Summer House Party Page 10

  He stopped by his room long enough to grab a sketchbook and an artist’s pencil and went outside. Pausing, he turned slowly to find a good spot. Ah. There. A nearby hill. He took the shortest route out of the gardens to the hill to get a good view of the abbey. After finding a comfortable spot to sit, he eyed the structure. The multileveled tiers faintly reminiscent of Westminster Abbey, but adorned with gargoyles and built out of dark stone, certainly created a forbidding scene.

  A replica of the abbey took form underneath his pencil. After adding details, he shaded in long, late afternoon shadows, which only added to the ominous air. Just for fun, he added a gargoyle springing to life and flying off the building. He smiled. The earl thought his art a great waste of time, especially with the little fanciful turns it often took, but Christian couldn’t have given up art any more than he could give up food. If only he could study under masters at the Royal Academy of Art. But he daren’t follow that dream with his father so ill. And his family had always expected that he would become a vicar.

  Immersed in his work, he gave a little start when he realized two pairs of eyes stared at him. Misses Widtsoe and Marshall stood watching him, with expressions of rapture and solemn contemplation, respectively.

  He sprang to his feet. “Ladies.” He realized, belatedly, that he’d dropped his pencil and pad of paper. With his face heating, he retrieved the items and offered a bow.

  As they both curtsied, Miss Widtsoe giggled, her wide smile reappearing.

  Miss Marshall lifted a tiny gloved hand. “I apologize if we disturbed you, Mr. Amesbury.”

  He made a loose gesture to his paper. “I’ve finished this perspective.” He would draw the abbey from a different vantage point another time. He tucked the paper under his arm and bowed to take his leave.

  “We missed you at tea,” Miss Widtsoe said. “People asked about you, but I didn’t know what to tell them. Your father said you’d probably wandered off to draw somewhere, and it appears he was right.”

  “Er, yes.” That explained his hunger. He hadn’t noticed the passage of time while he’d sketched, but his stomach reminded him of the lapse. If the earl were at tea, he must be feeling well—an encouraging thought.

  “Shall I have something brought to you? Cook makes the most amazing scones, as light as you’d ever taste, and perfect with Devonshire cream! Or do you prefer lemon cake? I love lemon cake, and seedcake, too, but I’m careful not to overindulge lest it affect my figure.” She struck a pose designed to attract his attention to her figure, which was very well endowed.

  He only allowed himself a glance.

  Before he thought of a response, she continued, “I’m happy to order some brought to you. We try not to starve our guests, even those who wander off and miss tea.” She grinned, revealing all her teeth again.

  Miss Marshall studied him with that quiet, assessing gaze. “We were just about to return to the abbey to dress for dinner. Do you wish to walk with us?”

  Unable to think of a gracious way to extract himself, Christian gripped his pad and pencil as he offered an elbow to each of them. Miss Widtsoe clung to him possessively, but Miss Marshall rested her hand on the crook of his arm with a feather touch. The top of her head barely reached his shoulder. Her tiny, fairy-like form instilled a sense of protectiveness in him. She smiled gently at him. He focused forward and headed down the path leading to the outer gardens. She glided without making a sound next to him as they walked. Everything about her was restful.

  As Miss Widtsoe walked, she bounced as if barely containing great amounts of energy. It seemed to drain him. “When do you plan to start the painting of the abbey?”

  “As soon as I’ve decided which angle to use.” There. He’d spoken without getting tongue-tied.

  “And don’t forget you promised to do my portrait, too. I saw the portraits you did of the Duchess of Devonshire and of Mrs. Clemmons, and I love your work! You haven’t forgotten you promised to do my portrait, have you?”

  He recalled the elegant duchess and those moments when she’d revealed warmth underneath her frosty exterior. Perhaps he’d discover depth to Miss Widtsoe as he painted her. “I haven’t forgotten.”

  Miss Widtsoe opened her mouth to speak but stopped when Miss Marshall asked quietly, “How do you choose which angle to use when painting something like a castle?”

  “I sketch it from many different locations first.”

  “How did you like today’s sketches?”

  He glanced at the pad in his hand. “I only did one today.”

  She made a loose gesture to his pad. “Would it be prying to ask to see it?”

  “Oh, do show it!” Miss Widtsoe, who’d been uncharacteristically quiet, exclaimed. “I’d love to see it!”

  He hesitated, but surrendered the drawing. If she disliked the additional live gargoyle, it made no difference to him.

  Both ladies leaned over and studied the drawing. Miss Marshall let out a long breath, her eyes alight. “It’s magnificent—so detailed and perfectly proportioned. You have a unique flair. I love the gargoyle coming to life.”

  Miss Widtsoe shivered. “It looks like something out of a nightmare.” As if fearing she had insulted him, she added hastily, “But it’s very good! I can’t wait to see the final product!”

  Christian sifted through possible replies. “I hope your father will be pleased.”

  “Oh! I’m sure he will, if this is any indication! You’re so talented, and it was so kind of you to accept his commission. I’m sure you have a great many other duties to attend to, but we’re so glad you’re here!”

  Christian almost cringed under the praise she heaped upon him.

  Then she landed the final blow. “I’m sure it will be simply perfect.”

  Perfect. How he’d grown to detest that word after the way his brothers had thrown it at him in that mocking, singsong voice. The perfectly perfect Christian. Even years later, it still set his teeth on edge. Of course, with Cole so detached after he’d returned home from the sea, and Jared still away, and the always-aloof Grant taking up residence in London, Christian would rather bear that awful nickname if it meant having his brothers home. But no, they’d left for the war and hadn’t truly returned. Then Mama died, and Father began to fade away, too. It seemed everyone he loved left eventually, beginning with Jason’s tragic death—a death that would forever haunt Christian and doom him to eternal loneliness.

  “Are you all right?” Miss Marshall’s hushed voice pushed away his ghosts.

  He snapped his head up. “Of course.”

  A pair of assessing eyes peered at him. In a purely defensive measure, he turned his attention to Miss Widtsoe. “What can you tell me of the history of the abbey? Its background might help me with some aspect of the painting.”

  With her usual exuberance, Miss Widtsoe launched into a history of the abbey, while Christian picked out relevant parts that might prove useful to add mood to his painting. Her narrative filled the time that it took to arrive at the front steps.

  “Thank you, Miss Widtsoe. Until dinner.” He bowed to them both, not allowing his gaze to rest too long on either lady, and excused himself.

  After pilfering a snack and dressing for dinner, Christian accompanied the earl to the drawing room where the other guests gathered for drinks and conversation.

  Wearing an abundance of bows and white silk, Miss Widtsoe beamed from across the room and bobbed slightly on her toes. Miss Marshall stood between Miss Widtsoe and an older lady with the same color hair, clearly her mother. Also in fashionable white, Miss Marshall wore a simple, tasteful gown with clean lines that flattered her slender form. A green ribbon threaded through her auburn curls that were caught up in a more elaborate style than her chignon of this afternoon. She stood straight and still, focusing on every word her exuberant friend uttered, smiling with the sort of indulgent tenderness one often views in a parent when gazing on a favorite, but mischievous, child.

  “Did you enjoy yourself this afternoon, son?�
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  Christian removed his attention from Miss Marshall and focused it on his father. “I did a sketch of the abbey.”

  The earl shook his head but made no comment. Since his health had declined, he’d grown more resigned, or perhaps apathetic, toward Christian’s artistic pursuits, when in the past he vehemently criticized the waste of time. Perhaps the admiral making no secret about his delight over Christian accepting the commission had softened his father’s disapproval.

  The butler announced dinner, and Christian found himself in the uncomfortable position of escorting Miss Widtsoe to the dining room where he sat between the girl and her friend. Miss Widtsoe continued to send besotted expressions at him. He’d best think of a way of making it clear sooner rather than later that he did not return her regard. But how the deuce does a gentleman extract himself from such an uncomfortable position? If she continued to make public claims on him, he’d be labeled a cad for raising her expectations and failing to come up to scratch. Moreover, his actions might call into question her reputation. Agreeing to paint her portrait was beginning to sound like a bad idea.

  He glanced at his father seated to the hostess’s right. Mrs. Widtsoe was an elegant, thoughtful woman with lively eyes; perhaps her daughter would follow suit as she matured and make a good wife—for someone else, not him. Christian had resigned himself years ago to living out his life alone.

  On his left, Miss Widtsoe chattered, requiring few answers from him. On his right, Miss Marshall glanced at him throughout the meal, as if she viewed him as a puzzle that must be solved. Perhaps she was trying to ascertain if he was good enough for her friend, but he couldn’t shake the fear that she wouldn’t rest until she exposed all his secrets.

  Chapter Three

  Sitting at the dinner table between Christian Amesbury and an older gentleman with thick mutton chops sprinkled liberally with gray, Genevieve divided her conversation between the gentlemen. Matilda kept up a stream of diverting chatter, her usual charming wit and cheery disposition amusing everyone within earshot.

  The mutton chop gentleman seated to her right launched into a tale of a recent safari. “Capital game there, Africa. Never knew if I’d be the predator or the prey, though.” He chuckled.

  “What was it like?” she asked out of pure courtesy.

  As he rhapsodized about the land, with all its animals, her attention and, unfortunately, her vision, often strayed to the enigmatic Mr. Amesbury sitting at her left. He was a study in polite reserve and impeccable manners. He shifted, and a masculine combination of bergamot and a spice she couldn’t identify wafted to her. She inhaled, letting the scent inspire images of strength and gentleness. His hands, those strong but long-fingered, artistic hands, wielded utensils as if performing a graceful ballet.

  When Matilda finished relating an amusing story about her and her friends, the conversation stuttered to a halt.

  After a moment, Mr. Amesbury asked Matilda in his soft, rich tones, “Do you wish to travel then, Miss Widtsoe?”

  Matilda paused. “I . . .” She watched him with searching eyes, as if trying to choose an answer that would please him. “I suppose I would like to, a little, especially if my future husband wishes to do so. But I’d also be content to stay home with my children, when the time comes.” She shot an almost panicked expression at Genevieve, looking for reassurance.

  Genevieve nodded, smiling lest Matilda become overset about a perceived failure. Matilda’s features relaxed, and she returned her focus to Mr. Amesbury to judge his reaction.

  He nodded but made no reply.

  Genevieve smiled politely at the mutton chop gentleman as he wound down his description. She murmured a suitable comment and turned her focus back to her friend and her intended beau. An uncomfortable silence had fallen between them.

  Genevieve rushed to the rescue. “Do you have any desire to travel, Mr. Amesbury?”

  He paused and cast a glance down the table at his father. “I doubt my responsibilities would allow me that luxury.”

  “Oh, I’m sure you can if you really wish to do so.” Matilda touched his hand and then withdrew her touch lest it be viewed as inappropriate. “Surely your father can do without you while you travel. A grand tour, perhaps?” Her face clouded. “That would take a goodly amount of time, though, wouldn’t it?”

  “A grand tour is out of the question,” he said, his deep voice filled with regret. “I cannot be away that long.”

  Quietly, Genevieve asked, “What is it that ties you here?”

  He glanced at her, and her breath caught. She’d almost forgotten how blue his eyes were. His lips parted, again, filling her with visions of kisses.

  What was wrong with her? Her self-appointed task was to ensure he was good enough for Matilda, not fantasize about kissing him. What kind of traitorous hussy had she become?

  He hesitated. “I don’t dare leave with the earl’s health so poor.”

  Interesting that he referred to his father as “the earl.” “Because you oversee estate matters for him?” Genevieve asked.

  Matilda cocked her head. “But you’re the youngest. Doesn’t one of your older brothers do that?”

  He stiffened. “They are all either out of the country or otherwise indisposed,” he said as if he viewed her question as mildly insulting. The comment about him being the youngest, perhaps? Why should that irritate him?

  He gentled his voice. “I’ve been doing it for years. I know how my father wishes matters to be handled.”

  “So you don’t travel lest the entire earldom falls into disrepair?” Genevieve gave him a teasing smile.

  He blinked, and his mouth curved, his body and features relaxing. “That, and ensure the earl follows doctor’s orders.” A wry tone touched his voice.

  She nodded. “How well I understand that. Mama doesn’t always remember her medicine, and sometimes must be coaxed into taking her walks and her naps. My dear Papa doesn’t keep it straight, and the servants are too easily disregarded.”

  Matilda giggled. “Genevieve’s mama calls her ‘little mother’ because she can be such a hen.” She smiled at Genevieve.

  For some reason, that interjection rankled. Surely Mattie meant it to be kind, or funny—not condescending. Remembering her other dinner partner, lest she be considered neglectful, Genevieve turned to the mutton chop gentleman, but he’d turned his head to the lady on his other side and launched into a story about a herd of wildebeests that had stampeded.

  She returned her focus onto Mr. Amesbury. He offered well thought out answers to Matilda’s queries, even posing a few questions of his own. Nothing in his manner gave her cause to disapprove of a match between him and her friend; there was no reason why she should continue to ask him questions to reveal his character. Yet he fascinated her, and she longed to find out more. Still, she held her tongue so as not to intrude on Mattie’s dialogue with him.

  Unfortunately, her friend continued to rain adoring expressions upon Mr. Amesbury, who grew progressively stiffer and quieter throughout dinner. Was he uncomfortable with Matilda’s openness, or did he fail to return her affections?

  Oh, dear. If he didn’t return her feelings, Mattie would be crushed. True, she’d developed a “grand passion” for any number of other gentlemen, but if this were real love, she would not so easily recover. Perhaps Genevieve could help Mr. Amesbury see Matilda Widtsoe as a fine young lady with desirable qualities.

  Dinner ended, and the ladies left the men to their brandy and snuff. As she trailed out the door, last in line, Genevieve paused and glanced over her shoulder. Christian Amesbury had declined snuff and picked up his half-full wineglass from dinner rather than accept port. He shunned common male vices. How refreshing.

  Another pair of eyes caught her attention. Lord Wickburgh stared at her, too long and hard to be proper.

  Genevieve hurried out, plotting how she could help matters between Matilda and her chosen love. As she followed the group of ladies to the drawing room, she turned over matchmaking po
ssibilities. Not being privy to planned activities over the next few days, she couldn’t very well arrange romantic encounters between Matilda and Mr. Amesbury. Perhaps the next time she had the opportunity to converse, Genevieve would mention Mattie’s many accomplishments, and how kind she was and what a good mother she’d make. Would that appeal to a fine gentlemen like Mr. Amesbury?

  She reviewed his qualities. Responsible, judging by the way he managed his father’s vast estate. Devoted, since he cared so much for his father. Respectful and thoughtful, by the way he spoke after giving careful thought. Artistic, obviously. Cautious, if he had not yet made up his mind about Matilda. And a bit sensitive that he was the youngest, which implied he’d been mercilessly teased by his older brothers, or perhaps snubbed by a lady of his choice who sought a marriage with an heir. If that were so, surely the love of a good woman would heal his wounded heart. Matilda’s love, of course.

  Perhaps those traits which he possessed were those he desired in a bride. Genevieve would simply have to ensure those sides of Matilda’s personality surfaced in his presence. Of course, he was quiet and reserved when compared to Matilda’s enthusiasm and zeal for life, but that simply made them complementary and would balance them out well.

  On the way to the drawing room, Matilda appeared at her side. “What are you doing?” she said sotto voce. “Trying to make me look bad?”

  Halting, Genevieve stared. “What?”

  Her eyes shining with unshed tears and her lower lip quivering, Matilda tugged Genevieve’s arm to draw her away from the others. “You kept asking him all kinds of questions, as if flaunting it in my face that I had been talking about myself and my friends when I should have asked about him.”