She looked at him in surprise. "Exactly. Have you forgotten my scandalous behavior?"
"Not forgotten, but I didn't really consider the implications. I left that sort of thing to your mother. I guess I assumed that after the scandal died down, you stayed close to home by choice." His mouth twisted. "
I
know I'm not a very good father, but it's unpleasant to be reminded of that."
Touched, she said, "You're the right father for me. Who else would have taught me how to be an artist, and given me such freedom to do as I pleased?"
"You were born an artist—I didn't teach you that." He sighed. "You and Helen always made it easy for me to be selfish. It's a fine line between freedom and neglect, and too often I've crossed it. I should have paid more attention. Set more rules."
"Surely you're not going to start now," she said, alarmed. "I'm too old to train to obedience."
He smiled a little sadly. "There's no need. You've turned out rather well, small thanks to me."
She said crisply, "Don't brood, Father. If social life was important to me, I could have found a way to have one years ago. I'm only considering it now because of Kenneth's desire to introduce me to society. To be honest, I'd really rather not."
"Do what Kenneth suggests," her father ordered. "Your birth entitles you to move in the highest circles, and that's a resource that shouldn't be wasted. I'll ask Kenneth if I can help, but I imagine he has matters well in hand. He's the best secretary I've ever had."
She wasn't sure she liked her father's answer. Secretly she had hoped he would say that she shouldn't waste her time on socializing. Was her reluctance shyness, or fear?
It was fear. The dark side of an artist's perception was painful sensitivity. At least that was the case for her. Being a recluse was far easier than venturing into an abrasive world. But she ran the risk of withering away personally and creatively; she'd be a fool to turn down this chance to expand her horizons.
Decision made, Rebecca strolled over to another work in progress and flipped back the cloth that covered it. "So this is the portrait of the twins. it's coming nicely."
"The challenge is to show the differences in the women's personalities when their features are so similar." Her father came to stand beside her. "Lady Strathmore is on the right and Lady Markland on the left. What are their temperaments?"
Rebecca studied the portrait. "Lady Markland is more outgoing. There's mischief in her eyes. Lady Strathmore is quieter, more reflective. A little shy."
"Good, good," her father murmured. "I've gotten it right."
"You need to work on the dark-haired gentleman." She pointed. "The left leg is a bit off."
"Mmm, so it is. I'll fix it at the next session." He covered the canvas again. "How is Kenneth's portrait coming?"
"Quite nicely." She started to elaborate, then settled for saying, "He has such an interesting face."
Her father also had an artist's perception. She didn't want to risk the chance of him seeing things she wasn't willing to admit even to herself.
Rebecca descended from the carriage with trepidation. Then she started up the marble steps of Ashburton House, glad rain made the steps slippery enough to give her an excuse to cling to Kenneth's arm. "I'm going to regret this," she muttered as he rapped the door with a lion-head knocker.
"No, you won't," he said reassuringly. "it's only an informal dinner with two very pleasant people."
Perhaps, but her heart was beating at a rate just below terror. She thought of every leer and sneer and lifted eyebrow that had ever been directed her way, and was tempted to bolt. God help her, when it was time for the ladies to withdraw, she would be alone with Catherine the Paragon.
Too late. The door was opened by a horribly superior butler. After removing their cloaks, the guests were ushered into an elegant drawing room. Rebecca's gaze went to the man and woman who rose and came to greet their guests. Even though the two weren't touching, they were
together
in a way that was almost palpable. They made a striking couple. Close up, Catherine Kenyon was even more beautiful than at a distance.
Kenneth gently urged her forward with a large hand on her lower back. "Michael, Catherine, this is my friend Miss Seaton."
Catherine smiled and clasped Rebecca's hand. "I'm so happy to meet you," she said, and seemed to mean it.
"The pleasure is mine, Lady Michael," Rebecca murmured.
"Please, call me Catherine."
Impossible to resist such warmth. "My name is Rebecca."
Lord Michael greeted her and made his bow. His eyes were a dear, true green. Even more interesting was what she saw in their depths. Her father had said that a soldier's eyes revealed how much combat he had seen, and it was true. The same steely strength that marked Kenneth was in his friend.
Thinking aloud, she said, "You'd make a wonderful model for Alexander the Great." Then she colored as she realized how inappropriate the comment was.
Lord Michael merely grinned. "Kenneth said you were an artist to the bone. He didn't exaggerate."
She smiled ruefully. "If Kenneth meant I don't know how to say hello like a normal person, I'm afraid he was right."
"I think that normality is greatly overrated," Catherine said as she led her guests to the fire. "Don't you?"
Rebecca smiled, and began to relax. By the time they went in to dinner, she was enjoying herself. The Kenyons were as nice as Kenneth had promised. The pleasure they felt in Kenneth's company was unhesitatingly extended to her. By the time she and her hostess left the gentlemen to their port, she was no longer alarmed at the thought of being alone with Catherine.
After they left the dining room, Catherine said, "This is horribly rude of me, but I need to go upstairs to feed my son." She pulled her Indian shawl more closely, unconsciously brushing one of her breasts. "Will you mind dreadfully if I leave you alone in the library for a few minutes?"
To her surprise, Rebecca found herself saying, "If it wouldn't be an intrusion, I'd like to come and see your baby."
Her hostess beamed. "It's impossible to insult a mother by wanting to meet her children. I'm only sorry that my daughter is staying with friends tonight."
They went up to the nursery, where a middle-aged nurse was rocking the baby by the fire. "You're just in time, my lady," she said placidly. "Young master is getting right peckish and no mistake." After handing the baby to Catherine, she went downstairs for a cup of tea.
The infant began to nuzzle his mother hungrily. Rebecca studied him with fascination, trying to remember if she had ever been this close to a baby. She didn't think so. Such tiny hands. Such gossamer hair. "He's beautiful. What is his name?"
"Nicholas, after one of Michael's oldest friends. He looks very like his father, don't you think?" Catherine said fondly as she lowered herself into the rocking chair.
Under the soft drape of her shawl, she unbuttoned the front of her specially designed gown with one hand. Then she cradled her son to her breast. The infant's soft mouth greedily fastened onto his mother's nipple and he began to nurse with furious intensity, his miniature hands locking into fists.
Once the baby was properly settled, Catherine said to her guest, "Please, do sit down. This will take a bit of time."
Rebecca obeyed, moving with a quietness that seemed natural in the nursery. "I'm woefully ignorant about babies, but isn't it rare for a woman of your station to nurse her own child?"
Catherine laughed softly. "I may be Lady Michael now, but when my daughter was born, I was merely an army wife looking for the best way to care for my baby. After nursing Amy, I decided that only a fool would surrender such joy to a wet nurse."
The sight of mother and child made Rebecca ache with tenderness. Kenneth had said he wanted to broaden her life, and in a single evening he had already succeeded. For the first time she recognized what she was losing by turning her back on marriage and the chance of children.
The women talked in a desultory fashion until Nicholas had nursed his fill. Catherine deftly redid her gown, then tilted the baby against her shoulder and gently patted his back.
Rebecca remarked, "The two of you would make a magnificent Madonna and Child painting."
"I suppose seeing the world as potential pictures is part of what makes an artist," Catherine said thoughtfully. "I envy your talent. I've no special abilities, except perhaps for nursing the ill and wounded."
Catherine was wrong, Rebecca thought. She had the most precious talent of all: the courage to freely give and receive love. It was a gift greater even than her beauty.
Rising from the rocking chair, Catherine asked, "Would you like to hold Nicholas?"
"Me?" Rebecca's voice was a squeak. "What if I drop him?"
Catherine transferred the baby to Rebecca's nervous grasp. "You won't."
The infant opened his eyes and blinked sleepily at her. He did look like his father, but like his mother as well. His skin had the delicate tints of the finest watercolors.
What would it be like to hold a child of her own like this? To look for signs of family resemblance, and for features that were uniquely the infant's own?
What would it be like to hold a baby that had been made by her and Kenneth?
The thought touched something unbearably vulnerable inside her. If she and Kenneth had a child, it probably wouldn't be so beautiful as this one, but she wouldn't mind. She wouldn't mind at all.
With infinite care, she handed the baby back to his mother. "He's going to be a heartbreaker when he grows up."
"He already is." Catherine laid her son into a cradle that boasted a carved and gilded Ashburton crest on the side. Before straightening, she brushed his cheek with a feather-light kiss. "Everyone in the family adores him, especially my daughter."
Rebecca glanced around the nursery. "Does Nicholas have any cousins his age?"
"I'm afraid not. Michael's brother, Stephen, was married for many years, but he and his wife never had children." Catherine's brow furrowed. "Stephen is in the country now, in mourning because his wife died last year. I hope he remarries and has better luck. Nicholas is in line to inherit the dukedom someday, and I'd rather that didn't happen. Being a duke doesn't seem to have brought Stephen much happiness."
The nurse returned from her tea and resumed her vigil with the baby. But as Rebecca left the room she cast one last look at the sleeping infant, and thought of Kenneth. What was happening to her?
After the ladies withdrew, Michael Kenyon indicated the two decanters that the butler had set out. "What will it be—my brother's excellent port, or some ferocious Scottish whiskey?"
Kenneth grinned. "A wee dram of whiskey, of course. For old times' sake."
After his host poured the drinks, they settled back to talk. Michael said, "Your young lady is delightful. She makes me think of a shy sword, if there is such a thing."
"It's not a bad description, but she's not my young lady."
Michael cocked a skeptical brow but didn't pursue the point. "What kind of painting does she do?"
"Oil portraits, usually of women. On one level they're wonderfully individual, yet at the same time they have a mythic, larger-than-life quality that is uniquely hers. I've suggested she submit to the Royal Academy, but she won't hear of it."
"It must be hard for her, knowing she will inevitably be judged as her father's daughter," Michael observed. "You said she needs social rehabilitation. What happened?"
"An elopement when she was eighteen. Luckily she had the sense to back out before it was too late, but of course there was a scandal." Kenneth frowned. "Her parents should have waited two or three years, then quietly brought her out among their own friends. She could have moved from artistic circles into broader society. Instead, she was allowed to burrow into her attic studio and become completely isolated. Even though you and Catherine aren't much for grand society, I hope you have friends who will receive her. She needs to meet more people."
Michael considered. "My friend Rafe—the Duke of Candover, you know—is giving a ball next week. I'll ask him to send cards to you and Rebecca."
Kenneth shook his head, impressed. "Knowing the right people makes it so easy. Once she's seen at Candover's, almost all doors will be open to her. I doubt she'll ever be a social butterfly, but at least she'll have choices." He made a face. "Unfortunately I'll have to go, too."
"A ball will be good for you," Michael said callously. "But tell me more about your work. Somehow I don't think you became Sir Anthony Seaton's secretary merely to meet artists."
Kenneth hesitated only a moment before abandoning discretion. "You're right. I was sent there to investigate a mysterious death, but it's the most bloody maddening job I've ever been given." Tersely he explained Lord Bowden's offer, and the complications he had met while trying to learn about how Helen Seaton had died. It was an immense relief to express some of his frustration to a trustworthy friend.
After listening in silence, Michael said, "I understand Bowden's desire to learn the truth, but the situation must be damnably awkward. Obviously you like Rebecca, and it sounds as if you like Sir Anthony, too."