Lady Jenny's Christmas Portrait

Twelve

“So tell me, my lady, do you like it?”

Jenny looked up to see Elijah Harrison standing in the doorway of her newly christened studio. Had she not been studying his parting gift to her, she would no doubt have sensed his presence.

“You came back.” She could not help but smile as she spoke.

“One does not refuse a ducal commission. It’s said Moreland has influence in every corner of government, and his duchess in every corner of Society. Then, too, as the duke himself informed me, any number of juvenile subjects are expected here over the holidays, and I’m intrigued by that potential.”

These words constituted a credible, if wrong answer. The heat and tenderness in Elijah’s gaze as he prowled across the room gave Jenny far more cause for rejoicing. “You’ve closed the door, Mr. Harrison.”

“Elijah to you, though it seems I’m becoming Bernward to the rest of the world.” He stood very close to her, so close she could catch his sweet lavender scent. “Happy Christmas, my lady. Did you like the sketch?”

He did not kiss her, and the frustration of that was profound.

“I cannot show this sketch to anybody, Mr. Harrison. No one but my lady’s maid has seen my hair down for years.”

His eyebrows spoke volumes: he’d seen her hair down, her body naked, her face suffused with arousal. Thank God he’d sketched her in the grip of other emotions: pensiveness, a hint of humor, and something else she couldn’t name.

“You’ve caught a resemblance between me and His Grace. I can’t say I’ve noticed that before, but the likeness is genuine.”

“You have much of your father in you. Will you lend me your studio?”

He moved off, and Jenny wanted to grab him by the hand and drag him down to the carpet, there to renew his acquaintance with her unbound hair until spring.

“Who is to sit to you? I’m fond of my nieces and nephews. I assume you’ll allow me to assist again?”

He paced to the windows, which looked out over the stables and paddocks, toward Kesmore’s estate and Eve’s little manor at Lavender Corner. “My sitter is more fractious than any juvenile subject. His Grace has taken a notion to present his duchess with a portrait for the Christmas Eve open house. The light here is good.”

“I’m having a parlor stove brought up too. Her Grace will love a portrait of Himself.” Why haven’t you kissed me? Do you carry the lock of hair I gave you?

He turned and propped his backside against the windowsill, a pose Jenny’s brothers often adopted. “We never had a chance to paint together at Sidling, Genevieve. Would you enjoy that?”

Zhenevieve. “Yes. And you will critique my work.” Not better than kissing, but some consolation.

“And you will critique mine. I’ll have my equipment set up here.” He sauntered toward the door, and while that view was agreeable, his departure without even touching her was maddening.

“Elijah?”

He half turned, a listening pose as opposed to one that focused on her visually. “My lady?”

“I’m glad you’re back. Very glad.” So glad, her chest had developed a peculiar ache, and her hands had balled into fists.

“I’m glad too, Genevieve.”

He sauntered back to her, kissed her cheek, and left.

Elijah tried to read the letters sent by his remaining sisters—they’d shared paper, the better to economize—and he’d barely comprehended anything except that they missed him and hoped to see him at Christmas.

Perhaps they would, if the Academy had given him the nod by then.

And perhaps they wouldn’t.

“I should not have kissed her,” Elijah informed a cat that looked very like the one he’d seen at Kesmore’s and Sindal’s. This beast also occupied Elijah’s bed, a green-eyed feline stare tracking Elijah as he unpacked his clothes and hung them in the wardrobe. Against the green, gold, and cream appointments of the room, a black-and-white cat commanded attention.

“I could not help but kiss her. When she saw me, she just stood there, a serene smile on her face, and me, not knowing—”

Not knowing if he’d made a small mistake by coming here, or a huge mistake.

“I am here to fulfill a ducal commission.”

The cat lifted a paw and commenced to tongue-wash between its claws.

“I am here because I could not hang about London, waiting for word from the nominating committee. The other fellows would stop by, the Christmas invitations would come. I wouldn’t get any work done.” Though he was caught up on his commissions, all except for the portrait of Sindal’s boys.

The cat rose to sitting and turned its back on Elijah, then tended to its ears with particular assiduousness.

“I am here because it’s someplace my family will not casually drop by and leave hints the size of elephants that this year, I ought to join the revelry at Flint Hall.”

Though they’d stooped to letters, which was beyond hinting. The cat glanced over its shoulder at Elijah then started licking its own belly.

“I am here because Moreland’s holiday hospitality is legendary. The regent himself recommends Her Grace’s recipe for punch.”

At this, the cat started licking its privy parts. Elijah sat on the bed and put the damned beast on the floor. “Dignity, cat. At the very least set me an example of dignity.”

The cat leapt onto the bed, appropriated Elijah’s lap, and once settled in, began purring without any dignity whatsoever.

“Right. I am here because I want to spend whatever time I can around Genevieve Windham, even if it’s only a few weeks amid paint fumes and under her parents’ watchful eyes. I am here to share with her whatever support and insight I might render regarding her art before she leaves for damned France. I am here”—he brushed his nose along the top of the cat’s head—“because I could not resist the opportunity to see her, to kiss her, even once more.”

The cat appeared to consider this, then bopped Elijah’s chin.

“I am here because I am a fool.”

A knock on the door cut short these pathetic confessions. Elijah set the cat aside and opened his door to behold a mature version of Genevieve Windham.

“Your Grace.” He bowed to the duchess then stepped back, hoping he’d put his stockings and under-linen out of sight.

“Bernward, welcome. I am remiss for not being here when you arrived, but I needed a recipe from my daughter at Sidling.” She came into the room, a woman whose very posture could teach lionesses about dignity and presence. “Your mother and I made our bows together, you know.”

Though she offered him a smile that likely dazzled men half her age, she was warning him of something. His Grace’s words about the womenfolk and their espionage came back to him.

“Mother has mentioned this, as did His Grace. I enjoyed a drink with His Grace upon my arrival.”

“Timothy is welcoming you too, I see. Jenny’s cat is as particular as most of his breed. I hope you aren’t given to sneezing around cats?”

“He’s a friendly sort, and I like cats, generally.”

“Gracious, Bernward. You aren’t seeing to your own clothing, I hope?” She considered the open wardrobe and his traveling bag, where—thank ye gods—no stockings or linen were in evidence.

“My things are damp from the weather, Your Grace, and the sooner they’re hung up, the less objectionable my attire will be at dinner.”

Her inspection landed on him. “You have your mother’s pragmatism, though I’ll send along a footman posthaste. Tell me, Bernward, do you paint quickly?”

This was the woman for whom Elijah would be rendering a portrait of the duke, and so her interest in his art made some sense. And yet… the cat had stopped purring.

“Fairly quickly. Mostly, I’m disciplined. I spend hours in the studio, as any laborer spends at his work. His Grace says the portrait must be completed for your Christmas Eve open house.”

She peered into the water pitcher on his nightstand, putting Elijah in mind of Lady Jenny doing the same thing when he’d spent a night at Kesmore’s.

“Can you do two portraits between now and Christmas Eve?” While her tone was merely curious, the hairs on the back of Elijah’s neck prickled.

“I… can, if my sitters cooperate and I’m left undisturbed for most of each day.” That she might be requesting a portrait of Genevieve made his blood churn and ideas racket about in his brain—Genevieve in green or blue? With her cat? Sketching? Genevieve merry or pensive? Genevieve looking regal or slightly mussed? A portrait of Genevieve absorbed in her art?

“I assure you, Bernward, you will have full cooperation, for you see it’s my portrait I’d like you to paint.”

The disappointment this news engendered was hard to keep off his face. “It will be my pleasure and my privilege, Your Grace. Will this portrait be a surprise to His Grace?”

Her smile was mischievous, a smile he’d seen Jenny wear under circumstances her mother would not approve of. “If possible. Can you manage that?”

“I can, as long as it’s understood nobody sees what I’m working on until it’s complete—nobody except Lady Jenny.”

Fine blond brows drew down. “Sophie said you would never have gotten such a wonderful rendering of her boys without Jenny’s assistance.”

The espionage of females, His Grace had called it. “Lady Sindal misstates the case, Your Grace. I would never have gotten any rendering of those children without their aunt’s patient and clever intervention.”

The duchess’s smile turned maternal. “Jenny is very good with children. Her siblings, nieces, and nephews adore her.”

Genevieve was equally good with a sketchbook, though Elijah doubted her mother would smile if he said as much. He tried anyway. “Her assistance was also artistic, Your Grace, having to do with both composition and execution of the portrait. Your daughter has a great deal of artistic talent. I’ve asked His Grace’s leave to call on Lady Jenny’s assistance while I’m here.”

While he watched, the duchess crossed to the wardrobe and withdrew a sachet bound in cream muslin with a green ribbon. She held it up to her nose—neither the lady nor her nose would qualify as dainty—and sniffed. “These need to be replaced. We’ve a large gathering descending in a few days, all of it family, Bernward. Your late addition to the party means the staff might not have been as attentive to your accommodations, for which I apologize. Please don’t hesitate to ask for anything at all that will make your stay with us more enjoyable.”

“My thanks, Your Grace. The duke made it clear I am to consult you regarding all aspects of his portrait. When would you like to begin on our project?”

She left off running her finger down the mantel above his fireplace. “Tomorrow morning. You will meet with me first, and then we’ll summon His Grace and make haste before the rest of the family arrives at week’s end, if that suits?”

She was as accomplished at issuing orders as her husband was. “That will suit perfectly.” Particularly if he was to complete two portraits in less time than many would need for one.

“I’ll wish you good day, then, Bernward. If you’ve any correspondence to send, you can leave it on the desk in the library. We do not dress for dinner except on Christmas Day and Sundays, and of course for the open house. You will attend services with us, weather permitting.”

“Of course, Your Grace.” He bowed to her in parting, feeling as if a military fanfare should have started up as she swept from the room.

She was a gracious hostess and a woman intent on securing a holiday gift for her husband, but that she was more worried about the sage hanging near his clothes or the dust on the mantel than about a compliment to her daughter’s talent made Elijah want to… pitch his stockings at her.

Elijah Harrison was a demon, a slave-driving fiend.

“You have once again neglected the shadows, Genevieve. Here”—he gestured to the folds of the curtains in her sketch—“and here. Whether they are crisp folds or soft, whether they hang exactly straight or a trifle rumpled, it all makes a difference to the image you convey.”

She was going to clobber him with her sketchbook then dance a gavotte on his elegant, talented fingers while wearing her riding boots.

“This is a sketch, Mr. Harrison. This is not the finished portrait of my mother. Your shadows are no better defined than my own.”

Dark eyebrows rose up, and he stepped away from the table where their day’s work was displayed side by side. “What do you mean?”

She pointed to the hearth beside Her Grace’s seat in his drawing. “That is a gesture, not a rendering. The light sources in any painting are of a paramount importance, and you’ve barely hinted at the dimensions of the fireplace.”

His hands went to his hips, and he seemed to grow not just taller, but larger. “I know that, Genevieve, but having painted several hundred portraits, I also know that wasting my time in pencil on an object that can be rendered accurately only with paint is dithering.”

She closed the space between them. “And your carping on my perishing, damned shadows is the same!”

That felt good. The consternation in his eyes when she used foul language felt very good indeed, almost as good as kissing him.

“We’re tired,” he said, his gaze on their sketches. “All of this will be here in the morning. We can shout at each other further then. Better still we’ll get out the paints and inspire you to more cursing. Please promise me, however, that you won’t curse in front of your parents.”

As if she could.

She was tired, tired from spending most of the day in this room with Elijah Harrison, being close enough to catch his lavender scent, to see the way he studied his sketch as if composing a sermon for its betterment, to watch how his beautiful lips firmed when he was concentrating most closely on his work.

Jenny was also tired from trying to see her parents not as the people she’d known and loved since birth, but as subjects for portraits.

Mostly, she was tired of exercising the discipline necessary to not touch him.

“I don’t want to shout at you, Elijah.” She wanted to put her arms around him and feel his arms around her. With him in his shirtsleeves and waistcoat, his cuffs turned back to reveal his wrists and forearms, she wanted very much to touch him.

He moved the sketches aside and used the table as a bench, scooting back to sit on it. “The French shout, Genevieve. They are a pugnacious, articulate people, and not without prejudices where women are concerned, for all their talk to the contrary.”

She took the place beside him. “You are telling me Paris will not be a bed of roses. I know that. Are you hungry?”

Clearly, the question surprised him. “I am. It’s late, though. Shall I escort you to your room?”

This was not an offer to accompany her to bed. This was Elijah being proper, and Jenny nearly hated him for it.

“Come with me.” She hopped off the table and grabbed him by the wrist. “Papa is always testy when he’s peckish, and I’m no different.”

She didn’t turn loose of his wrist, but towed him along through the darkened house. The cloved oranges lent the corridors a holiday fragrance, while mistletoe dangled from the rafters.

“Is there a reason you’re not having a late-night tea tray sent up to your room?” Elijah asked.

“The staff is exhausted from the preparations for all the arrivals tomorrow. The larder is full to bursting though, and nobody will miss what we help ourselves to now.”

The kitchen was in a lower corner of the house, where access to water was assured by an ancient well in the cellars, and where the pantries and gardens were close by.

“I have always liked kitchens,” Elijah said as they gained the darkened main kitchen. “They are warm in winter, and they say a lot about a family.”

“I should have pried you loose from that studio earlier.” Jenny dropped his wrist and took a candle into the cook’s pantry. She appropriated butter, bread, an apple, and a wedge of cheese.

“You can slice us some ham,” she said when she emerged with her platter. “I’m going to make chocolate.”

She expected an argument, because for the past three days, they’d mostly argued. Twice she’d caught Elijah regarding her with an expression she could not fathom, but both times, he’d dropped right back into his art.

His damnable, excellent art.

“Who were today’s letters from?” She fetched the pitcher of milk from the window box and stirred up the coals in the hearth.

“My two middle brothers. There’s an epistolary siege underway. Is this enough ham?”

“You could eat twice that amount yourself. What is the objective of the siege?”

The knife came down on the cutting board loud enough to make a “thwack!” in the shadowed kitchen. “My pride is being besieged. I made a vow I would not return to Flint Hall until I’d gained entry into the Royal Academy. My dear siblings”—Thwack!—“would have me violate that oath.”

Jenny snitched a bite of ham. “So would I.”

“Watch your fingers, Genevieve. What do you mean?”

She held up a bite of cheese, wanting him to nibble it from those fingers. He instead took it from her and held it, his posture expectant.

“How old were you when you made your infernal vow?”

He popped the cheese in his mouth and chewed slowly. “I’d gone up to university. I wasn’t a child.”

She moved away, to the hearth, where the pan of milk was beginning to steam over the coals. “The chocolate is in that tin on the counter and the grater is right beside it.”

Elijah had made hot chocolate before, apparently. He ground off an appropriate portion of chocolate and sprinkled it into the heated milk while Jenny stirred briskly. Next came a dash of salt, some spices, and a bit of sugar.

“I’ve never had it with cinnamon before,” Elijah said, setting two mugs on the table near the fire. “Why do you think I should go home this Christmas, Genevieve?”

She followed with the tray, thinking this was a meal designed to nourish more than the belly.

“You know what folly I got up to at an age when most boys go off to university. I wanted to marry Denby.”

He took the tray from her, pausing for a moment so they were both holding it. “You wanted to marry him?” His tone suggested that a desire to contract the plague and pass it along to the regent would have been easier to fathom.

“I was sixteen, Elijah. I was even younger when I sent my brother Bartholomew off to war.”

He gestured with the tray. “Sit and explain yourself before the chocolate gets cold. You did not send your brother off to war.”

She sat at the head of the table, so they would be neither beside each other nor directly across. “I love the scent of cinnamon. Bart liked it in his chocolate too.”

“He would be your late older brother?”

Late—a euphemism for dead, but not much of a euphemism. “One of my late older brothers.”

Elijah slathered butter on a piece of bread, added ham and cheese, and passed it to her. “And you sent him off to war?”

She studied the food, studied her mug, and took a fortifying whiff of cinnamon and nutmeg. Elijah ought to go home; she knew this as clearly as she knew her destiny lay in Paris.

“Adolescents are prone to righteousness. Bart made the mistake of teasing me about my drawing once too often, and I—I suspect my female humors were in part to blame—I came at him with guns blazing.”

“You could not aim a gun at a living creature to save yourself.” He made himself a sandwich twice the thickness of Jenny’s.

“I have a temper.”

He munched a bite of sandwich. “You are passionate where your art is concerned.”

Only her art? Jenny’s hands tightened around her mug, because the idiot man was humoring her. “I appropriated my mother’s tactics. His Grace rants and blusters when he’s in a temper, but his words are not intended as weapons. Her Grace’s artillery is much quieter. She sniffs, she frowns, she mentions, she lets a quiet question hang in the air, and one is devastated.”

Elijah took up a knife and the apple. “What did you mention to your brother?”

Jenny set her mug aside, the scent of spices no longer appealing. “I mentioned that I was ashamed of him. He’d finished his studies and was idling about, getting his younger brothers into trouble, making Mama worry, and starting up horrible rows with His Grace. He drank excessively, at least by my juvenile standards, and he terrorized the maids.”

“If you knew that and you were his lady sister and little more than a child, then he should have been ashamed. Have a bite of apple.”

Elijah held out his hand with four eighths of an apple in his palm. She took two.

“You aren’t going to tell me young men are full of high spirits? That a young man needs to learn to hold his drink? That a ducal heir should have lived long enough to outgrow those high spirits? To produce the next heir?”

Elijah crunched off a bite of apple, the sound healthy and… reassuring. “If he’d finished his education, Genevieve, Lord Bart had had three years in that expensive conservatory of spoiled young manhood known as Oxford. He’d had years to lark about, chase the tavern wenches, learn to hold his liquor, and acquire the knack of living within an allowance. By the end of my first year there, I was serving as banker to the older boys, and had taught one of the chambermaids the rudiments of reading.”

The notion that not all heirs to titles had a misspent youth was novel. “Why?”

He passed her sandwich to her. “Because I am the oldest of twelve. I could not do otherwise. The cost of educating six boys and launching six girls is substantial, even for a man as wealthy as my father. I could not countenance squandering my education or setting an example that would allow any of my brothers to squander theirs. Eat your sandwich.”

She took a bite and chewed, finding both the food and the conversation fortifying. “Bart was not the oldest, not really.”

“He was the heir to a much-respected dukedom, which is responsibility enough. He was also likely at or near his majority by the time you took him to task, and I say it was high time somebody did.”

The sandwich was good, much better than cheese, bread, butter, and ham had a right to be. “He and Papa reconciled. Papa bought commissions for Bart and Devlin, though it made Mama cry.”

He passed her two more apple quarters, though she hadn’t touched the first two. “Mothers cry. I suspect fathers do too, but not when anybody’s looking.”

“That’s why you should go home.”

He paused while stacking together the ingredients for a second sandwich. “I assure you, the Marquess of Flint is not crying over my absence. We’re quite cordial. I meet him for dinner at his club at least once a quarter unless I’m traveling. I take tea with my mother. I entertain my younger brothers when they’re in Town.”

Idiot. Buffoon. Imbecile. Jenny posed her question sweetly. “And your younger sisters?”

He sat back. “You wield your mother’s weapons quite skillfully.”

“How long, Elijah?”

“I haven’t seen the twins since… for quite a while.”

“And they miss you, and when you persist in this foolishness, they will miss you yet more and think they’ve done something to make it easy for you to stay away. If you’re thrown from your horse tomorrow, Elijah, if you should sicken from bad fish and die, what are they to make of the example you set for them?”

He took a bite of his second sandwich and chewed slowly while Genevieve took a swallow of chocolate.

“I’ve written to them.”

She snorted and bit into an apple quarter rather than cry. When Elijah patted her knuckles, she nearly jumped in surprise.

“We’ll start painting tomorrow afternoon.”

Jenny rose and took her mug to the sink. By the time she came back to the table, she’d decided to allow the change in topic. “You will start painting. I will greet my siblings and their various spouses and offspring. Her Grace has made it plain that my presence will not be excused merely so I can look over your shoulder while you paint.”

“Then I’ll work on finishing up Sindal’s commission, and your parents’ portraits can wait their turns. Sometimes a project turns out better when I’m given a day or so to think about it.”

“You are doing this so you don’t get ahead of me. I expect you to be much faster than I am, Elijah.” He’d challenged Jenny to paint two portraits, one of each parent based on the same sittings he was using, and then they’d compare their efforts.

“I am not particularly fast, Genevieve, but I apply myself to my commissions in a disciplined fashion. Are you going to eat that cheese?”

She pushed the tray closer to him, realizing he had to have been famished before they’d come down here—and she was still famished.

“Why haven’t you kissed me, Elijah?”

He paused with a slice of ham and a slice of cheese rolled together in his fingers. “I kissed you the day I arrived here.”

“Hah. My brothers kiss their horses with more mischief than you allowed in that kiss.”

“Your brothers, all three of whom are reputed to be dead shots, dead shots who will arrive tomorrow. Then there’s Kesmore, whose aim is legendary, while Sindal looks like he might enjoy breaking my knuckles for his casual entertainment.”

She plucked the food from his grasp and took a bite, then handed it back. “Your point?”

He set it down uneaten and rose, his chair scraping back loudly in the otherwise quiet kitchen.

“Genevieve, we are under your parents’ roof. You are going to Paris, need I remind you, and while I understand a lady might need to lay a ghost or a regret to rest, kissing can lead to… to folly. To the type of folly that will remove Paris from your future, if it hasn’t already.”

He looked exasperated and… dear.

Jenny took a considering bite of her apple and wondered what it meant that she tempted him to folly—with mere kisses, she tempted him to folly. She took another bite of apple and realized that lurking at the edges of his rejection was a lovely consolation that had to do with chivalry and respect.

“So I’m to content myself by painting with you instead?”

“You want to go to Paris. Painting with me seems a good use of your time while you’re making arrangements for your travel.”

His words reminded her that she still hadn’t read the packet schedules, or started filling those trunks. “Come sit.”

He obliged, but he would not look at her. Instead, he interrogated the last bites of ham. “When will you know?”

He would not write letters of introduction for her, but he’d provide her as much artistic instruction as he could before her departure. Jenny was trying to decide whether to be pleased or disappointed when his question registered.

“When will I know what?”

He looked around, as if her brothers and brothers-in-law might have been hiding in the kitchen’s deep shadows. “Know if you are with child.”

For an instant, she thought she’d heard hope in his voice, but then common sense asserted itself. Hope and anxiety were close relations—she’d heard nothing more romantic than an unmarried, honorable man’s worry.

The next instant was spent grieving that she did not carry his child and would not ever have with him the domestic riches the rest of her family enjoyed in such abundance.

In the very next instant after that, she vowed it was time and past she made those travel arrangements he’d alluded to.

“I’m sorry, Elijah. I should have told you when I laid eyes on you several days ago. You have no need to worry about impending fatherhood. Finish the ham.”

His expression gave away nothing. Not relief, not disappointment, not irritation. Nothing.

“Was this why you came back to Kent, Elijah? Because you were concerned about a child and you did not trust me?”

His lips quirked up. “I trust you, Genevieve. I came out to Kent to accept a ducal commission, and now it has turned into a double commission with the possibility of an entire gallery of juvenile portraits to follow. I do not regret my decision, but it’s late. Let me escort you to your room.”

She wanted to argue, but he hadn’t given her anything to argue about. Her entire family would descend tomorrow, and even the thought of their noise and activity was wearying.

Elijah took the tray to the counter. Jenny rinsed out his mug and let him hold the candle as they walked through the house.

“You don’t need to see me to my room, Elijah. I’ve been sleeping in the same place for nearly a decade, and I know where it is.”

He said nothing, but rather, winged his arm at her. Jenny wanted to slap him on the elbow. She wrapped her hand around his sleeve instead and let him lead her through the chilly house.

“You’ll miss your room when you’re in Paris.” His tone was regretful rather than taunting, and he was right. She would miss her room.

Even her room.

“I expect Timothy will have abandoned me again tonight,” Jenny said. She’d miss Timothy too.

“He does keep one’s feet warm. This is your room?”

She dropped his arm. “My very own. Good night, then. You’re going back to the studio?”

“Perhaps. Sleep well, my lady.”

“You too.”

When she should have turned and slipped into her room, Jenny instead indulged in a spot of folly—necessary folly. She wrapped her arms around Elijah’s waist and held on. For a moment, he held still. Then, he set the candle down on the side table and returned her embrace.

He gave her no words, but he did hold her until she stepped back, kissed him on the mouth, and withdrew into her room. She stood on her side of the closed door, listening to his footsteps fade, not in the direction of his room but back toward the studio.

And, of course, there was no sign of Timothy anywhere in Jenny’s room.

“Elijah Harrison is the only person who takes my art as seriously as I do,” she announced to the room she would miss.

Jenny lay awake for some time, wondering why she wished it were not so, and trying to get her feet warm.