A Marriage of Inconvenience (11 page)

Lucy blushed.

“Miss Jones is an artist herself,” Lord Selsley said smoothly. “I’ve seen her sketchbook. She has a most extraordinary eye for detail.” He studied his hands, then his father’s, with a pleased nod, and Lucy understood that he considered any comparison to his father a great compliment.

She had noticed Lord Selsley’s hands from the first, though she didn’t think it was because she was an artist. They were, quite simply, beautiful—large yet graceful, the fingers long and tapering. When he had kissed her, his hands had been warm and strong at her waist, drawing her closer to him…She turned her head aside and stepped away, turning to face the next painting, a landscape.

Lord Selsley was instantly at her side, Mrs. Cathcart and her daughter not far behind. He described the painting: where his father had purchased it, its subject. “He made many trips to the continent to build his collection—of course, in those days we were at peace,” he said.

“He must have loved art,” Lucy said.

“Oh, he did, he truly did. But you mustn’t think too highly of him. He had this splendid gallery to fill, and since we don’t have the right pedigree to have a long line of family portraits…”

Lucy turned to smile at him, forgetting her intent to ignore him as much as possible and concentrate only on the paintings. “Naturally he didn’t want to leave it as empty space.”

“Of course not. And it’s a worthy inheritance. I don’t consider myself in any sense a connoisseur, but I like to come here, and of course I make the collection open to any respectable person who wants to view it.”

“It’s splendid,” Lucy said.

They moved on to the next painting and the next, and Lucy managed to lose herself in the art, her disturbing attraction to Lord Selsley and her worries over Sebastian and Miss Wright-Gordon forgotten. Such beauty, such variety! She longed to return with her sketchbook and spend hours before each painting.

Near the end of the collection, they stopped before a rather small painting, a nativity scene with the Holy Family alone in the stable, before the arrival of shepherds and magi. Mary and Joseph were half in shadow, but a beam of light shone across the Christ Child lying in the manger. Simple as it was, Lucy had never seen anything so perfect.

“The Rembrandt,” she breathed.

“Indeed,” Lord Selsley replied. “The pride of my father’s collection.”

The Cathcart ladies exclaimed briefly over its beauty, but soon moved on. Lucy lingered, and Lord Selsley stayed by her side. Neither spoke, and Lucy felt the same camaraderie they had shared before their kiss. He understood.

When they at last stepped away, the others had finished examining the paintings and were standing at a glass-topped cabinet halfway across the room, apparently discussing its contents. She was almost alone with Lord Selsley, but that shouldn’t frighten her. With the Cathcart ladies in the room, all the proprieties were being observed.

“I’m sure the Rembrandt is the best of the collection,” Lord Selsley said, “but this one is my favorite. The Jacques-Louis David. It’s not the same level of masterpiece, of course, but I prefer classical themes, and there’s a certain brightness and clarity to it, don’t you think?”

Lucy did not reply, for the painting had struck her speechless. Not for its beauty, though it was a fine work in the classical style, with crisp lines and exquisite colors in shadings of blue and rosy peach. It was simply that the two human figures in the painting—the man, especially—were so very
bare.

“It’s Paris and Helen,” Lord Selsley explained. “I suppose at the point he was persuading her to flee with him to Troy.”

Lucy nodded absently. Helen was clothed, mostly, though her diaphanous draperies failed to fully obscure her nipples. The queen leaned over her Paris, lost in adoration, one arm draped over his very bare shoulders. The prince of Troy was clad, absurdly enough, in sandals, a hat that rather resembled a nightcap, a cloak tossed back over his shoulders and nothing else. He held a small harp in his lap, with a saffron-hued ribbon tied around it that dangled down over his groin.

It was not quite the first time she had ever seen an illustration of an unclothed man. There was nothing of the sort at Swallowfield. The Arringtons’ few paintings were family portraits and landscapes of indifferent quality. But when Lucy was twelve, Miss Bentley, the governess she’d shared with Portia, had given her a book of art instruction, saying that Lucy was ready to move beyond the mere rudiments of sketching and painting. That first day, she had allowed Lucy to look over the book while she gave Portia her French lesson, since Portia was so far ahead of Lucy in that language that there was no point in their sharing a lesson.

Lucy had paged through the first half of the book, which concentrated on landscapes and architectural drawings, but her interest had increased when she came to the section on the human form. Miss Bentley had not taught her to sketch or paint portraits yet, instead setting her landscapes or still lifes, though Lucy had surreptitiously attempted many charcoal portraits. The section had begun with faces, and Lucy had pored eagerly over the illustrations and the instructions on line and proportion.

She had then turned a page and seen, to her shock, entirely naked figures, both male and female. She must have let out an audible gasp, because Miss Bentley had hurried over and snatched the book from her hands.

“Do forgive me, Lucy,” she had said. “I mistakenly selected the wrong book. You are much too young for that one.”

And Lucy had never seen the book again, though for months thereafter she had searched her uncle’s library shelves for it whenever she happened to be alone there.

Those had been tiny engraved illustrations, line drawings in black and white. Monsieur David’s Paris was almost life-sized and painted in oils, all that fair bare skin with powerful muscles rippling beneath. He was beautiful.

Almost involuntarily she looked at Lord Selsley, impeccably and properly attired in evening dress. Did he look like that beneath the black coat and fawn-colored breeches, the embroidered waistcoat and artfully tied cravat? He must. Though he was not a tall man, he could hardly be called small; rather, he radiated a compact power. Certainly he was muscular and well made, or he could not look so attractive in his clothes.

As if he felt her regard, he turned toward her. His eyes widened and darkened all at once, and it seemed to Lucy as if the rest of the room were swallowed up in shadow. He took a half step closer to her, and she knew that if they had been alone, if the Cathcart ladies had not been still chattering away halfway across the room, he would have kissed her then and there. Her body pulsed with memory of yesterday’s kiss and a longing to try it again, only this time she wanted to sink her hands into his dark curly hair and press her body against his—

With a fierce shake of her head, she turned back to the painting. Good God. What was wrong with her? Paris in the painting didn’t even resemble Lord Selsley, not in the least particular. He was golden-haired and classically handsome, far more like Sebastian than Lord Selsley, with his black hair and strong, Scottish features.

“I suppose we should return to the drawing room,” Lord Selsley said in a tight voice. “I believe the other ladies have seen all they wish, and I should not remain away from my other guests too long.”

“Of course not,” Lucy replied when she could find her voice.

They turned away from the painting and silently walked toward the others. After a moment Lucy spoke again, half to pretend that look had never happened, half out of fear he would think her rude. “Thank you for showing me your gallery,” she said softly.

He smiled at her, a tender expression lacking its usual mischief. “You’re welcome. I’m delighted to give it an audience that knows how to appreciate it properly.”

An hour or two of cards and music passed before James could be rid of all his guests. By the end of the evening he was in no social mood and would have preferred to avoid even his sister and aunt and uncle. Uncle Robert and Aunt Lilias, obligingly enough, went yawning upstairs to their bed, but Anna followed him into the library.

“Aren’t you tired?” he asked, tucking the decanter of whisky he’d been reaching for back into its cabinet and taking a seat at his desk.

“Not in the least,” she said as she drew out the chair opposite him.

They studied each other in silence for a moment. Anna picked up the object that happened to be nearest her—one of their father’s Indian idols, a golden, ruby-eyed statue of Shiva—and idly traced its outlines with her fingertips. “So, brother,” she said with unconvincing casualness, “what’s the trouble between you and Miss Jones?”

He sighed. He’d been afraid Anna had noticed the awkward byplay between them, but had hoped that she was too caught up in Lieutenant Arrington to remember or care by the end of the evening.

“Nothing,” he said. “She’s a very sweet girl.” Now, that was damning with faint praise. The more he knew Lucy Jones, the less he would describe her as anything so insipid as “sweet.” No, her flavor was sharp and complex, with the faint bitterness of fine wine.

“Hmph.” Anna set the idol back on the desk, next to a matching Ganesha, the one shown in their father’s portrait. “I’ve never seen you so embarrassed as when she arrived this evening. You were actually blushing.”

“Hardly. I certainly wasn’t the interesting shade of pink you turned when your subaltern entered the room.”

“We are not talking about me. First, ladies are supposed to blush. Second, Lieutenant Arrington is courting me. Anyone can see
that.
But as far as everyone knows, Miss Jones is just our neighbor’s guest, no one of any particular interest to you. Yet when you see her, you blush.”

“I do not.” He did not quite expect her to believe him. He suspected he had blushed a little, and Anna, who was observant enough about everything save Sebastian Arrington’s flaws, would not be easily convinced she had imagined things. But deny he must, for he could hardly tell her what had happened.

“You do.” She regarded him quizzically, head cocked to one side. “I like her very well, I truly do, but isn’t she rather quiet and unworldly for you?”

“Anna. While I certainly respect Miss Jones and wish her all the good fortune in the world, I am not her admirer. Get that idea out of your head.”

With an amused shake of her head, she got to her feet. “Well, she’ll have good fortune if she marries you.”

Women! The instant he showed the faintest hint of admiration for a girl, his sister was ready to send an announcement to the
Gazette
and post the banns. “As her cousin will if
he
marries
you.
”

She shrugged. “I’ll not deny it’s a comfort to have enough money of my own that I need never worry over a prospective suitor’s income.”

He frowned at her. “Anna, has it never occurred to you that Lieutenant Arrington might be a fortune hunter?”

She gave him the kindly look a mother or teacher might give a confused and ignorant child. “After two Seasons in London, I think I know a fortune hunter when I see one.” He started to speak, but she raised a hand to forestall him. “I’m not saying my fortune, or Alec’s position in the regiment, for that matter, lessens my appeal. But he admires
me.
Not my income. I can tell, and I know what I’m about. Goodnight, brother.” With that, she turned and sailed from the room, her head lifted in triumph.

“Goodnight,” James said to the door as it closed behind her. He rubbed his eyes. Perhaps he’d seek his bed, as well. He wished he could share Anna’s certainty about Arrington’s motives and good qualities, but he couldn’t set aside his instinctive bristling dislike of the man. At least Arrington would be gone in a fortnight. Surely nothing could happen in so short a time, not unless Anna took up some reckless, romantical notion that she must marry him before he went off to risk his life for king and country.

Unfortunately, that would be just like her. James sighed. He would speak to Uncle Robert tomorrow. As Anna’s guardian, the earl must be the one to forbid a hasty marriage if it came to that. If only Uncle Robert had a little more backbone when it came to Anna, but he never denied her anything. So James would speak to Aunt Lilias, too. He knew she didn’t want to see Anna paired with a Sassenach of no especial rank or fortune. He hated to use his aunt’s prejudices in such a way, but if it would save Anna from an improvident marriage…

He left the library. As he walked upstairs and past the door to the gallery, he smiled as he remembered Miss Jones’s pleasure at the paintings and how lovely she’d looked in her enraptured concentration. And when they’d looked at the David together—well, Anna was right. He admired Miss Jones. More than that, he
wanted
her. He wanted to take her hair down, one pin at a time, and run his hands through the shining brown length. He wanted her soft bare skin pressed against his own. But nothing would come of it. She was a young woman of good character who deserved nothing short of marriage, and he was not ready to seek a wife.

Lucy felt surprisingly at peace the afternoon after the dinner at Orchard Park. She sat on a shaded bench in the Almont Castle rose garden, engaged in desultory conversation with Sebastian, who was pacing about the garden to strengthen his leg. The ball in the castle keep to celebrate Portia and Lord Almont’s impending nuptials was scheduled for the next evening, and Sebastian had promised to try to dance with her—“something slow, Lucy, perhaps a minuet.”

She smiled in anticipation. She was to dance with Sebastian at a ball and wear a beautiful dress, nothing compared to the silken splendor Miss Wright-Gordon would undoubtedly wear, but beautiful nonetheless.

As far as she was concerned, the only thing that marred the perfection of the afternoon was that instead of her sketchbook she had Aunt Arrington’s embroidery in her lap. Lucy didn’t like needlework or, truthfully, any form of sewing. Something about a needle in her hand was as confining as a pencil or paintbrush was freeing. But she had deft fingers and good eyes, while Aunt Arrington had neither, so her aunt always had her do the most complicated bits of any embroidery.

She worked carefully and slowly, since if there was any task more hateful than sewing, it was having to go back, pick out one’s stitches and begin again. Her neck was beginning to stiffen when the sound of a horse cantering up the long drive leading to the castle gave her an excuse to set down the embroidery and look up.

“Why, it’s Hal,” Sebastian said.

Lucy stood and leaned up on her tiptoes so she could see over the garden hedge. It was indeed her eldest cousin, Sir Henry Arrington, mounted on a tall brown horse. “He made good time,” she commented. They hadn’t expected him for another day or two at the earliest.

Together they walked toward the edge of the garden nearest the castle entrance. They reached the rose-bedecked gate as Hal dismounted and tossed his reins to a groom who had run to meet him.

He spotted them, waved and hurried toward them, almost at a run. “Bastian! Lucy!”

Lucy blinked. How very odd. She’d never seen Hal greet anyone in the family half so eagerly before.

Sebastian and Hal clasped hands. “It’s good to see you, brother,” Sebastian said. “Come inside, so you can greet Mama and Portia and meet Lord Almont and his sister.”

Hal shook his head. “Not yet. I’m glad I saw you first. I need your advice.”

Lucy ducked her head and prepared to sidle away. “I’ll go inside and let your mother know you’ve arrived.”

Hal put out a hand to detain her. “No, you should stay. This concerns you, too, and you might have some ideas for how to tell Mama.”

“Tell Mama what?” Sebastian asked with a frown.

Lucy examined Hal more closely and felt a sudden tremor of unease. Hal was a confirmed rakehell, even if Aunt Arrington chose to call it merely “sowing his wild oats, the dear.” Lucy was used to him looking dissolute, a tattered, faded imitation of Sebastian and Portia’s golden good looks. But today he appeared worse than normal, his eyes more bloodshot, the circles beneath them darker, his face more lined than a man’s ought to be at six-and-twenty.

Hal wouldn’t meet their eyes. “Here, let’s sit down,” he said. “I’ve had a long two days on horseback, and your leg…”

Lucy and Sebastian exchanged glances and followed him to the nearest bench, the one where Lord Selsley had touched her hair.

Hal took the middle of the bench, and Sebastian and Lucy sat on either side. “What is it?” Sebastian asked when Hal was slow to speak.

Hal stared at his hands. “You are no doubt aware that I have some gaming debts.”

“I cannot say it’s a surprise,” Sebastian said dryly.

Lucy frowned. Hal’s excessive gambling was one of several unspoken problems in the Arrington household, along with Portia’s difficult temper and Aunt Arrington’s unwillingness to face anything unpleasant or rouse herself to any effort on her children’s or dependents’ behalf. But surely his passion for cards and horses couldn’t lead to something as dreadful as bankruptcy…or could it? While Swallowfield was a fine house on a good-sized estate with productive farmland, the Arringtons had never been rich in cash.

Hal removed his hat, scratched his head and gazed off into the middle distance. “Well, last year, after I turned twenty-five and got full command of the estate and fortune, such as it is, suddenly my creditors grew much less patient.”

“I daresay.” Sebastian shot his brother a look of contempt. “Why are you telling all this to me? I can hardly offer you any relief out of
my
salary.”

“I know that,” Hal snapped. “I never meant for any of you to know how bad things had become. I thought I had a solution that would pay my debts and enrich us to boot.”

“Good God,” Sebastian said, “not a silver extraction scheme! I heard tell of a captain in the navy—”

“I hope I’m not such a fool as that. This seemed a much surer thing. At least, I’ve heard of men who’ve done very well, but…”

His voice trailed off, and he looked frightened and lost. Lucy had never seen Hal like this. He had always been so confident, careless, cheerful. “What was it?” she asked softly.

“A canal.”

“A canal,” Sebastian repeated.

“Yes. A chance to invest in one, in any case. I thought of Charles Denney, and Lord Tresham did very well two years ago—got out of a fix not unlike mine. So when I learned of this chance for a canal in Berkshire, I went back to the moneylenders and persuaded them to give me one last chance.”

“I gather the canal failed,” Sebastian said coldly.

Hal stood up and kicked at the graveled path. “It was all a fraud. The goddamned man took our money and fled with it. Took ship for America.”

“The moneylenders are no longer inclined to patience, I take it.”

“Not in the least. If I don’t retrench to settle the worst of it…it’ll be debtor’s prison for me.”

Lucy gasped. If only Hal were a baron instead of a mere baronet. Among the privileges of peers of the realm was exemption from debtor’s prison. But a baronet was not quite a lord, and so Hal was subject to the same penalties as any common man.

“It’s as bad as that, then?” Sebastian asked.

“I don’t know how to tell Mama. At least her jointure and Portia’s portion are safe, but we’ll have to find a tenant for Swallowfield and move to someplace where we can live more cheaply, perhaps Bath or Clifton. She’d be closer to Portia then; she’d like that. And I’m very sorry, but you’ll have to see to your own promotions.”

Lucy turned to frown worriedly at Sebastian, but he wasn’t looking at her. Without the money to purchase higher rank, his advancement would be slow. “Surely it needn’t come to that,” she said.

“It’s worse, Lucy, it’s worse,” Hal replied. “I—I’m afraid I’ll have to sell the Swallowfield living to the highest bidder.”

She was on her feet before she could remember standing up. “What? But your father promised Owen! What’s to become of him? What about Oxford?”

He rounded on her, guilt replaced by red-faced fury, and Lucy shrank back. Hal wasn’t quite as tall as Sebastian, but he still towered over her. “There is no money, Lucy, don’t you understand? None. No money for Oxford, no money for any of you. I can’t afford acts of charity any longer.”

Her eyes stung, but she blinked, swallowed hard and balled her hands into fists, her fingernails digging into her palms. Never before had any of the Arringtons, not even Portia, so baldly stated what she and her brothers were to them.

She looked to Sebastian for defense, but he only stared at Hal with a troubled frown. Suddenly she couldn’t bear to be there with them in the rose-scented, sunlit garden any longer, so she gathered up her skirts and fled for the castle.

Sebastian shook his head. “Harsh words, brother,” he said.

Hal raked a hand through his unkempt hair. “I spoke before I thought—didn’t mean to hurt her. She’s a good soul, Lucy is. But, damn it, it isn’t as though they’ll starve. Lucy can stay on as Mama’s companion when she removes to Bath or Clifton, and maybe even marry some old fellow who’d like a pretty young nurse or a stepmama for his children. And her brothers have had education enough to get respectable work. I daresay they could do well enough as clerks or secretaries. They’re far better off than they would’ve been if Papa hadn’t taken them in.”

“Undoubtedly.” If they’d stayed in that workhouse they’d be the lowest drudges of servants at best.

“I’d undo it if I could, for all our sakes, but I can’t. So we have to look after ourselves and Mama. We can’t afford charity. We can’t.”

Sebastian nodded curtly. “You’re right. We cannot.” He turned his back on his brother, walking toward a path that led out of the garden and around the back of the castle to the stables.

“Where are you going?” Hal asked.