“Who is she sponsoring?” Jocelyn's voice rose.
“No, no.” Richard shook his head. “She’s not precisely going to sponsor—”
“A London season would be rather exciting,” Marianne said wistfully.
Emma smiled. “Wouldn’t it?”
Richard tried again. “Not the entire season—”
“Balls and routs,” Marianne’s voice was wistful.
“And masquerades and rides in the park.” Becky wrinkled her nose. “Not that we have anything to wear to such things.”
“Mother’s old clothes are still in the attic,” Marianne pointed out.
Emma shook her head. “They are sadly out of style.”
“But of good quality,” Marianne said. “The fabric should be—”
“Who cares about the blasted fabric!” Jocelyn stamped her foot. “Who are you taking to London?”
At once five pairs of eyes pinned him. Regardless of what he said now, there would be disappointment. He drew a steadying breath. “Emma.”
“Me?” Emma’s eyes widened.
Richard nodded. “You are the oldest.”
“But the only true purpose of a season in London is to make a suitable match, and I’m not at all certain I wish to find a husband.” Emma’s shoulders dropped in resignation. “I’m somewhat older than is usual for a first season.”
“She’s practically on the shelf,” Jocelyn wailed. “A season would be wasted on her.”
“Nonsense,” Richard said firmly. “Emma has more than earned this opportunity.”
Emma shook her head. “I daresay I—”
“No, my dear, you deserve it.” He moved to her and placed his hands on her shoulders, his gaze trapping hers. “Through most of your life you’ve taken the place of parent here. You’ve managed this household in my absence and done it far better than I could have. Now, we have the chance to allow you to at least sample a bit of what would have been your due if life had not turned out as it had.”
“But I can’t leave the manor.” Indecision sounded in Emma’s voice, and at once Richard knew she did indeed want to go. “Who will—”
“I will.” Confidence sounded in Marianne’s voice. “I’m perfectly capable of taking your place. After all, you won’t be gone forever.”
“Unless she finds a husband.” Becky’s grin matched Marianne’s. “A husband with a great fortune preferably.”
“If the idea is for one of us to make a good match,” Jocelyn said, clasping her hands together and smiling innocently, “perhaps we would be better served by sending someone else.”
Emma’s eyes flashed with laughter, and Richard held his tongue. Jocelyn’s opinion of herself was no surprise, but what Richard couldn’t understand was why the rest of his sisters didn’t realize they were just as lovely. He stepped away from Emma and considered Jocelyn thoughtfully.
“Why, you may have something there.” He folded his arms over his chest and drew his brows together. “What would you suggest?”
“Well, let me think.” Jocelyn’s voice held a current of suppressed excitement, like a rapid stream eager to break through a dam. Richard stifled a grin. “It’s not that Emma isn’t pleasant enough in appearance, but she said it herself.” Her voice dropped as if she were revealing a distressing secret. “She’s really rather old. One-and-twenty.”
“As old as that,” Richard said solemnly. “Then perhaps Marianne should go?”
“I’d love to go to London,” Marianne said.
“Marianne is but a year younger than Emma,” Jocelyn said quickly. “And she’s such a bluestocking, why, she’d scarcely notice if she were here or in London.”
“I’d notice.” Marianne’s tone was wry.
“That could be a problem.” Richard shook his head and sighed dramatically. “What a pity. Here I have the opportunity to bring one of you to London, yet there seems to be an impediment to everyone I suggest. I don’t imagine you have any way to solve this dilemma?”
“Me?” Jocelyn’s expression mirrored the feigned surprise in her voice. Becky snickered, and Jocelyn shot her a sharp glance. “I can’t really ... I mean I don’t think ... well, I suppose I could be prevailed upon to go.”
“You?” Richard stared as if the idea was completely unexpected.
“I’d be willing to do it.” Jocelyn glanced around the room and added quickly, “for the sake of the family, of course.”
“Of course,” Richard murmured. “How thoughtful of you.”
“Then, may I go?” she said eagerly. Apparently Jocelyn was the only one present who had no idea her ploy to go to London was futile.
He smiled pleasantly. “No.”
Her expression fell. “No? As simple as that? Just no?”
“Very well,” Richard grinned. “Absolutely not.”
Frustration colored Jocelyn's face. “Why n—”
“Because, my dear.” Louella got to her feet. “Emma is the oldest and should have had a season long ago. This arrangement of Richard’s, as precarious as it sounds, is better than nothing at all.”
Jocelyn huffed. “But it isn’t at all fair. Emma doesn’t even want to go.”
“In point of fact, I rather like the idea.” Emma’s eyes sparkled, and Richard realized that he, too, had assumed his oldest sister had little desire to go to London. Once again, he was wrong. Apparently he didn’t know women, especially his sisters, as well as he’d always thought he did.
“Nonetheless.” Louella pinned Jocelyn with a no-nonsense stare. “There will be no more discussion about it. I agree with your brother’s decision.”
“There is a first for everything,” he said under his breath.
Louella cast him a sharp glare, then turned her attention to Emma. “Now then, my dear, we must see to your bags. The rest of you can come along and help.” She and the girls started for the door.
“No more than one bag,” he said. “I don’t plan on taking the carriage, so we shall have to share my horse.”
Emma stopped, her chin tilted in a stubborn manner. “I will bring my paints, Richard.”
He groaned. It was a continuing dispute between them. Emma had a fine hand with watercolors, but she longed to work in oils, and that he would not allow. Oils were for professional artists, men intending to sell their work. Watercolors were quite respectable for a proper lady. Even so, he’d prefer she give it up altogether. Regardless of what he did to eke out a living, there was no place in that odd world for his sister.
“I will not leave them behind.”
“Very well,” he snapped. “Bring the blasted things.”
Emma smiled and left the room behind Louella. Marianne and Becky followed, trailed by a sullen Jocelyn.
“Jocelyn.” He caught her hand and pulled her around to face him. “Do try to understand my reasoning.”
“I do,” she sighed. “It’s just... have you ever wanted something so badly it hurts?” She gazed up at him with all the intense emotion of youth in her eyes.
“Perhaps,” His heart went out to her. “I will make you a promise here and now. Should all go as I hope, you will come to London next year and have your season.”
She studied him for a moment. “Do you mean it?”
He nodded solemnly. “I do.”
“And if all doesn’t go as you hope?” She considered him carefully.
“If it doesn’t...” Richard shrugged in surrender. “I shall still do everything in my power to assure you of a season.”
She stared in suspicion. “And I have your word?”
“You do.” He nodded solemnly.
“Very well then. I shall hold you to it.” She smiled with satisfaction, swiveled, and swept out of the room.
He stared after her, his smile fading. Damnation, the last thing he needed was one more practical reason to marry Gillian. No matter what else was at stake, nothing was as important to Jocelyn as a season in London. Now he’d gone and given her his solemn vow.
And there wasn’t the slightest chance she’d ever let him forget it.
“Then I shall see you tomorrow evening?” Richard held Gillian’s hand and gazed into her eyes.
“Yes.” In spite of her best efforts, her voice had a disturbing, breathless quality. “As I said, I’ve arranged a small dinner party. I thought it would be best to start with something simple before throwing Emma full tilt into the social whirl of the
ton
. There is a ball the night after and another—”
“What of tonight?” Richard’s voice was intense.
“I am ... engaged this evening.” Her first sitting with Toussaint was tonight. His note arranging the details had been delivered by a somewhat grubby boy, according to Wilkins. Now she had no way to reach the artist and rather regretted agreeing to the appointment.
“Engaged?”
“Yes.” The heat of his hand crept up her arms and flushed through her body. How could any man have such warm hands? Was the rest of him as warm?
“Should I be jealous?” A teasing light shone in his eyes.
“I don’t know. Are you?” She tried to match the lightness of his tone, but somehow her words held a deeper meaning.
“Always.” He pulled her hand to his mouth and placed a kiss in her palm. Her breath caught. His gaze never left hers. “Until tomorrow, then.”
“Tomorrow,” she said softly.
He released her and stepped through the open door. She closed it slowly, turned, and leaned against it, needing support for legs abruptly too weak to hold her upright.
Richard had left for the country yesterday morning to fetch his sister and had returned late this afternoon. It had been barely two days since she’d last seen him at Lady Forester’s masquerade. Barely two days since they’d spent most of the ball together and she’d laughed more than she’d suspected possible, never imagining she’d enjoy the simple pleasure of any man’s company as much. Barely two days since he’d held her in his arms and danced in a manner at once proper and intimate, charged with emotions she’d never dreamed she’d know again.
And in those two bare days, every minute, every hour, she’d thought of nothing but him.
What was happening to her? Was her desire for a simple, convenient marriage, nothing more than a means to an end, evolving into desire of a more profound nature? Was the fluttering in her stomach, the weakness in her knees, the quickening of her pulse whenever he so much as entered the room symptoms of her own fears? Or was she afraid of something she’d never considered?
Was she falling in love?
She pushed aside the idea and straightened, refusing to give it another thought. She simply had no time at the moment. Gillian shook her head and walked into the parlor. Emma stood on the far side, studying one of the many paintings that graced the walls.
For a moment, Gillian considered her thoughtfully. Emma was as tall as Gillian and with coloring that echoed her brother’s. How had he described her? Oh yes,
an attractive bit of baggage
. She was indeed. Regardless of her age, with the proper clothing, Gillian was certain this particular sister would not go unnoticed by the unmarried gentlemen of the
ton
.
“Do you like art?” Gillian crossed the room.
“Very much. We used to have a great many paintings at the manor, but,” she shrugged in a matter-of-fact manner, “father sold them.”
Gillian stepped to her side. “What a shame. I find there’s nothing that makes me feel better about life than losing myself in the viewing of a beautiful work.”
“As if you could simply step through the frame and into a whole new world,” Emma murmured.
“Exactly.” So, the eminently practical Emma Richard had described was not quite so down-to-earth as her brother thought. What else didn’t Richard know about his sister?
“These are wonderful.” Emma leaned closer to the landscape that had captured her attention. “Richard says you know a great many artists.”
“And poets, writers, and musicians. And more than my fair share of politicians as well.”
“It must be very interesting.”
“It is for the most part. The politicians can be a bit trying.”
Emma nodded absently and stepped to the next painting, the work done by Toussaint “Richard used to paint, you know.”
“No, I didn’t.” Surprise coursed through her. “He’s never said a word.”
“No, he probably wouldn’t. It was a very long time ago. I daresay he hasn’t touched a brush in years.” Emma glanced at her. “As I understand it, father decreed painting was no way for a future earl to spend his time. I only know about it at all because I found some of his paintings after father’s death. Molly told me—”
“Molly?”
“Our maid.” Emma smiled apologetically. “Our only maid. She’s been with us for as long as I can remember. At any rate, she said mother encouraged Richard to paint. But after she died, father forbid it. They had quite a row about it. Apparently father said some awful things to him, although Molly never told me precisely what. I suspect that’s one of the reasons why we rarely saw him after mother’s death. And then of course, father was different after that too...”
She nodded at the landscape. “This work reminds me a little of Richard’s. Of course, he wasn’t nearly this good.”
So Richard was once an artist himself. No wonder his observations were so perceptive.
Emma peered intently at the painting, as if studying the technique. Gillian had seen similar expressions on the faces of artists perusing the work of peers. Did the creative urge run through all of Richard’s family? “Do you paint?”
“Watercolors,” Emma said absently. “I should like to paint in oils but Richard doesn’t feel they’re appropriate for a woman.”
“Oh?”
“No. He says women don’t have the temperament for oils, for great art. He says women are more suited for the less serious nature of watercolors.”
“He does, does he? How very interesting.” Interesting indeed and more than a touch annoying. “Well, Richard is wrong.”
Emma laughed. “I’ve always thought so, in this particular case anyway.”
“Yes, but I can prove it.” Gillian paused for a moment. Surely it would do no harm to share her secret with Emma. Already she quite liked the young woman and was confident she would understand, at least when it came to this particular subject. “Come with me. I want to show you something.”
She led Emma up the stairs to her own chamber and threw open the door. A series of four paintings, rather average in size, hung on the wall opposite the entry, the only art in the room.
Emma gasped.
From their position in the doorway, the works seemed to be created of light instead of mere paint. As if the late afternoon sun shone through them, from them, rather than streaking in through the windows on the adjacent wall.
“They’re magnificent.” Awe sounded in Emma’s voice, and she moved toward them.
Gillian smiled with satisfaction. “They are indeed.”
When first seen from the entry, they appeared to be simple scenes: two of the rich English countryside, and one each of the sea and a rocky coast, with only that amazing illusion of illumination marking them as created by the same hand and setting them apart from the ordinary. But Gillian knew that as one drew closer, the images became distinct. They were indeed landscapes, but of no scenery seen on earth. Highly idealized, they depicted life as it should be, fraught with an ethereal quality and a sheer joy that had touched her soul from the first moment she’d laid eyes on them.
Emma stopped a few feet from the wall and stared. A reverence reserved for all things holy sounded in her voice. “They’re brilliant. I feel as though I should hold my hands out before me to see if light falls on them.”
Gillian laughed softly. “It won’t. I’ve tried.”
Emma fell silent, lost in contemplation of the works and the emotions they would surely trigger. Gillian well remembered her first sight of the paintings during a time when she’d wondered if her own life had ended with her husband’s. A time when she’d often wished she had the courage to make certain it did in reality as well as in spirit.
“They were painted by a woman, weren’t they?”
Gillian nodded. “Yes.”
Emma’s gaze didn’t waver from the paintings. “Who was she?”
“I don’t know a great deal about her. Only that she was originally from a noble family and apparently gave up all ties to pursue her art. She died alone and penniless years before I found these. I bought them from a dealer who claimed he had purchased them from a relative, although I doubt the veracity of that story. In spite of their brilliance, I paid next to nothing for them.” Gillian smiled humorlessly. “They were painted by an unknown woman and therefore the dealer considered them of little value. He was happy just to get them off his hands.
“He didn’t even know her name. Neither do I. There are initials in the corner, but I’ve never been able to make them out.”
Emma glanced at her curiously. “These mean a great deal to you, don’t they?”
“Yes, they do.” Gillian hesitated. Robin and Kit had seen the paintings but she’d never told them why they were so important to her. Of course, they’d never asked. Never suspected that their value to Gillian went beyond aesthetics. She hadn’t told anyone of her true feelings and wasn’t entirely sure why she trusted Emma, but she did. Perhaps it was because she was a woman. Or an artist. Or, more likely, both.
She drew a deep breath. “When Charles, my husband, died, I’d thought I died as well. In truth, I wanted to. At first I couldn’t do anything but weep and then I couldn’t do anything but sleep and finally ... I couldn’t seem to do anything at all. I was rather mad at the time I think.”
Gillian wrapped her arms around herself. “My family and two dear friends, you’ll meet them tomorrow, were wonderful through it all. Eventually they made me understand I had to continue with my life although I didn’t have any desire to.
“But I pretended, for them really, and made a good show of it. I went to balls and gatherings and said all the right things, but it always felt as though I was an apparition, a ghost, at once there and not there. I existed but wasn’t really present.” She pulled her brows together. “Does that make any sense whatsoever?”
“I think so.” Emma nodded thoughtfully. “Please go on.”
Gillian’s thoughts traveled back through the years. “I found myself being drawn increasingly to concerts and galleries. I discovered I could escape my life for a few hours in music and even more in art.
“When I stumbled upon these, quite by accident, mind you, they touched me in some odd way.” She stared at the seascape in front of her. “They seemed somehow vibrant and, well, alive. More alive than I was.
“I still can’t tell you exactly how it happened.” Gillian paused to pull her thoughts together. “I looked at these paintings and I could smell the scent of the sea and feel the spray of the ocean or the freshness of spring in the country. One moment I was living as though in a dream and the next I had awakened. The world around me was once more solid and real and I was alive again as I hadn’t been since Charles’s death.”
Emma studied her silently.
Gillian forced a light laugh. “It still sounds quite mad, doesn’t it?”
“Not at all.” A slight smile lifted the corners of Emma’s lips. “We each handle grief in our own way.”
Gillian raised an amused brow. “You’re rather wise for one so young.”
“I’m practically in my dotage, according to at least one of my sisters. Besides,” Emma shrugged, “I’ve seen what grief can do.”
Of course Emma would be well acquainted with grief with both her parents dead. Regardless of how much of a scoundrel her father had been, his loss would still affect his children. Gratitude welled within her at the knowledge that her own parents were alive and well.
“So did you begin your salons to assist artists?”
“In part. I felt as if I had a debt to repay. I would very much like to lend my support to female artists, although those who attempt to display their work publicly are rare. I only know of a few, and even they have left England to work in Paris.” She nodded at the paintings. “She probably died as much from poverty and neglect as anything else.”
“It’s a pity women with talent like this can’t make their own way.” Emma shook her head. “It must be impossible to create works of this nature without knowing where your next meal will come from or if you will keep a roof over your head.”
“I don’t know how she managed to survive at all,” Gillian said softly.
Emma turned and folded her arms over her chest. “Why don’t you do something then? For women like that?”
Gillian heaved a frustrated sigh. “First of all, I have no idea what I could do. Secondly, anything truly beneficial would take money.”
Emma’s eyes widened. “But I thought... that is, I assumed you were quite wealthy.”
Gillian chose her words carefully. “I have the prospects of a substantial fortune. But at the moment, I have little more than what you see here.”
“Oh dear.” Emma’s forehead furrowed as if she was considering this detail, which Richard had obviously failed to mention.
Gillian stepped across the room, perched on the edge of the bed, and waited.
Emma’s gaze met hers. “What is your relationship with my brother?”