Meet the Earl at Midnight (Midnight Meetings) (38 page)

Edward scratched his whiskered jaw and frowned. “You make it sound like Lydia’s a plant I should take care of.”

“It’s what you do,” Jonas said and one corner of his mouth quirked. “You can take care of her and do your science here.”

Edward set down his glass and pressed the heels of both his hands to his temple, rubbing. His head ached. “I’m so tired of thinking.”

“Never thought I’d hear you say that.”

“It’s true.” His fingers massaged their way across his forehead. “I’d like nothing more than a quiet evening with Lydia.”

Finished
by
wrapping
ourselves
naked
in
bedsheets
or
against
the
bedpost…if she’d have me.

“Well?” Jonas prompted.

“It’s no use. She won’t answer any of my correspondence.” He examined the dying fire, all the orange pieces of wood were disintegrating into pieces of charcoal.

“You’ve got to do better than that.” Jonas shifted in his chair. “Remember, you sent her away.”

“I know,” he groaned, recalling the shock followed by agony on her face when he made that grand pronouncement. “But the die is cast. The expedition leaves in less than a fortnight.”

Jonas sighed, a long-suffering sound as he leaned to the side of his chair. “I didn’t want to do this, but…”

Edward’s dreary stare snapped away from the fireplace to Jonas, who opened his plain leather folio. Jonas raised the flap and pulled out folded broadsheets, three of them, and tossed them on the table before Edward.

Each paper was folded with odd geometry, such that the eye was drawn to a particular caption and piece. Edward picked them up and read the painful print out loud.

“
Stunning
Countess
of
Greenwich
Wins
the
Hearts
of
London’s Art World.
”

That, however, wasn’t so bad as what was inferred underneath. The writer fairly drooled over the new countess, describing throngs of male admirers flocking to her Grosvenor Square town house. He scowled at the paper, but the next broadsheet went right to the heart of the matter.

“
Famed
Architect
Sir
William
Garth
Courts
Newly
Married
Lady
Greenwich
—What?” He glared at Jonas over the broadsheet, and then read on. “
Sir
William
has
attended
Lady
Greenwich’s art salons and hopes she’ll lend her support to establish a Royal Academy of Art
”—the paper dropped as heavy as a hammer—“a Royal Academy for art?”

“Keep reading.”

“
One
site
under
consideration
for
the
Royal
Academy
of
Art
is
Piccadilly, where the two have been seen of late. Of course, this writer speculates Sir William escorts her with more than art in mind
—” Edward crumpled the paper and flung it in the fire. He balled up the other two papers and fed them to the flames.

The fledgling embers took a moment before devouring the paper with shoots of yellow and orange. Edward rubbed his unscarred cheek, where longer, more troublesome whiskers needed scratching.

“It’s only vile gossip.”

Jonas lifted one massive shoulder in a shrug. “Maybe. Maybe not. Only one way to find out.”

Edward’s head tipped back against his chair, and he stared at midnight shadows flickering over the plaster ceiling. Something between a groan and a roar erupted from him.

“Time for hiding’s over,” Edward said, scrubbing both hands across his face.

“Funny that you chose those words.” Jonas looked at him with a crooked, uncomfortable smile of his own.

Edward’s gaze narrowed on his friend. They usually didn’t miss much about the other, needing few words, yet communicating much over these three years. Sudden recognition made Edward cock his head. Another novel piece of news was about to sink its teeth into him.

“You’re returning to the Colonies.”

Jonas gave the barest smile of acknowledgment at that profound decision. “The Colonies by way of Plumtree first. But, I’ll find my replacement for Sanford Shipping, and go to Plumtree in August, if all goes as planned.”

“Some kind of friend I’ve been.” Edward braced a hand on his thigh. “When did you decide?”

“Been a long time coming.” Jonas’s curt nod was as good as a solid promise.

“You’re certain?”

“Yes.” Jonas rumbled with a chuckle. “What a pair we make, Ed. You hiding from your life, me running away from mine.”

They sat in silence, watching the last of the gossipy broadsheets burn into gray dust before Jonas stood up and stretched, likely as tired and wearied as Edward. Jonas picked up his leather folio and snapped it shut as puzzlement formed on his stoic features.

“You said ‘time for hiding’s over.’ Does that mean you’ll stay or go?”

Twenty-five

Pure gold does not fear the furnace.

—Chinese Proverb

Perfection, a painful process, was not impossible. Strains of fragile violin music played, and the diamond brilliance of three chandeliers glowed over the heads of London’s best—all scions of Society having delayed their summer sojourns to the country simply to attend her art salon. All moved in clusters, garbed in the finest, colorful attire. This evening would be a success. She willed it to be.

Thronged in the crowd was Mr. Cyrus Ryland, his broad-shouldered frame moving methodically from one painting to another. Well-dressed hangers-on followed behind him, vying for his attention. Tonight, the Marquis of Northampton, “Lord Perfection” many called him, had won the prized spot on Mr. Ryland’s right. Rumor named the marquis first choice for Lucinda Ryland’s hand in marriage. Rumor also claimed Northampton sought a coveted piece of the business empire. Likely both avenues provided the same end.

Lydia had always been on the outside of this strange glittering life, wanting only to sell her art. Now she was part of the parade.

She achieved everything she wanted, hadn’t she? Yet the cost was brittle hollowness. When she left Greenwich Park and its scarred master, she invited emptiness that not even beautiful, perfect art could fill.

How could a woman gain so much, yet be so lacking?

She was surrounded by elegance. The newly redecorated conservatory reflected neutral shades, an ideal foil for the vivid paintings dotting the room. Footmen liveried in champagne-colored attire dispensed trays of fine, pale gold champagne for this elegant victory. On walls and easels, a few of her paintings were secretly on display, under another name, along with those of several other prominent artists. Rumors abounded that the king would establish a Royal Academy of Arts this year. She should be happy, ridiculously happy.

But she wavered between angry and miserable and empty, with very little time to sort out those emotions. She was marvelously “peacocked,” as Edward would say: her gown of deep blue and green brought to mind that exotic bird similar in vibrant hues and richness. Clothing, however, was part and parcel of her battle armament. The evening required self-control, restraint, yes…even discipline. She breathed in air, as much as her sharp stays allowed, girding herself for the first hurdle, a man of great importance who graced her gathering.

She smiled and sank into a deep curtsy. “I’m honored with your attendance, Your Grace.”

Voices hummed all around, and when she rose, Lydia placed her fingers in the duke’s proffered hand.

“My dear, I think the patrons will find you the greatest work of art in the room.” The Duke of Somerset bent over her hand, his head not quite touching her.

A sphere of awe surrounded the duke, a man of average height and thinning hair. She kept a respectful arm’s length from him, but he would have none of that, pulling her into the rarified space next to him, tucking her arm over his.

“Let’s take a turn around your salon and admire the outstanding art, shall we, Countess?”

The broadsheets would have much to say about his simple gesture, an elevation in status no doubt for her. Clusters of people parted for the duke, giving an unspoken radius of distance. Conversations lulled as people nodded and greeted him with polite refrains of “Your Grace.”

They were rewarded with his tight smile and coolness. In the midst of one frozen smile, he spoke to Lydia.

“You’ve come a long way from the wayward miss of Somerset.” The duke’s nose was in the air, the erect pose everything his position required; the surprising twinkle in his eyes when he glanced her way was not.

Lydia pasted a pleasant smile on her face and nodded greetings to a pair of ladies. She hesitated on how to answer that, but the duke was the one to save the day. He slowed their progress and steered her toward an easel, pointing at the modest landscape.

“I admire that piece.” The duke pinched his monocle in place and leaned in for closer examination. “The whimsy of the clouds in the distance. Brings to mind the work of one Rosalba Carriera.” He withdrew his monocle and used the glass as a pointer. “But this one done by a certain L. Wright, I see. Fascinating.”

Nervous pinpricks spread over Lydia, moving a flush of uncomfortable heat. Would the duke connect the initial of her first name and her true maiden name? She’d gone by Montgomery for many years, but of course His Grace wouldn’t forget her father. Her hands fretted, but she pinched them together near her waist, prodding herself to calm.

“There are many other artists of greater consequence that I can show you, Your Grace.”

“Oh no, this one captures my fancy.” He waved his monocle at the painting. “Lady Greenwich, I must have it, a gift for my daughter’s birthday. She delights in Carriera’s work, and this is so similar.” He tucked his monocle into his waistcoat pocket and went on with some bluster. “Though a woman artist…the very idea.”

The friendly sparkle in his eye was the only acknowledgment—he knew. She smiled graciously, and her hands relaxed at her waist.

“The world is changing, isn’t it? Sometimes for the worse, sometimes for the better.” Lydia paused, and they both took a glass of champagne from a passing footman’s tray.

A good hostess was not supposed to partake, instead looking to her guests’ need for refreshment. Lydia needed the bubbly liquid and let the chilled gold beverage tickle her throat a bolstering few seconds.

“Hmm.” The duke’s thin gray brows raised as he sipped from his glass. “True. But women artists?” He shook his head and took another sip. “Then again, what else can you expect from the Italians? All that sun makes them hot-blooded, I’m sure.” He tipped his head at the modest painting beside them. “But this L. Wright, an English painter of some quality. I hope to see more.”

Lydia set her champagne glass on another passing tray and let elevating victory lift her. She smiled at the Duke of Somerset, thankful for his support. A Russian diplomat and a marquis of someplace or another approached His Grace, and she benignly stood there, nodding from time to time as if fully engaged.

Her art filled a place sublime and wonderful, but she’d tasted heaven at Greenwich Park. Funny how she had no time to paint in London, yet painting in that empty ballroom, having Edward hover as he tried to understand art, had thrilled her. She was more alive those weeks with him. But like a coward, she never said those magical three words:
I
love
you
.

But what would he have done if she gifted him with that deepest emotion, love?

Edward should be here. Tomorrow he’d be gone.

The whole room grew too hot, and the voices, so loud. Lydia set her hand to her waist. She’d have to warn Tilly not to pull her corset so tight; she could barely breathe.

“Edward…” She breathed his name, and her head bobbled as she pulled herself out of the haze.

The duke touched her elbow, his face writ with concern. “Yes, Edward.” He gently pivoted her to the other end of the room, advising her under his breath, “Steady, Countess. People are watching.”

The footman could just as well have announced the
Greenwich
Phantom
, but to her, he was a knight in shining armor. Impeccably attired in black velvet, Edward stood tall, surveying the room with his hands clasped behind his back. His waistcoat shined a deep red silk, with the barest flounce at his neck, the minimum formality required, but worn nonetheless. The whole room hushed. Even the violins thinned to quiet.

Then one brave soul greeted him. “Glad to see you back, Greenwich.”

That broke the dam of silence as greetings trickled and then flooded around him. “Looking well, man…Greenwich, hale and hearty you are…Good evening, my lord…” And so poured forth the goodwill as Edward stepped into the conservatory.

Music resumed. Edward greeted people, nodding his way through the room, even smiling now and then, but his dark eyes were on her. Lydia, for all her newfound courage to set the art world on fire, was timid as a lamb. Her feet would not move. The duke put subtle pressure on her elbow.

“Go to your husband as befitting a wife.”

Lady’s E.’s voice chided her:
Never
let
them
see
your
discomfort. And for goodness’ sake, glide!

And glide she did to the man who claimed her body and soul. To all the world, this was part and parcel of the evening, a social morsel that would be rehashed at summer house parties.

Lydia extended her hand to Edward, and with all the cheer she could muster, said, “How nice to see you, my lord.”

Edward bent low over her hand, but his stare locked on her low neckline. “How nice to see so
much
of you.”

He kissed her knuckles, and his thumb stroked her fingers. He held her hand longer than was decent, standing upright and letting his fingers linger on hers before finally letting go. Nearby, a trio of ladies fluttered their fans, having witnessed up close the sensual interplay. It would be known that the Phantom Earl of Greenwich found his countess appealing.