Laurie's Painter (sweet Regency romance) (17 page)

Determining to be less of
a whey-faced miss and to face her duty, Jenny left the room with a cheerful
goodbye for her brother. She walked away with a very determined step. She and
Laurie would talk, and right now. Unless he was still at breakfast with his
guest. Who knew how long rakes and gamblers dallied over their meals? Or in
this case, other people's.

~*~

Laurie knocked at the door
tentatively.

"Come in," said Henry's
voice, sounding amused. "Did you forget something?"

Laurie's face fell as he
entered the room and found Henry alone. "Er, no, I wished to see your
sister."

Henry sat propped up in
bed with a book open over his knee, and he looked less grumpy and a bit livelier
for once. His hands were crossed behind his head against the headboard, as if
he'd just finished stretching and had decided to rest there a moment before
returning to his book.

He gave Laurie a scolding
look. "Still haven't asked her, eh? I thought you were braver than that."

Laurie scowled at him. "You
wound me. Shall you always be this pugnacious when you're healthy?"

Henry's eyebrows rose and
he grinned at Laurie's reaction. "I see. You can tease others but you can't
take any flippant remarks about yourself!"

Both men's faces relaxed
into rueful smiles, and Henry said, more seriously, "You've just missed
her."

"Do you know where
she went?" Laurie sat down on the edge of the bed and picked up Henry's
book, turning it around so he could read the title. "I didn't know you liked
poetry."

"I don't. Jen left
it. And I haven't a clue where she went, but it was purposefully. I tell you,
it was all I could do to hold my tongue and not tell her about your intended
proposal. If I were you, I'd work fast. She's thinking—thinking far too
much—and it's not going to do you any good, is it?"

Laurie sent him a haughty
look, brows rising. "Oh, I see the way it is! Any woman with sense would
refuse me if she gave it a thought, is that what you're saying?"

"Too true. No, truly
Joysey. You know my sister. She never thinks she's good enough for anything. You'll
never convince her you truly care for her if you don't get started soon."

He stared up at Laurie,
his eyes gone dark and intense, all playfulness gone. "She loves you. I
know she does, but she doesn't know you care for her at all. I blame you—but
mostly this life we've led. She's never had any experience, anyone to care for
her.

"My sister has been
as wounded by our life as I have, though she shows it less and isn't ill. But
she's worked like a dog every day since my father died. She's worked just as
hard as I have to take care of us. I'd like her to have some happiness before I
die, and I know how much she cares for you, even if she can't admit it. Please
don't let her down."

This was the most serious
and impassioned speech Laurie had ever heard from Henry. Laurie's throat felt
tight; he swallowed. "Of course. Of course I shall not. Please...excuse
me. I—believe I must—" He could not even finish the sentence before
hurrying from the room, his thoughts in a whirl.

All he could think of was
finding Jenny and finally overcoming his own stupid anxiety, to tell her, to
somehow convince her, that he loved her.

She shouldn't have to wait
for a more convenient time. She deserved to know.

Chapter eleven

As she left her brother's
room, Jenny was startled to see the guest, William Vale, walking down the
hallway. He gave her a friendly smile that was definitely that of a rogue. She gave
him a cool nod. One should be wary of rakes and possible gamblers. And she didn't
trust him, because Laurie didn't.

"Good morning, Miss
Wilkenson." He swept her a deep bow. It was finely executed, but overdone.

She curtsied in return,
but refused to return his smile so warmly. "Excuse me. I'm looking for Mr.
Joysey."

"Ah. I believe he is
in the garden. Will you accompany me?" He held out his arm for her,
raising his eyebrows slightly.

Jenny could have gritted
her teeth. She could not in politeness refuse: and yet... somehow she didn't
wish to walk on this stranger's arm, no matter how good his bow. Knowing that
she was probably being unreasonable didn't change her feelings.

"Thank you." If
she sounded a little stiff, he did not appear to notice.

"Are you good friends
of Joysey?" he enquired, turning to look at her as they walked down the
long hallway.

"Yes, are you?"

He laughed aloud. "Indeed!
Though I do wonder why he's kept you a secret. Or perhaps I don't," he said
more thoughtfully. "Are you a very
good
friend of Joysey's?"

Even inexperienced in the
ways of the
ton
as she was, Jenny had no difficulty interpreting that
insinuating tone. She bristled and turned a chilly, quelling look on him. "He
hired my brother as a portrait painter, and the three of us became friends. Mr.
Joysey has been all that is kind, polite—and proper."

"Oh. Indeed. Well,
you've put me in my place, to be sure." His eyes, his dark eyes were
laughing at her, and she realised he had been quizzing her all along.

She blushed, dropping her
eyes, feeling wretched and stupid: of course Joysey would not bring his
mistress to eat with his mother, and Vale would have known that, would have
known she was someone Laurie considered (or at least treated), like an equal.

But this stirred up the roiling
feelings buried deeper. Did Laurie have a mistress? Or would he, during their
sham marriage, if she consented to it? She knew she couldn't bear that, even if
she somehow could bear not being loved by him.

She was no doubt being far
too missish, but it bothered her. Why would one bother getting married if one
didn't mean to keep the wedding vows? To some people it wasn't serious, more of
a business contract where each party might keep liaisons on the side as long as
they were discreet and didn't endanger the family name. Perhaps she was too inexperienced
to understand the ways of the world, but it made her feel sick to think of
behaving thus. If she ever married, it would be for love—and she wanted that
love returned. And if one loved, then surely faithfulness was not too much to strive
for.

Yet she and Laurie had (of
course) never talked of such things, and walking next to the laughingly
pleasant smile of Mr. Vale, she couldn't help feeling a stirring of doubt. Perhaps
she was very wrong about all of these things. If Laurie's proposal was a
subject of her heated imagination, the question of faithfulness in marriage
wouldn't even be a consideration. But all the same, she felt her courage
beginning to desert her.

Right now all Jenny wanted
to do was turn tail and run. But what could she do? They were straight on a
course for the gardens.

~*~

Laurie was reduced to
asking the staff where she'd gone. "Have you seen Jenny?" he asked
repeatedly.

Finally someone said yes:
she'd gone to the gardens on the arm of his guest.

Filled with a nameless
dread, Laurie started after them. He knew this feeling was foolish yet couldn't
suppress it. Vale would not harm a girl, nor force a kiss on Jenny. Yet some anxiety
for her filled him all the same.

Or perhaps he was simply
jealous. If so, he hadn't previously realised what a strong streak of it he had
in his nature: a burning yellow pain, almost crippling in intensity.

He simply knew he had to
get to the garden, had to find his Jenny and not allow her to be taken from him
before he could woo her properly.

~*~

Jenny looked around dully,
feeling confused. "I don't see him. Where is he?" She removed her
hand from Vale's arm. They stopped at a little stone bench surrounded by
shrubs. It was relatively private, and they were emphatically alone.

From one of the hedges, a
bird called, quiet and sincere and sounding of everything about the countryside
that was dear to Jenny. She felt oddly like weeping, and didn't know why.

Vale spoke, interrupting
the beautiful sound. "Well, he doesn't appear to be here after all. Perhaps
he has business to attend to. There must be many things to do on such a big
estate. It's nearly as big as mine, you know. Let's sit down and talk before
heading back. It's too nice a day to head right indoors."

Jenny cast him a perplexed
glance, and he laughed at her expression.

"I mean you no harm, I
assure you, Miss Wilkenson! I'm simply curious to know more about you." His
smile looked sincere, harmless.

"I would rather be
alone," said Jenny honestly. "I am...feeling oddly. Please leave me
here. We can talk another time. I'm sorry," she added in an awkward burst.
"I really do not feel like myself. I shan't be good company for you."

He looked down into her
imploring gaze, and whatever he saw put a stop to the charming smile he'd been
putting on his face, and the half-laugh.

Instead, he nodded and
withdrew. "I shall hold you to it, however! I am very curious about you,
you know. Laurie kept you secret for some reason, and I mean to discover it."
Casting her one last, roguish grin, he retreated, leaving her surrounded by the
greenery.

She sat down abruptly on the
stone bench, releasing her breath and taking a deep one to replace it. It was
pleasant out here, calming. If only one didn't have to think of mistresses or
marriage or brothers dying, or anything, anything at all. If only one could be
as thoughtless and happy as the birds that took no care, carried no worry.

Ahead of her stood a tree
with an oddly bent, low-hanging branch. It looked like a tree of character, a
tree that had seen much and would survive to see more. After several minutes of
staring at it, Jenny rose rather unsteadily, blinking and taking deep breaths,
and walked down to it. Such a beautiful tree, full of character, and it would
be a good place to think, to clear her head.

She remembered galloping
across the fields on horseback with Laurie by her side, his eyes laughing and
full of happiness. She couldn't remember ever having enjoyed anything so
much—except perhaps for his kiss.

And that was why she
couldn't marry him. She would love him so much, but if he didn't love her back,
life would be unbearable.

A moment later she knew
she was being ridiculous. If he could be fond of her, surely that was enough? Such
feelings might grow to more. Most likely friendship lasted longer than romantic
love in most cases anyway, and if you had to pick one, it was better to have
friendship.

Yet she couldn't overcome
the feeling that friendship wasn't
enough
.

Maybe I can make him fall
in love with me....

She shook her head at that
ridiculous thought. No one could influence Laurie unless he wanted to be
influenced. In his laughing, cheerful way, he was as stubborn as even her
brother.

But I cannot be his
charity project. I cannot!

She was twisting into
knots, making herself miserable with all of these thoughts. The view was
becoming befogged and clouded in her watery gaze. Reaching blindly for her
handkerchief, Jenny crushed it into her face. She rested her head against the
trunk of the tree, and gave in to the tears that had been threatening since
William Vale spoke to her.

She leaned against the
tree trunk, lowered her head, and wept. The hot tears streaked her cheeks;
Jenny couldn't remember when she'd wept so hard. But out here, there was no one
to see her, no one to hear her moment of weakness. Just the tree, the birds,
and the statues.

"Jenny!" a
shout—a very concerned shout—from a familiar voice made her startle and swipe
quickly at her eyes. She raised her head and brushed back escaping tendrils of hair
self-consciously, swiping at her wet cheeks. Did it have to be the man she was
crying over?

"Laurie?" she
asked hesitantly. He bounded across the grounds to meet her, his face alive
with concern, nothing of the smiling and playful friend about him now. Instead,
he wore the look of a man intensely worried. She took a step toward him, twisting
her handkerchief. "Whatever is wrong? Is it H-Henry?"

"He's fine. Are you well?"
He stopped beside her, catching himself on one of the low limbs to stop his
frantic pace. He was panting, his hair wild, and he had forgotten a hat. "Did
Vale—upset you?"

Despite her emotional
turmoil, Jenny felt herself relaxing into an affectionate smile at his disarray.
"It's nothing. I'm being foolish."

"Jenny—"

"I'm well, I do
assure you." She slid away her handkerchief and smoothed back her hair
again. This was she: Jenny Wilkenson. She could handle anything outwardly, even
if on the inside, it might feel like her heart was breaking. "You wished to
ask or tell me something. I'm ready to listen."

It would be better to hear
him after she had already had a good cry: surely there would be no tears left
now. She would deal with this like an adult, like a friend. They would be all
right. She could simply tell him 'no,' they could laugh about it, and discuss
another way to help Henry.