Lord Sidley's Last Season (22 page)

She was still mulling over her good fortune and its unexpected complications when she returned later that
afternoon. Since she heard company in the west drawing room, she left her supplies for the maid to take on
upstairs and removed her bonnet as she crossed the hall
to greet Edith’s guests.

Inside the room her cousins were entertaining a score
of callers, among them Lord Sidley, Lord Vaughn, and
Clara Poole.

“I believe you know everyone, Marian,” Edith said,
and Marian curtsied in acknowledgment. But her gaze
was solely for Sidley and Lord Vaughn. For though
Vaughn was used to appearing entirely solemn, he was
now grinning broadly, and Sidley, whose health had so
visibly improved over the past two weeks, appeared
again to be ailing.

Marian frowned and moved toward him, only to be
intercepted by Clara.

“Miss Ware,” she said, “I’m so pleased to see you today. I had hoped to meet with you again at the Holnotts’
party last night.”

Marian explained, without truly explaining, why she
had not attended the party with her cousins. Though she
had been immensely relieved by William’s visit, it had
been followed by an unrelieved headache, which fact
she could relay in all truth. Marian liked Clara Poole,
but at the moment she wished only to reach the opposite
side of the room and Sidley. Thankfully, Edith chose to
address Clara just then on some point relating to Dicky
Poole’s engagement, and Marian excused herself.

She dearly wished to speak to him-to acknowledge
his payment, to protest it, to thank him-but though Sidley had often approached her in the past, he did not do so
now. He was frustratingly aloof. And she noticed with
some dismay that his portrait had been brought down
from her room upstairs and placed in one corner on display.

She did not think he would care for that indeed, he
did not look as though he cared for it at all.

“Marian is so clever,” Katie was saying for the whole
company. “Isn’t it wonderful?”

Oh, please, Katie, Marian thought, not now. There was
much chatter, much commendation, as Marian made her
way to Sidley. She noticed with proximity just how pale
and tired he looked.

“Are you well, my lord?”

“We have established that I am” His eyes did not reflect his smile. At her impatient glance he added, “Forgive me. I did not sleep last night. You will have heard
there was an accident outside the Holnotts’ party, and
Griffin Knox was killed. Given the number of revelers
these days, the streets are unsafe at all hours. One can
only do what one must… ” His voice trailed off. He
was looking not at her but at Katie as she gushed to her
callers.

Marian suspected that Lord Sidley had been called
upon more frequently than anyone realized-and that
he did more than most surmised.

“It sounds horrific,” she said.

“Yes.”

“My lord, I must suppose then that I-that is, I must
presume that I will no longer be painting Mrs. Knox.”
Sidley turned to look more fully at her. “Knox did
not request a portrait. I did.”

“You did?”

Once again his gaze surveyed the Formsbys’ guests.
“Some years ago,” he said, “Griffin Knox bought Jenny
Lanning-or as near as one might still come in these
isles to purchasing another. How a man could then be
so jealously possessive of what he’d bought, yet mistreat her so, was a mystery to me. And very hard on my
friend Vaughn there” Sidley raised his chin toward
Lord Vaughn. “I should like the portrait for him, as a
gift. Jenny Knox is a lovely woman, and Vaughn is now
in a position to gratify his heart. A most enviable situation. When the fates intervene, as they did last night, we
must take advantage. Do you not think so?”

Though he was clearly tired, his gaze was at once
very direct and searching. In the pause, Marian thought
him expectant. And she was thinking that the fates had
intervened-to free her from any obligation to William.
But she could not tell Lord Sidley. She could not tell
him, for fear of his pity. Her chin rose.

“My lord,” she said urgently and very softly. “About
your payment-I would speak with you.”

“Are we not speaking now?” Again she noticed impatiently that the others in the room drew his attention. But when his gaze again sought her face, his look was steady.
“I would rather not have the discussion you desire.”

“But it is too much,” she protested.

He smiled. “Should I not determine my own worth?”
He gestured rather dismissively toward the portrait. “I
expected you to reject the payment, but you mustn’t.
Surely you must welcome the provision, and the lieutenant must consider it opportune, with your nuptials so
very near.”

Again she thought his manner expectant.

“There has been … a delay,” she admitted, swallowing.

“A delay? How unfortunate for him.” He paused, the
smile faded, and then he added carelessly, “The funds
are yours. You must dispense with them as you see fit”

“But it really is too much. I haven’t the reputation-”

“You might trust me to assure it.” Though amusement laced his voice, he did not smile. “Where is Lieutenant Reeves this evening?” he asked.

“He has had to return to Portsmouth”

“So soon?” He held her gaze until Marian almost confessed. He married another. He did not want me. But I do
not want him. I want—

Again the conversation and activity in the rest of the
room distracted him, or perhaps he did not care to be
observed in a tete-a-tete with her. They were not private, and they were interrupted.

“You must be very pleased with the portrait then, Sidley?” Edgar asked, joining them with Clara Poole
and Lord Vaughn.

“Most emphatically. Who had the thing brought
down?”

“M’sister. She thought it might entertain.”

“Indeed. There are few entertainments as diverting
as admiring oneself.”

“Lee!” Clara protested, in a manner that Marian
thought most warm and familiar. Clara drew a smile from
Sidley.

“Miss Ware is to be commended,” he admitted more
politely. “Though I might accuse her of flattering me.
Clearly she draws too much upon the imagination.”

“I have not yet finished, my lord,” she said.

“Indeed? How long am Ito be worked upon?” Though
he asked lightly, Marian thought his gaze a challenge.

“Until she has improved you, Lee!” Clara admonished.

“‘Twill be an age, then,” Sidley commented. “For by
definition, ‘tis well nigh impossible to improve upon
the best” As Lord Vaughn huffed dismissively, Marian
again held Sidley’s gaze, wondering just what he might
mean. That he himself could not be bettered, or her rendering of him?

“But I think I must shortly have the piece removed
to Sidley House,” he added. “If you are willing to part
with it, Miss Ware? The original is, of course, always
at your disposal.”

As he gave her a shallow bow, Edgar remarked,
“You’ve certainly paid for it an’ all.”

“Thank you,” Sidley said dryly. “Though Miss Ware
may claim the painting unfinished, it has eyes, nose,
and mouth enough that I confess to feeling somewhat
exposed”

As Lord Vaughn huffed once more, Clara said, “She
has caught that look.”

Sidley turned to her. “This is not the first time I have
been accused of having a ‘look,’” he said. “I note that
no one dares define it in my presence”

“But Miss Ware has portrayed it most faithfully, my
lord,” Clara teased. “You have only to look!”

“Perhaps Miss Ware will describe her work to me”

“I only paint what I see, Lord Sidley, as I am not
gifted with words.”

“I should not have concurred before this afternoon,”
he said rather sharply. “Indeed, you have always proved
most capable of expressing yourself. I recall one incident in particular, at Aldersham, that spoke volumes for
your loquacity.”

As her jaw dropped, he again surveyed the room and
its cheerful occupants. He turned abruptly to Vaughn.
“I believe we must be off, Vaughn. Clara?” He offered
an arm to Clara. As he readied to depart, Marian, who
was wishing she had more time or more courage, could
only observe him. “Whatever the `look,’ Miss Ware, I
acknowledge that you have captured it. You mustn’t
mind my ill humor. I am delighted with the portrait. I
ask only that you do whatever else you feel you must do
to it at Sidley House.”

His manner was dismissive. She could not think of a
thing to say.

“I fear we must be going. Formsby,” he said loftily,
acknowledging Edgar. And he and his party made their
adieus to Katie and Edith.

Marian watched him leave, watched his height and
elegantly clad breadth of shoulder depart, with some
feeling of despair.

“Did you tell him?” Katie asked, immediately coming
to Marian’s side. “Is that why he looked so blue-deviled?”

“Tell him what, Katie?” she asked wearily. She had
not said anything she wished to say. And she thought it
likely that Clara Poole now had expectations. Yet Sidley had been so very strange …

“Why, that I should not wish to disappoint him. But
that I, that is, with Carroll-”

“Katie, I did not speak of you.”

Katie pouted. “What on earth were you discussing,
then? All of us could see you, even from across the
room-”

“The portrait! Always the portrait! What else would
we discuss?”

Katie looked taken aback by her temper.

Marian quickly apologized and fled the room. The
news would be out shortly. He would hear in any event.
She questioned what she thought to preserve, other than
a momentary pride. But to boldly state, “I have been
thrown over. I have been jilted,” in front of a roomful of
the ton’s well-placed callers, did not appeal.

Only three hours later, even before dinner, two servants arrived from Sidley House with a horse-drawn
wagon and instructions to collect “Miss Ware’s painting.” Though startled by the sudden removal, Marian
believed she understood Sidley’s preference. She was
not assured, however, that the men would take the care
they should with the wet oil paint; she did not trust the
work, now so near completion, to travel safely. As her
aunt and Katie were still dressing for dinner, Marian
readied the piece, then summoned a maid and gathered
her cloak.

“Marian, what are you about?” Edgar asked, entering the hall just as the painting was being carried out
the door.

“I must see this over to Sidley House at Grosvemor
Square. I shan’t be gone long. But you mustn’t wait
dinner.”

“But see here, I can’t let you run off alone in the
evening!”

“I’ve a maid with me, Edgar, and Lady Adeline and
Miss Poole are at Sidley House. No one will remark it.”

“All the same..

“Edgar, please. If I go just now, I shall be back before you are all at table.”

Frowning, with some mumbling about the “portrait
trade,” Edgar let her go. And Marian swiftly fled to the
street, to climb atop the wagon seat and direct the placement of the painting. With the aid of one of the men, she
then held it upright for the brief trip to Sidley’s residence.

The town home astonished her, as it was large, beautifully detailed, and not, as Colonel Bassett had implied
so many weeks before, “falling to ruin.” As the wagon
stopped before the gracefully curved front steps, Marian recalled her mission and stopped staring. Hopping
down to the street, she directed the men to hand her the
painting. And despite their protests, she said she would
see it inside herself. Though she directed the servants
around back, one of them insisted on helping her carry
the half-length canvas up the steps before leaving Marian alone at the door.

“I am here for-I am here to see Lady Adeline,” she
improvised, at once awed by the soaring ceilings and
stately sculptures in the hall and by the politely inquiring
manner of the butler. She guessed she should not have
come. But the butler showed her in more hospitably,
Marian thought, than an uninvited visitor deserved at the
dinner hour. Just seconds later, relieved of her cloak, she
was escorted to a drawing room, where her gaze focused
disbelievingly on the exquisite Holbein portrait over the
mantel.

“Sidley’s father purchased it more than thirty years
ago, before his wedding,” Lady Adeline told her, following her rapt gaze. The lady was dressed most elegantly.
Perhaps they meant to go out. “There are not that many
of them,” she added.

“No,” Marian breathed. “No” She swallowed. “Forgive me, ma’am, for the intrusion. But Lord Sidley sent
for his portrait, and I found I did not trust entirely that it would travel safely. Shall I just leave it here?” She
moved to stand the painting in its traveling frame against
a side table. Above that same side table hung another
dreamlike Claude landscape. In the presence of so much
beauty Marian felt nearly numbed.

“You are most attentive, my dear,” Lady Adeline
said. “Though I assure you, the men are accustomed to
transporting paintings.”

“Yes. I can see that must indeed be the case.” Marian
eyed the drawing room’s blue velvet drapes, dark walls,
and extensive white and gilt moldings. In the fading
evening sun the gold details reflected the light, making
luminous the treasured oil paintings-as though they
were aglow.

“This house is beautiful,” she breathed, “Not `falling
to ruins’ at all.”

“‘Falling to ruins’! I should say not. Though Sidley
has had to set some crews of plasterers and painters to
work. Why on earth would you think otherwise?”

“I meant no affront, my lady. Colonel Bassett said-”

“Colonel Bassett, that old meddler! A most disappointed man, Miss Ware, who lost one very fine son and
is left with the other, who is, perhaps, not as fine. But all
of us have had disappointments. ‘Tis no reason to cast
aspersions.”

“No, ma’am.”

“Am I not permitted to see it then, Miss Ware?” Lady
Adeline asked, gesturing toward Marian’s portrait. “I
understand you have been working since I last saw it.”