June Calvin (6 page)

“You go too fast. I’ve only known you since Wednesday.”

He studied her narrowly, and Davida met his gaze squarely, almost defiantly, her usually rosy cheeks flaming now in agitation.

After what seemed to Davida an interminable time, Curzon’s features softened into a smile and he released his hold on her. “Very well. Forgive me if I’ve been precipitate in my lovemaking. I’ll woo you slowly and gently, as you deserve. Unless you wish me to desist entirely?”

Davida dropped her glance and fiddled with her reticule. “No, of course not. I . . . just wish to be very sure . . .”

“That does you credit, my dear. If you only knew how many young women have been so determined to wed my gold that no insult, no impropriety was serious enough to discourage them!”

“So you have become accustomed to being able to behave toward my sex in an insulting, improper manner.” Davida frowned at him fiercely.

“If I have, you have certainly given me a salutary set-down today! May we cry friends?”

“Of course.” Davida answered his beguiling smile with a hesitant one.

“Then let me give you a hint of what these blacks can do,
Miss
Gresham!” So saying, he flicked the pair into a spanking pace that fairly took her breath away. She lifted her face to the wind and laughed joyfully. A devilish grin lit his face as he observed her delight in their speed.

When he pulled them into a cooling walk, Davida clapped her hands in delight. “They are marvelous. And you are an excellent whipster. I wonder . . .?”

“Yes?” He was smiling broadly in obvious enjoyment of her excitement.

“Pelham and Threlbourne spoke of having raced. They are planning a rematch, but I suspect these beauties could take either of their pair.”

“I think they could, too. Perhaps we’ll put it to the touch at the picnic?”

“Famous!” Davida’s eyes glowed with excitement. She rode home in perfect charity with Harrison Curzon, even agreeing to accompany him to a private viewing of the Royal Academy’s exhibition on the following morning. Still, she was determined that he would only kiss the tips of her fingers when he took her hand to bid her farewell.

He smiled wickedly up at her as he bent over her stiff, unyielding little hand. “At least you are not unaware of me, my dear, and so sweetly proper,
Miss
Gresham.” He stepped away and waved jauntily as he dashed down the steps.

Watching him go, Davida felt a little twinge of guilt over the way she had answered his questions. She had given him the impression that she hadn’t a
tendre
for anyone, but she knew that wasn’t true. However, her interest in Pelham was hopeless, so there was no reason to reject Curzon out of hand.

He was eligible in every way, although, like her mother, she found him difficult to be comfortable with. But that might pass on better acquaintance. Truly eligible suitors were not so thick upon the ground as to be dismissed lightly. Yes, she would continue to see him, but after their brief contretemps in the park, she would take care not to encourage him too much until she knew her own mind better.

Chapter Seven

A
s they drove along the Strand toward the Royal Academy at Somerset house the following morning, Davida learned that just as Pelham was an amateur musician who took his music seriously, Curzon was an amateur painter who took painting very seriously indeed. He explained that he was a member of the Academy, one of a very few talented amateurs allowed to belong to the country’s foremost professional society for the training and promotion of artists. It was as a member that he was able to invite her to view the paintings privately.

Finding that Davida was relatively ignorant about the Academy, for she was definitely not an artist, her escort proudly and knowledgeably gave her a thumbnail sketch of its origins and functions. “Oddly enough, it traces its beginnings to the Foundling Hospital chartered in 1739. Hogarth was one of many wealthy and influential people who joined the crown in supporting this worthy cause.”

“You mean
the
Hogarth, who did the superb satirical cartoons?”

“The same. He was one of the original governors. He began the practice of donating works to the hospital and encouraged other artists to do so.”

“Like his satires?”

“No, Hogarth was a master painter, as well as a satirist. His first donation was a portrait of the founder of the hospital. Other artists followed suit, making similar donations.”

Davida clapped her hands. “Let me guess. Before long, people were visiting the hospital for the sake of the paintings.”

Curzon nodded his approval of her quick comprehension. “And paying for the privilege. After Hogarth’s death many other artists continued the tradition. The success of these exhibitions led to dreams of a separate academy for training artists and exhibiting their works.”

“What an odd way for a school of art to begin.”

“A great deal of the credit goes to our old king, who lent the project his support. He was healthy then. Poor old farmer George!”

With enthusiasm and a range of knowledge that indicated that Curzon was also well versed in architecture, he pointed out to her the salient features of the fine building which housed the Royal Academy: its Corinthian columns and pilasters, balustrades, decorated windows, and other ornamentations designed to give it beauty and dignity.

It was with a new appreciation that Davida entered through the two-story Corinthian columns into the imposing vestibule. She had been to the exhibition before, of course, but the crush of the crowd had prevented her from truly enjoying the paintings, much less the architecture of the building.

Instead of proceeding up the grand staircase to the exhibition rooms, as she had on previous visits, Davida was led to the right, past the porter’s lodge and into the Life School, a commodious room full of artists’ easels and various props and draperies. The strong scent of oil paints permeated the room.

Curzon pointed out several long wires hanging from the ceiling, ending in loops or hooks. “What do you think those are for, Miss Gresham?”

Davida wrinkled her nose in concentration, but couldn’t come up with an intelligent guess. Mischief lit her eyes. “Instruments of torture, perhaps?”

On a shout of laughter he led her to the raised stage over which these hooks dangled. “Perhaps our models sometimes think so, but they are really intended to assist them.”

“Do explain, Mr. Curzon,” Davida urged impatiently, her curiosity aroused.

Instead of explaining, he led her to a position beneath one and gave it a tug. It lowered to about his shoulder. He reached forward and took her wrist and placed it in the curve of the hook. “Now do you see?”

A little uneasily, Davida watched him maneuver another hook. “Not entirely.” She resisted his attempt to place her other wrist in it, and he did not insist, but stood back, looking at her intently. At last Davida comprehended, and she struck a pose, using the hook to hold her wrist before herself in a dramatic gesture.

“Exactly! They help our models maintain gravity-defying poses for long periods of time.”

“You speak of ‘our’ models.”

“Yes, I have the privilege of attending the life classes. Mind, I pay well for the privilege, but it is worth every farthing to be able to draw the human form unfettered by clothing.”

At this Davida felt her coloring beginning to heighten, and she lifted her arm free of the hook. She was further discomposed by Curzon’s next statement.

“How I should like to paint you, Davida. If I only could capture that devastating mixture of white and rose that is your coloring!” It seemed to her that he was undressing her with his eyes, and his look had become almost fanatical.

Hastily, Davida murmured, “I think we should go see the exhibition now.”

For once it was Curzon who flushed and looked embarrassed. “Forgive me. I always seem to be skirting the edge of propriety with you. And you have made it abundantly clear that you do not like it, have you not,
Miss
Gresham?” Brows arched, he held out his hand to assist her from the stage. With only a little hesitation, she took it.

It was truly a pleasure to view the exhibition without the crowds that usually attended it. So popular had the Royal Academy’s yearly offerings become that in spite of raised fees and attempts to limit viewers to the
beau monde
, sometimes the great hall was so crowded that people had been known to faint.

With only Curzon and the venerable porter accompanying her, their footsteps echoing in the huge room, she admired the crowded floor-to-ceiling mass of paintings. Davida listened with pleasure to Curzon’s knowledgeable comments. He especially recommended the paintings of Edwin Landseer, a newcomer to the Academy.

“Truly, I have never enjoyed viewing paintings so much before. I only wish more of them were on eye level. I can scarcely see those near the ceiling.”

“Too bad I am not in the habit of carrying a quizzing glass. This would be one occasion on which it might have some useful function.” Curzon pantomimed a dandy, imaginary glass held to his twinkling eyes.

Davida grinned at the notion of tall, dignified Harrison Curzon with a quizzing glass. For all of his elegance, there was nothing of the affected about him. Her respect for him deepened as he guided her through the large collection of Old Masters which the Academy had accumulated, enriching her appreciation of them with his knowledgeable comments.

“They are invaluable as a source of study and inspiration for neophyte artists, many of whom do not have entrée into the great houses as you and I do, to see the paintings of the masters.”

“I should like to see some of your paintings, Mr. Curzon.” Davida asked hesitantly, knowing this was tricky ground. If she truly admired his work there would be no problem. But if she did not, then what? She was not practiced in the art of insincere flattery, yet she did not want to hurt the man’s feelings.

“You already have.” He smiled triumphantly. “In fact, you admired one.”

“I did? When? Which one?”

“I have three in the current exhibition. They are unsigned and not for sale, of course. You liked the one of the young maids trying on their mistress’s bonnets.”

“That one! Oh, yes, it is wonderful!” Davida was relieved to be able to be completely honest. “But why do you enter them anonymously?”

With a soft, regretful sigh, Curzon explained. “I wish them to be praised or damned on their own merit, not on the basis of my name. And, of course, to sell them would be déclassé.”

“I suppose so, but it seems a pity not to sign them.”

“Perhaps you will understand why I almost wish they were for sale?”

At her quizzical look he spread his arms resignedly. “If they were sold at a good price, I should have a better sense of my artistic abilities. If something is truly valued, people will pay for it. But I am afraid I am damned to give my works as gifts and always fear they are taken out of hiding and hung just in time for my visits.” He tried for an amused, ironic tone, but Davida sensed his vulnerability on this point and had never liked him half so well before.

“I believe I do know how you feel. Whenever I sing in a musicale, and people, particularly young men, praise me to the skies, I never know if their enthusiasm is for my singing, my appearance, or the fact that at last it is over and they can get some refreshments.” Curzon chuckled at this, and she smiled wistfully at him. “I have occasionally daydreamed of appearing, disguised of course, in an opera at King’s Theatre. Then, if I did not attract oranges, I would know my voice is worthy of praise.”

“I assure you I would toss you flowers, not oranges.”

“But then, you have never heard me sing, Mr. Curzon.”

“And speaking of refreshments . . .”

“Oh, were we?” Her eyes quizzed him merrily.

“If not, perhaps we should. What would you say to sharing some ices with me at Gunther’s?”

Davida agreed, but insisted that he point out his other two paintings to her as they left. She was able quite honestly to admire them. Truly Harrison Curzon was a talented artist.

When Davida returned from this outing with Curzon she was quietly but deeply thrilled. She felt she had glimpsed a little of the soul of the man, and she found it compatible with her own.

Also, she was flattered that Curzon had conversed with her in such a manner as indicated he thought she was intelligent, instead of treating her as a child or a lackwit, as so many young men did.

She shared her pleasure with her parents. Her father was enthusiastic, her mother more reserved on learning that Davida had begun to seriously consider Harrison Curzon for a husband.

Montgomery Derwent Villars, fourth Baron Pelham, was perturbed. He ran his hands though his dark auburn curls, destroying what little was left of his valet’s efforts to style his hair à la Brutus.

Against the soft murmurs and clinks of glassware of White’s at the dinner hour, his oath was explosive, and caused his companion to start and exclaim, “Steady on, old boy. Do you want an audience?” Pelham’s dinner partner was a tall, elegantly thin man with very fine brown hair beginning to thin on his forehead. He had a fashionable appearance of world-weariness.

“No, but hang it all, Stanley, I’m tired of being tied in knots by that woman.”

Lord Stanley Bede-Holmes, Earl of Carrothers, waved his long, thin hand dismissively. “Then give her up. Lucky for you she cried off.”

The thought apparently hadn’t entered Pelham’s head. He stared, astonished, at his friend. “Give her up? I can’t. I love her.”

“All right then, out with it. What has she done this time to put you in such a pucker?” Lord Carrothers was seven years Pelham’s senior and often stood in the place of an older brother to him. Pelham had been at University with Stanley’s younger brother, Edwin, who had been killed at Waterloo.

“She’s so starchy and proper. I mean, it was just a kiss. I wasn’t going to ravish her. We
are
going to be married, after all. And hang it, she looked so demmed desirable in that gauzy, candy-striped dress.”

“So you pulled her into a dark corner at Vauxhall and kissed her. Entirely understandable. Myself, I have never been able to figure out what females expect, when they make themselves so tempting.” Carrothers’ deep-set brown eyes gave no hint of any intention of irony.

“Exactly!” Pelham lifted his head from his hands. “She stiffened up and pushed me away, and then slapped me. Slapped me, if you can believe it! And not gently, neither. Accused me of treating her like Haymarket ware. And when I told her it was all right, as we were going to be married, she said, ‘I shouldn’t count on it’!”

Carrothers considered the rare roast of beef steaming on the table before them. “Here, have something to eat. You’re going to get bosky if you just drink.”

“Feel like getting bosky,” Pelham mumbled crossly.

“Well, don’t. You can’t handle your liquor well, and you know it. Be sick as a dog tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow is that blasted picnic. I wonder if she’ll still let me drive her?”

“Oh, yes, the famous picnic. Curzon’s do, isn’t it, to show off the spectacular grounds of Elmwood?”

“Yes, and that’s another thing. Curzon and Davida.”

Carrothers arched an expressive eyebrow as he forked a succulent bite of roast. “What’s wrong? Afraid he’ll give your little protégée a slip on the shoulder?”

“He’d damned well better not.”

“Well, I shouldn’t worry. I think he means to fix his interest there. Heard he’d given his latest bit of muslin, La Desmarest, her
congé.
Told her he was getting married.”

Pelham frowned and looked up at the ceiling. “I can’t like it.”

“Why not?” Stanley’s usual imperturbability slipped a bit in astonishment. “Good match for her. Before you took her up she was unknown to the
ton
, and now she’s about to land one of the biggest prizes on the marriage mart.”

“Is it a good match? Somehow I just don’t feel he’s right for her. She needs a light hand on the reins. I’ve known Curzon to treat his women rather roughly.”

Stanley’s brow arched in surprise. “His lightskirts, hmmm? But not his wife, surely?”

“Perhaps not. But I’d hate to see Davida made unhappy. She’s a merry little sprite.” Pelham smiled, a warm look in his eyes.

“Umm hmmm? Perhaps you should give up on Lady Elspeth and pursue Miss Gresham. She’s a taking little thing, that I’ll vouch for.” Pelham had introduced Davida to Lord Carrothers at the Stanhope ball, and his friend had been warm in praise of her.

“Oh, don’t be ridiculous. We’re friends, that’s all. She would be astonished if I began to court her. And besides, I love Elspeth.”

Carrothers did not challenge this pronouncement. “Then eat some roast beef and recruit your strength for your outing tomorrow. And put that brandy decanter away.”

“Softly, Stanley. You aren’t my nursemaid.”

“No, just your friend.”

His steady brown-eyed gaze caused Pelham to drop his eyes to his plate. “Damn it all, do you always have to be right?” Then an idea occurred to him. “Stanley, you liked Davida, didn’t you?”

“Told you so. Pleasant and pretty, proper but spirited. Make someone a capital wife.”