Anne Barbour (18 page)

Brushing Eden's cheek with her lips, she slipped into the chamber and closed the door firmly behind her, leaving Eden standing in the corridor, feeling remarkably foolish. Promising herself a confrontation with Zoë first thing in the morning, she sought her own chamber.

Her quarry proved elusive, however. Zoë elected to breakfast in her room the next day, and was not seen until well after noon when she appeared in the drawing room to receive morning callers, in company with her mother and her aunt. Eden, too, made herself available to receive visitors, and by the time the ritual was concluded, it was time for a light nuncheon. Afterward, Zoë bustled upstairs to make herself ready for the promenade in Hyde Park, in which, she averred, she was to be accompanied by the Honorable Algernon Kipp, son of the Viscount Stebbington, known to his friends, incomprehensibly, as Pinkie.

That night, the whole family was bespoken for a soiree at the home of Constance, Lady Felch, which lasted into the small hours of the next morning. Zoë made herself equally scarce over the course of the following day, as well, but Eden noted that on the rare occasions when she was in view, her sister wore a pensive expression and, when not actively engaged in some task, tended to gaze unseeing out the window.

The following day, Thursday, was the day appointed for Eden's visit to Somerset House with Seth, which effectively banished the problem of Zoë from her mind. Seth had been much in her thoughts since the incident at the Opera House. Bel's words had struck an unwilling chord, for it seemed to her that Seth had behaved very much like a hero out of an old tale. She would never forget his outrage on her behalf. She had been almost overwhelmed by the sheer masculine power he had fairly exuded. It was, she concluded, almost fearing to put the thought into words, as though he cared about her—that he felt something for her beyond friendship. Perhaps the kiss in her studio had meant something to him, after all.

Contemplation of this notion led to an examination of her own feelings about Seth. She liked him very much, of course, much more than she would have thought possible on their first meeting. She was not of his milieu, but perhaps this did not weigh with him, if his affections were truly engaged.

Thus, she awaited Seth with some degree of discomposure. A judicious application of white lead paste and a slight rearrangement of her hair had hidden the bruise, which in any case had not proved as unsightly as she feared. In preparation for this visit to London, she had paid stricter attention to her wardrobe than on previous sojourns. With her mother and sister, she had traveled to Guildford to procure silks and muslins in colors she knew would become her. The village seamstress, declaring she was glad that at long last Miss Beckett had decided to garb herself in something that did not make her look like somebody's poor cousin, had created several gowns in which Eden felt herself all but transformed.

On this particular day, she wore a jaconet walking dress over a pale peach-colored sarcenet slip. It was trimmed with a triple fall of lace at the throat, and the skirt was flounced with rich French work. Over all, she wore a spencer made of lutestring, ornamented with braiding. A high-crowned bonnet trimmed with a taffety ribbon was tied in a rakish bow just under her left ear. She wondered if the entire ensemble might not be considered a trifle too dashing for a spinster of her advanced years, but the expression in Seth's eyes when he beheld her in the Beckett drawing room laid her fears to rest.

"I wish," he said, smiling, "that I were more adept at offering a compliment to a lady. If I were, I'd say something about all the attention at Somerset House this afternoon centering on you rather than the other works of art."

She glanced up at him, startled, and willed away the treacherous flood of heat that stained her cheeks. She murmured something completely inane, cursing herself for magnifying a compliment that any gentleman might have paid to any lady out of sheer courtesy.

She was unable to convince herself, however, that the warmth in his gaze was no more than that to be found in any gentleman tossing off a pretty phrase. Taking up the parasol that matched the peach slip, she allowed Seth to usher her from the house to his waiting curricle. Seth, perhaps aware of the unwonted extravagance of his greeting to her, maintained a comfortable flow of conversation, and soon Eden was at her usual ease with him.

They had traveled only a few blocks when Eden laid her hand on his arm, and the seriousness of her expression caused Seth's brows to lift.

"I... I haven't properly thanked you for the ... incident two nights ago," she said in a low voice. "I know I tried to make light of our presence there, but I am fully aware that we should not—"

"And
I
am fully aware of the reason you had come. Devil take it, Eden, why do you and your parents allow Zoë her way in every whim, no matter how disastrous. She has no more idea of how to comport herself in society than a spoiled baby— which she is, of course—and to see her making your life miserable— Frankly, I don't know what your father can be thinking."

Eden stiffened for a moment, her hackles rising at this unvarnished assessment of her sister's behavior. What right had he to make such a judgment on a member of her family? Or to express that judgment so forthrightly? A moment later, she shrugged uncomfortably. She knew he spoke out of concern for her, and she was warmed, despite herself, that he viewed their relationship as one that permitted—nay, compelled—such honesty.

"Zoë can be ... difficult," she said in a low tone.

"I'm sorry," Seth said instantly. "I have been unforgivably forward."

"No, you are right. Zoë is the baby of the family, and, as in so many similar cases, she has been given her own way since birth. I love her dearly, for she is open and giving and many other good things, but there is no denying she can be a perfect hellion—and usually is. She's headstrong beyond permission, and frankly, has grown beyond either Mother's or Father's ability to contain her outrageous starts." She sighed. "Frankly, I don't know what will become of her."

Seth smiled wryly. "I know the feeling. I am closely related to one who makes your sister look like a plaster saint."

They laughed companionably, and Seth tucked Eden's hand in his arm.

On arriving at Somerset House, Eden's attention was almost immediately riveted on the paintings that covered the walls all the way up to the high ceilings.

Seth watched her, bemused. She looked quite lovely today, he thought. She had evidently decided to come out from behind her drab, protective attire—and it was high time. She seemed to have permanently dispensed with the cap, and her hair, dressed in a knot atop her head with escaping tendrils framing her face in a dark witchery, glowed in the intermittent shafts of light beaming through the windows of Somerset House. If the other patrons were not distracted from their perusal of the hanging artworks, he certainly was.

In fact, Eden Beckett had been on his mind for most of the night, interfering with his customary repose. He was still in considerable astonishment at the maelstrom of emotions that had surged through him at the sight of Eden sustaining a blow from Bel that had nearly knocked her to the ground. He had been sickened at Bel's actions, for he had never known his brother to hit a woman before, although God knew there was nothing in Bel's character to indicate that he would hesitate to do so. Uppermost in Seth's breast, however, had been a murderous rage, coupled with anger at Eden for having put herself in such close juxtaposition with one whom she knew to be wholly the villain. What the devil was she doing in a secluded chamber with him at a social function notorious for its impropriety? It was not until he noticed Zoë standing nearby that the situation became self-explanatory. By that time, he had already dispatched Bel, and such was his temper that he was ready to wreak a similar punishment on Zoë. Only the fact that he was wholly focused on Eden at the moment prevented him from grasping the little twit and shaking her until her bones rattled.

The expression in Eden's eyes had shaken him to his core. No one had ever looked at him with such luminous warmth— and gratitude—and perhaps something more. He had truly felt like St. George at that moment, and his most burning desire was to throw Eden over his figurative saddle and ride off with her to pledge his eternal devotion in a secluded glen.

Good God, had he really entertained such mawkish maunderings over a female for whom he felt nothing but the mildest friendship? If so, he reflected dryly, in the best Gothic tradition, he was doomed to remain at a respectful distance. For surely, the maiden fair was aware that she must look higher than the son of an army sergeant for her
beau ideal.

Particularly, since it was his task to persuade said maiden to wed the very man from whom he had rescued her earlier in the evening. The episode was bound to have given her a permanent and irrevocable aversion to Bel. He doubted that a promise of wealth, position, security, a place to paint, and garden to her heart's content, or even a guaranteed position as President of the Royal Academy of Art would convince her to actually marry Bel.

Besides, dammit, he didn't want her to marry Bel. On reflection, of course, he didn't want to see any female married to Bel. He thought of Zoë again. He had not witnessed whatever had taken place in the little alcove before his entrance on the scene, but it struck him in retrospect that Zoë had borne the aspect of a girl recently kissed with great thoroughness. One, moreover, who had participated in the proceedings with some enthusiasm.

Was she simply susceptible to attention from anything in a shirt and trousers? Or were her expressions of affection reserved for peers of the realm, with riches to go with their titles? Or—and he thought of her rapt expression in Bel's arms the night of their disgraceful waltz at his father's dinner party— was she smitten with Bel in particular? How unfortunate that Father had deemed her unacceptable!

No, it was not. Zoë deserved better than Bel. Good God, for that matter, Lucrezia Borgia deserved better than Bel. He sighed, a breath that seemed to come from the depth of his being. He had never defied the duke before. All through his life he'd accomplished every task the old man had set before him. He had devoted every waking second of his adult life to husbanding the Lindow holdings, and had increased them tenfold. In the process, he had sometimes entered into dealings that shamed him. Was that not enough? Was it necessary that he sacrifice the last of his principles to the Derwent interests? No. This time the old man asked too much.

To be sure, the belles of the
ton
were willing to go to any lengths to make an advantageous marriage, but he simply could not bring himself to assist in shackling one of them to Bel. If Bel came to a sticky end, so be it. He grieved for the boy his brother had been, and the man he might have grown into, but Seth was not responsible for the failure he had become.

He started, aware that Eden was looking at him quizzically.

"What?" he asked, returning her expression.

"What was in that sigh? You sounded as though the weight of the sins of mankind were settling on your shoulders."

He smiled painfully. "Perhaps they have." He took her hand. "Tell me, what do you think of that painting up there?" He pointed to a depiction of Boadicea, the Warrior Queen.

"Oh, yes! It's by Rebecca Seaton! I do so admire her work. Her technique is marvelously distinct, and her composition is always compelling. I like her use of color, too."

"Mm, yes. She is married to the artist Kenneth Wilding, you know. He is famous for his battle scenes. Let's see—oh, yes— over there." He indicated a large painting on which was portrayed a moment from the Battle of Badajoz. It was wrenching, thought Eden, evoking all the horror and glory of war.

"It's magnificent," she murmured. Turning, she faced Boadicea once more. "I think I prefer Madame Seaton's work, however."

"Ah, you feel a kinship to the warrior queen, then?"

Eden laughed. "Hardly. But I find myself responding to the power of the figure and the atmosphere the artist has created."

As they moved on to a discussion of some of the other artists displayed, Eden was intensely aware of his presence at her side. He seemed to be in a strange mood. Reflective and distant, yet seeming to relish her company. Indeed, she almost gained the impression that he needed her beside him right now. Again, she experienced the now-familiar sense of oneness with him. He was troubled, she knew, without knowing how. She glanced at him from beneath her lashes. What was it that brought such a heaviness of spirit into his eyes?

Sometime later, having finished their perusal of the paintings, the two walked along the river embankment. They chatted amiably, and it seemed to Eden that whatever thoughts had darkened Seth's demeanor earlier had vanished. As they approached a tea shop with tables set up on the pavement to catch the early spring sunshine, he turned to look down at her, and his gaze warmed. It was at this point that she decided to broach a subject upon which she had been giving much thought since her arrival in London.

"Seth," she began tentatively, "I would like to ask your advice."

"Certainly, my dear."

Pretending she had not heard that last, she continued in a rush. "I must ask you to keep this confidential."

Mystified, he smiled. "Of course."

"You asked once before if I had thought of selling any of my paintings. Well," she continued at his nod, "when I said no, I was not being altogether truthful. I have indeed tried to sell a few, with a notable lack of success. When we were in Town before, I went to a Mr. Rellihan. He owns a gallery in Oxford Street. I had visited his place of business on several occasions, and it seemed to me that he favored artists whose work was, um, avant-garde. Not precisely the kind of thing I do, but different from the established mode. I showed him some of my paintings, and he said he liked them very much, but that he did not think they would sell."

"I know Rellihan's gallery," commented Seth. "My father has acquired a couple of pieces from him. He has a rather exclusive—and discerning—clientele, the sort who want to be beforehand on the latest trends in art."