s for ices after you
purchase my bonnet.”

“I’ll give you the lead as I know the lady’s saddle is not
your preference,” Hastings offered.

“You shall regret your generosity,” she warned.

Hastings only laughed and gave her a quick nod.

And with that she was off like a shot, the powerful horse
beneath her picking up speed as they raced over the field. She loosened her
hold upon the reins and allowed Lancelot his freedom. He took full advantage of
the opportunity. He was the fastest horse she had ever had the pleasure to
ride, sure-footed and graceful. He pounded through the grass, eating up the
distance, racing toward the tree with little direction from his rider, as if he
knew the old oak was the prize.

She could hear the beat of Hastings’ sorrel coming up close
behind her. She leaned down and offered soft words of encouragement to Lancelot
and he increased his efforts. The tree was just ahead of her but Hastings was
closing the gap, he was almost upon her. And then he was right beside her. She
looked at him from the corner of her eye. He was smiling, his blue eyes merry.
She felt the pin keeping her hat in place start to slide loose. Then it and the
hat were flying off behind her and the wind caught her hair, pulling it free of
the remaining pins holding it in place atop her head. Hastings’ mount was ahead
now, but only by a head. She leaned down farther still, so that her neck was
beside the horse’s and she whispered praise for his speed and promises of sugar
and apples if he could just give her the smallest bit more. And he did.
Lancelot gathered himself and bolted ahead to fly past the old oak tree half a
neck ahead of the sorrel.

Bea’s laughter burst from her throat and then she added a
great yell, threw her arms up in the air and leaned her head back as Lancelot
slowed to a canter and circled the tree.
Ah
, it was glorious to feel so
free.

She finally reached for the reins to bring Lancelot around
to where Hastings had stopped and sat upon his mount watching her. Bertie rode
up to join them and congratulate her.

“By God,” Bertie said, “you sit a horse well, my girl. Puts
me in mind of your father, it does.” He leaned over and gave her hand a quick
pat.

Bea looked past him to where Easton sat upon his black
stallion. And just as had happened the previous night, she was caught by his
gaze. He looked into her eyes and she felt trapped there, unable to look away.
His look was fierce, his brows pulled low, his lips drawn tight and thin, his
jaw clamped so hard that she could see the muscles bunch and jump. Without
conscious thought, she nudged Lancelot forward until their mounts bumped heads
and blew great puffs of air at each other.

Lancelot whinnied and stepped to the side of the other
horse, bringing Bea that much nearer to Easton. Her knee bumped his once and
the contact brought her back to herself. She tore her gaze from him and looked
around dazedly.

Bertie and Hastings were engaged in a boisterous
conversation that seemed centered around the fact that Bertie had helped Bea to
choose her horse.