PortraitofPassion (6 page)

She had been unable to comprehend that they were leaving,
moving away from the only home she had ever known. No matter how many times her
mother had explained it to her, she did not think she would ever truly
understand it. Her father and her home, both gone in a matter of a week.

How could Papa have done this to us?
But she had
pushed the thought from her mind, as she had countless times in the past days.
She would not allow herself to be angry with him. Not now. Not yet. She had
room in her heart only for sorrow and grief. If she let in the anger, she might
go mad.

“Beatrice,” her mother’s soft voice had called to her from
the open carriage door. “Please, come out of the rain.”

She silently obeyed, climbing in to sit next to her mother.
Tom and Molly Jenkins sat across from them, Tom stoically looking out the
window, Molly quietly weeping into her hands.
Thank God Harry is gone
,
Bea thought. He had left to take up his commission in the Royal Navy in
January. His last letter had arrived only days before they had all received the
news of Papa’s death. He had posted it from Spain where his ship had been
docked.

“Where will Harry write to us?” Bea cried. “How will he know
where to find us? We will be lost to him!”

Molly’s weeping turned into a low wail. Tom wrapped his arms
around her and pulled her head into the crook of his neck.

“We’ll send word through the Admiralty’s Office,” he
replied. “I’ll take care of it as soon as we arrive in London. We’ll leave our
address and they’ll send it to him. Do not fret.”

“But what address will you leave?” Bea asked. She tried to
hide the fear in her voice. She did not want to upset Molly, really she didn’t.
“Where will we live?”

Molly looked up from Tom’s embrace and fixed her eyes upon
Mama. Bea turned toward her mother, waiting.

“Paris,” Mama replied. “I have already sent a letter to
Bertie and Anna. They will welcome us.”

“Paris?” Bea cried. “But we will never get Idyllwild back
from way over there!”

“Bea,” her mother said, turning to her daughter and holding
her gaze. Mama’s beautiful blue eyes were dry. She had cried all she intended
to last night as she tucked Bea into her bed for the last time. “Idyllwild is
lost to us.”

“But, Mama,” she began, only to be interrupted.

“I know you would like to believe we will come back, but we
will not. You must make up your mind to it, Beatrice.”

“But I cannot!” Bea said fiercely. “Idyllwild is my home.
Mama, it is in my heart. Perhaps I could make up my mind to it, but my heart
will never believe it.”

“In time, Bea,” her mother said, still holding her with her
sad gaze, “your heart will believe.”

“Never.” Bea would never give up the dream of Idyllwild. She
turned from her mother to watch through the window as the carriage led them
farther and farther from home.
I will get Idyllwild back
, she silently
vowed.
No matter how long it takes, no matter what I must do, I will get
Idyllwild back.

“A picnic?” Simon asked the next morning as he and Henry sat
at White’s. He had been reading the paper in relative peace when Henry had
joined him.

“Tomorrow, eleven of the clock,” Henry supplied.

“In Moorehead’s garden?” He knew he wasn’t successful
keeping the surprise from his voice. What was she thinking inviting Henry to
Moorehead’s garden? “
I know you wonder about my fondness for Henry
.”

“I don’t imagine it’s much of a garden,” Henry ruminated,
slowly stirring sugar into his tea. “I’ve only been to Moorehead’s once and
never into the garden, but his house is huge. It must take up all but the
smallest bit of the land.”

As usual, Henry had missed the point entirely.

“Surely you did not accept the invitation,” Simon said.

“Of course I did,” Henry looked at him with surprise. “Why
wouldn’t I? Did I forget some arrangement we had for Saturday?”

“Henry,” Simon said slowly, “you cannot accept an invitation
to a picnic alone with Miss Morgan.”

“So it’s back to
Miss Morgan
, is it?” Henry asked
with a laugh.

“Henry,” he began. Did he really need to explain the
impropriety to his cousin?

“We shall not be alone,” Henry interrupted. “Olivia will be
with us. She can act as chaperone.”

“Olivia?” he asked in astonishment. “Your sister has been
invited? Miss Morgan invited her on the strength of one brief meeting?” Why was
he surprised? Beatrice Morgan would dare anything, he was coming to realize.

“The shocking thing is that Olivia accepted.” Henry went on
to explain that he had paid a call upon his sister before his arrival at
White’s and that the lady had readily agreed. Then she was off on a tangent
about portraits and fountains.

“Are you telling me that Lady Palmerton wishes to commission
a portrait?”

“No,” Henry replied. “Beatrice wishes to paint Olivia. Said
she was struck by her beauty, or some such thing. Which really brings me back
to my question of a few days ago.”

“She is not a Sapphist,” Simon ground out.

“If you say so,” Henry agreed with a skeptical lift of his
brow. “But it bears watching her closely tomorrow. You’re much better at that
than I am. Keep a close eye on her. See how she acts toward Olivia, will you?”

“Me?” Simon asked. “I haven’t received an invitation to this
little picnic.”

“Did I forget to mention it?” Henry asked. “Sorry, my
invitation included you. If you should care to enjoy the shade of the gazebo,
that is.”

“Enjoy the shade of the gazebo?” he repeated. His mind was
instantly filled with images of a disheveled Beatrice reclining in the shade of
a gazebo, arms outstretched to receive him. Christ. This was getting out of
hand.

Simon had found his mind filled with images of Beatrice
Morgan since he had last seen her at Savoy’s musicale.

He had looked for her at Lady Hoopeston’s ball the following
night, knowing full well she would not be in attendance. He imagined dancing
around the crowded floor with her held in his arms.

“London offers so many amusements
.” Whose offer of
amusement had she accepted that night?

He looked for her when he rode in Hyde Park, expecting to
find her galloping through the fields on her big gray beast, hair flying behind
her like a kite in the wind. He’d risen early after the ball, knowing she
preferred to ride before the park became crowded with the fashionable.

Just last night he had hoped to see her at Madame Henri’s
soiree. He thought it might be just the place to find her. Angelique Henri had
been mistress to some of London’s highest-stepping gentlemen over the years.
She had cultivated a small following of similarly situated women and rakes,
young and old. She also counted among her guests poets, musicians and artists.
People looked for amusement in her house on the lesser side of Hanover Square,
knowing they could arrive in the latest hours of the night or the earliest
hours of the morning. Most came from the opera, theater or gaming halls. Some
came after they had departed the balls and dinners and musicales of the
ton
.
One could find gambling, drinking and, if rumor could be believed, the
occasional orgy.

Over the years, Simon had politely declined numerous
invitations to join the entertainments, mostly from friends too deep in their
cups to remember that he was an upright gentleman who did not go in for those
sorts of entertainments. Madame Henri herself had invited him, to her home and
her bed, on more than one occasion when he had seen her at the theater or
Covent Garden. He had steadfastly refused.

Yet, last night he had found himself in her parlor,
hopefully looking about for a tall, lithe blonde in a scarlet dress, or perhaps
sapphire. He had wandered the rooms of the house, from parlor to billiards room
to card room, greeting the occasional acquaintance while trying to avoid his
hostess. Where was she?

He could not get her out of his head. It was more than the
mystery she presented. It was more than his suspicions that she had followed
Henry from Paris for yet unknown reasons. It was more than his desire to learn
how she had known his father. It was more than that niggling feeling he
sometimes had that he recognized her from somewhere, that familiar tilt of her
eyes and lift of her lips just before she broke into a smile.

It was even more than the gnawing hunger that had been his
constant companion since he had first set eyes upon her. He had come to accept
the desire she inspired. He was not so upright, so staid and proper, that he
had not accepted some of the innumerable invitations he had received since
coming of age. He had bedded his fair share of widows and ladies of the
demimonde. He had even kept a mistress for months at a time. He had kept well
away from married ladies. He avoided innocents at all cost.

Beatrice was no innocent, of that he was certain. His mind
teased him with her reaction after their encounter in the park, her
embarrassment and willingness to assume all responsibility for their embrace.
He pushed away the unwelcome thought. A game, he argued. Some women thought men
enjoyed a little maidenly protesting and blushing. Perhaps some men did. He
wasn’t one of them. If he thought for even a moment that Beatrice Morgan was an
innocent, he would stay as far away from her as humanly possible. Wouldn’t he?
Yes, of course he would.

“I willed you to kiss me
.”

What nonsense, he admonished himself. Willed him, indeed.
But she certainly had not pulled her perfect little breast from his clutches.
No, she had leaned into him and lifted her lips for his kiss. She was a
beautiful, experienced woman. An artist, independent, traveling the globe
without a care in the world. She probably had a protector in every city she
visited. So far as he knew, she had not yet found one in London. He had every
intention of filling that role.

“So, I’ll run by and pick you up after I grab Olivia?” Henry
asked.

“I’ll ride over myself,” Simon replied.

“Seems a mite silly to take two carriages,” said Henry.

“I’ve some errands to attend to in the morning, so I’ll meet
you there.”

“What sort of errands?” Henry asked. “Perhaps I’ll come
along.”

“Just some business to take care of, nothing you’d be
interested in.” Like a visit to the jewelers. If the lady only intended to
reside in London a short while, he decided he had better start his wooing
sooner rather than later.

“Oh, business,” Henry replied, “why don’t you leave the
business to your man as the rest of us do?”

“See you tomorrow then.” Simon rose, putting an end to
Henry’s questions.

* * * * *

Simon arrived at Viscount Moorehead’s stately town house at
five minutes before eleven the next morning. He knew it was gauche to arrive
early but he wanted to be sure to have a few minutes to speak with Beatrice
before Henry and Olivia arrived.

He knocked on the door and waited, his small wrapped package
tucked securely in his pocket.

The door swung open and there was Beatrice.

“Hullo, Easton,” she said, smiling up at him. She wore a
flowing muslin dress of pale blue with tiny pink flowers embroidered around the
modest neckline and scalloped hem. It flowed from neck to hemline with no
cinching at the waist whatsoever. It looked like an old lady’s nightgown more
than any dress he’d ever seen. Small puffs of lace were surely intended to be
sleeves, but it was only pretention. Her long, elegant arms were bare from
fingertips to shoulders. He looked down to discover ten little pink toes
peeping out from the hem of her gown. He tried to remember if he had ever seen
a woman’s bare toes outside the bedroom and decided he hadn’t.

“Doesn’t Moorehead have a butler?” he demanded, stepping
into the cool shade of the foyer.

“I sent Billings on an errand,” Beatrice replied. She closed
the door and leaned against it. “It only seemed fair that I answer the door in
his absence.”

Simon said nothing. He had never heard of such a thing. He
tried to remember if he had ever answered a knock upon his own door and decided
he hadn’t.

“Come with me,” Beatrice said as she breezed past him and
across the long hall toward the back of the house. “I’ve been experimenting and
you can tell me what you think.”

Simon followed along behind her, shaking his head slowly.
Bare feet!

“I think you are a man who needs to be shocked.”

She must have heard his footsteps following behind her in
the quiet of the hall, for she didn’t turn around once to make sure he was
still there. Simon looked from her golden hair, swinging back and forth in one
long braid, long enough to reach the small of her back, to the place where he
thought her shapely little derriere must be. Who could tell? Her dress looked
like a sack.

“You aren’t just now rising from bed, are you?” he asked,
then could have bitten his tongue. A gentleman did not, under any
circumstances, refer to a bed in a lady’s presence. Good God, she was making
him crazy.

Her husky laughter was the only sound he heard from her as
she pushed open a door and held it open for him to follow her.

He stopped beside her just inside the bright room. She had
brought him into Moorehead’s kitchen. A pleasantly round woman with frizzy gray
hair sat at a long wooden table cutting up strawberries. She looked up at their
entrance and then jumped to her feet to bob a curtsy.

“Oh Mabel, do sit down,” Beatrice said with a laugh. “It’s
only me and Easton.”

Mabel gave him a quick glance from shoes to hat, which he
belatedly realized he had not removed. He quickly did so, tucking it under his
arm. He could feel heat rise from his neck to his face. Mabel nodded to him and
returned to her perch.

“I’ve tried a new recipe for lemon muffins,” Bea tossed over
her shoulder as she walked across the room. “Be honest, you won’t offend me if
you don’t like them.” She lifted a muffin from a tray and walked back to him
where he stood by the door. She offered the still-warm pastry and waited while
he stood there looking from her smiling face to the muffin in his hand to her
bare hands clutched together between her breasts. And with her hands clasped
just so, he could just make out her breasts on either side. Thank God. He had
been beginning to wonder if she had any figure at all in that ridiculous frock.

“Go ahead, try it,” she urged. “I didn’t put poison in it.”

His eyes shot from her happily rediscovered breasts to her
face. She tilted her head to the side and studied him, a smile still teasing
her lips.

“Easton, are you all right?” she asked quietly. “You haven’t
said a word, well apart from that bit about the butler.”

“And the part about you just rising from your bed,” he
reminded her just as quietly and watched her eyes widen before she laughed—a
dark and husky laugh that rolled over him like a wave.

“I thought I should be proper and ignore that part,” she
said. She turned and walked across the room as she added, “After all, one of us
should be. And today it seems it shall be me.”

Simon swallowed a bite of lemon muffin quickly before he
could choke on the chuckle that tried to escape.

“You? Proper?” he teased. Mabel’s head swung around and she
glared at him.

“I can be, you know.” She had stopped in front of the sink
and he saw that she was pouring milk into a glass. She turned and started back
across the kitchen before continuing. “I know how. I simply choose not to be.
Much more fun that way.” She handed the glass to him and stood watching while
he took a sip before handing it back to her.

He stood in absolute awe as she proceeded to take a long
swallow from the glass he had just handed back to her.

“What do you think?” she asked, licking the foam from her
upper lip.

Think? How could he possibly think? How could he think when
he was standing in the kitchen with her looking up at him while she licked her
lips? How could he be expected to think when she was wearing what had to be her
nightgown with her hair still in its braid from the night before? How was he to
think with her bare shoulders and bare toes on display?

He looked over to his right to find that Mabel had risen
from her stool to lean one plump hip against the table, her arms crossed over
her ample bosom. She was beyond glaring at him now, she was shooting daggers.

Beatrice followed his eyes and whatever Mabel saw in her
gaze had her huffing and puffing toward the other door, the one that must lead
to the dining room. She cast one final look over her shoulder before slamming
through the door with such force it bounced against the wall and swooshed back
and forth before finally stopping.

Simon turned back to find that Beatrice had stepped closer
to him. She was so close that he could see tiny flecks of amber in her brown
eyes, close enough that he could smell her scent, floral and minty. She
continued to regard him silently for three beats of his heart. He knew it was
three, he counted. Three slow beats. Time seemed to stand still.