Lady Jenny's Christmas Portrait

Fifteen

“You look as if you’ve just lost your best friend.” Eve took a place beside Jenny on this observation, which leavened Jenny’s sense of desolation with a spike of resentment.

“With all my family around me, how could I possibly be in want of companionship?”

Eve watched their mutual siblings stepping through a minuet while their brother Valentine held forth at the piano. “The same way I can long to dance while the minuet plays all around me.”

Marriage had settled Eve, and impending motherhood had only honed her already formidable instincts.

“You’re admiring your husband, Lady Deene, even when you can’t dance with him.”

“He’s promised me a waltz, though Valentine will probably find one to play at the speed of a dirge.” She fell silent for a moment as the dancers one-two-three’d around the space created by the music room and an adjoining parlor. “You would make a wonderful mother, Jenny.”

The worst pain was not in the words Eve offered, but the combination of pleading and pity with which she offered them.

“Becoming a mother usually contemplates becoming a wife first, and I’ve no wish to wed some man for the sole purpose of bearing his babies.” Not the sole purpose… As the dancers twirled and smiled, it occurred to Jenny that Victor had made her promise not to stop painting, but he hadn’t said anything specific about eschewing motherhood.

Had he?

Another pause in the conversation, while the music played on. Eve, however, was notably tenacious, so Jenny waited for the next salvo, and Eve did not disappoint.

“You look at Bernward the way I look at Deene, the way Maggie looks at Benjamin, the way—”

“Louisa looks at Joseph, I suppose.” And Sophie at her baron too, of course. They needn’t start on how the Windham brothers regarded their respective wives.

“Louisa’s gaze is a touch more voracious. I was going to say, the way Mama looks at Papa.”

Ouch. Ouch, indeed. The duke and duchess turned down the room with the grace of a more elegant age, and yet, their gazes spoke volumes about the sheer pleasure of sharing a dance.

Jenny stated the obvious as matter-of-factly as possible. “Their Graces dance beautifully.”

Eve’s feet were propped on a hassock. She wiggled her toes in time with the music, the left and right foot partnering each other. “Bernward also dances quite well.”

Elijah was dancing with Valentine’s lady, Ellen’s preferred partner being ensconced at the keyboard, as usual. “Bernward is dancing carefully, lest Valentine take exception.”

Eve twitched her skirts. “Bernward is dancing with one eye on you, you ninnyhammer, and with the certain knowledge that all three of our brothers are waiting for him to come over here and get you to stand up with him. How many more times do you think you can check on the punch bowl between sets without Bernward taking insult?”

Check on the full punch bowl, offer to turn pages for Valentine when he was playing from memory, or trim the wicks on the lamps that the footmen had trimmed not fifteen minutes earlier. This Christmas gathering was driving her mad.

“I’m going to Paris after the holidays.”

Jenny hadn’t planned on making the admission, but Eve’s good intentions—her meddling—were enough to pluck confessions from a saint.

“Do you need money? My pin money is generous, and though one hears the Continent is affordable, I will worry about you.”

Eve had been the second-to-last sibling to marry, and perhaps Jenny ought to have anticipated her reaction. Except she hadn’t.

She absolutely had not. “You won’t try to stop me?”

Eve’s feet went still. “I know what it’s like, Jenny, to be one of the few remaining Windham daughters without an offer, but I also know you could have had offers. I know you’re afraid if you don’t do something drastic, you’ll compromise and accept a wrong offer. I could not live with myself—”

Eve’s gaze went to her handsome husband, her expression conveying nothing short of besottedness.

“You feel guilty for abandoning me in favor of Deene’s charms,” Jenny concluded slowly. “Who is the ninnyhammer now, Lady Deene?” She couldn’t make it a reproof. She was too grateful for her sister’s concern.

“We love you,” Eve said, keeping her voice down as the music came to a close. “Of course we’re worried. Their Graces are challenge enough when one has reinforcements, but all you have is that dratted cat and the occasional sympathy visit from the rest of us.”

“I’m not dead. I don’t need condolence calls.” But she did need Paris, if she wasn’t to lapse into the very creature Eve described.

“Bernward has apparently taken the hint and given up on you.”

Jenny watched as Elijah led Ellen off the dance floor and chatted up Valentine, who showed no signs of leaving the piano bench.

“Genevieve, it’s time you obliged your old brother and took a turn down the room. Anna says I’m neglecting you.”

Not Elijah, but Westhaven, the biggest, handsomest mother hen ever to stand in line for a ducal coronet—also the most meddling of older brothers.

“Might as well dance, Jenny. If you refuse, Westhaven will only nag you and send the rest of them over,” Eve remarked. “I’ll set Deene on you, and he is a very good dancer.”

“Come.” Westhaven held out his hand. “If you sneak off to your studio now, Her Grace will send one of us to retrieve you, and you’ll end up right back here anyway. If you dance, you can plead fatigue then be credibly excused.”

His green eyes held such understanding, Jenny wanted to flee the room. Her cat at least kept quiet and couldn’t compel her to dance.

She took her brother’s hand and rose. “The pleasure will be entirely mine.”

True to Eve’s prediction, Valentine chose a very decorous pace for the ensuing waltz.

“Jenny, what can I do to help?” Westhaven’s expression was merely genial, but in his words, Jenny heard determination and that most dratted of holiday gifts, sibling concern.

“Help?”

“You’re quiet as a dormouse. Maggie says you’re chewing your nails. Louisa reports that you’re taking odd notions, and Sophie won’t say anything, but she’s clearly worried. Her Grace muttered something about regretting all the time she’s permitted you to spend among the paint fumes.”

“What would Her Grace know of paint fumes?” What would the duchess know of anything relating to painting?

“She’s our mother. Where knowledge fails, maternal instinct serves. Is Bernward troubling you?”

Westhaven was an excellent dancer, and if Jenny did not finish the dance with him, Her Grace would casually suggest that tomorrow be a day to rest from the activity in the studio. The idea made Jenny desperate.

“Westhaven, you must not involve yourself in anything to do with Elijah.”

“Elijah.” Westhaven’s gaze shifted to a spot over Jenny’s shoulder. “And does he call you Jenny?”

He calls me Genevieve, and sometimes he even calls me “woman.”

“He calls me talented and brilliant but uneducated and unorthodox too. I’ve enjoyed working with him these past weeks more than anything—”

“Excuse me.” Elijah had tapped Westhaven on the shoulder. “May I cut in?”

Westhaven’s smile was diabolical. “Of course. Jenny would never decline an opportunity to dance with a family friend.”

Family friend? Her blighted, interfering, perishing brother was laying it on quite thick.

Elijah bowed. “Lady Genevieve, may I have what remains of this dance?”

Two days remained. Two days and three nights. Jenny curtsied and assumed waltz position. As Elijah’s hand settled on her back, his scent wafted to her, enveloping her in his presence.

“You’re avoiding me,” he said. “You needn’t. I’ll be leaving soon, and I hope we can at least part friends.”

With her siblings, she could dissemble and maintain appearances, but with Elijah…

“I am honored you think me a friend, Elijah.” And he danced wonderfully, with the same sense of assurance and mastery that he undertook painting… and lovemaking.

“I am your friend too, Genevieve. If you cursed right now, very softly, only I would hear you.”

Cursing abruptly appealed more strongly than anything in the world—almost anything. Jenny gathered her courage on the next slow, sweeping turn, and leaned in close to her partner.

“I would like to be sharing your damned bed right now, Elijah. My family’s kindness and concern make me want to perishing scream.”

He did not falter in any regard but drew her a shade closer. “Swive, roger, bed, possess, lie with, copulate, fornicate… you can be explicit in your wishes, my lady. They’re only wishes.”

And he was warning her they’d only ever be wishes. Each word was rendered in a slightly different shade: daring, naughty, flirtatious, challenging, but none of them took her sentiment seriously.

The damned man was trying to jolly her past a sulk, for which she would not forgive him.

“You’re leaving, Elijah Harrison, and I desire you. I still want it to be you.”

He let more distance come between them as the music played on. “There are things you want more than you want me, Genevieve. Important things nobody else can give you, things you think you’ll find in Paris. I would not deny you your heart’s desire.”

He spoke so gently, Jenny felt her throat constrict. “Damn you to rubbishing hell, Elijah.”

Maybe he heard the desperation in her voice or saw the tears she blinked back, because he offered her no more flirtation or jollying. He danced with her until the music ended, then bowed and escorted her right back to her brother’s side.

In Elijah’s experience, fatigue came in two varieties. The primary colors of fatigue were an unsubtle indication that the body or mind sought rest. Ignoring this kind of tiredness came at a peril. Bad decisions, stupid pronouncements, inept paintings, ill-advised couplings, and inane arguments could all result from an unwillingness to accommodate the basic forms of fatigue.

Elijah’s argument with his father had happened late at night, around yet another bowl of holiday wassail. He and his sire had both been tired, and unfortunate words had been exchanged.

So Elijah had learned to heed the signs of simple fatigue.

The more subtle fatigue was of the spirit, and like a secondary color, it had antecedents, and usually involved a blending of bodily weariness with something more. One grew overwhelmed observing the world in all its folly, overwhelmed by want and woe on a scale too great to be productively addressed. One grew weary of being good, of being kind, honest, hopeful, and civil.

He’d tempted Jenny into swearing the previous evening in hopes of alleviating some of her weariness of heart, more fool him.

For she’d passed beyond the common hues of fatigue into something more, some unassailable state of calm, which Elijah suspected resulted from his rejecting her intimate overtures on the impromptu dance floor.

She stood not two feet away, a monument of serenity in green velvet. “The portrait is lovely, Elijah. Rothgreb and his family will treasure it.”

Jenny’s smile was sweet, a bit tired, and to all appearances genuine.

She’d left for Paris already.

“It’s a good effort. I suspect if I take on more juvenile commissions, I’ll become more confident with them. I do like it.” This portrait of Sindal’s sons was the best thing Elijah had ever painted, in fact. Its temporary frame did not do it justice.

Jenny touched old Jock’s ear, a bit of brushwork of which Elijah was particularly proud. “Will you display it at the open house?”

He resisted the urge to touch the lock of hair that wanted to curl over Jenny’s ear. “I will not. Nothing will be allowed to overshadow Their Graces’ portraits. The duchess was clear on that, as was her doting swain.”

“You mean Papa. Shall I have this one packed up then? I’m sure Rothgreb will want to display it as soon as possible.”

Did she have to be so blasted helpful? “I’m reluctant to lose sight of it.”

She quirked an eyebrow, looking much like her father. “The joy is in the creation, Elijah, not in the possession.”

Where was the polite, demure Lady Jenny who’d offered him shelter from a winter storm? Would he want her back if he could restore her? Was she any happier than this talented, determined, exhausted version of the same woman?

“There can be joy in creating and savoring, my lady. Pack it up and send it off. The painting belongs to the one who commissioned it, not to the fellow who merely happened to create it.”

“Or to the lady who merely happened to create it.”

She wanted an argument, and he was hard put not to oblige her. “Just so. I’d rather we spent this afternoon completing Their Graces’ portraits instead of crating up finished business.”

They had only this afternoon, after all. Tomorrow was the open house, when Elijah’s ducal portraits would go on display before family and friends.

“A splendid notion,” Jenny said, reaching for her smock. She looped it around her neck and reached behind herself to tie it in back.

“Allow me.”

She turned her back to him and dipped her chin, so her nape was exposed to Elijah, a vulnerable, delectable pose, particularly when she wore a comfortable old dress and a simple painting smock. He tied a bow for her, and let his hands drop when what he wanted was to pull her close and hang the consequences.

Hang Paris.

“You’re having trouble with the duke,” he said. “Have you figured out why?”

She aimed a peevish look at him over her shoulder, and that was seductive too. “You didn’t have any trouble with him. Your portrait catches all of his most appealing attributes.”

Elijah slipped his sleeve buttons into a pocket and turned back his cuffs. “Which would be?”

Jenny studied their side-by-side paintings, her arms crossed, her expression disgruntled. “His Grace never fails to act, even when he ought to remain idle. He fires off letters, delivers speeches in the Lords, cozens the MPs, interferes wherever he must to see his ends achieved. You made that seem like leadership, or his responsibility, not busybodying.”

Elijah laid out his brushes and wished his mouth was going to start humming some seasonal tune, though he knew it wouldn’t. “You could not paint the duke as easily as you did Her Grace because he embodies the parts of yourself you are least comfortable with. Are you going to paint, or stare away the afternoon?”

Jenny turned, dropping her arms. “You think I’m like His Grace?”

She was fascinated, not horrified, which meant he was doomed to explain rather than defend his notions. He chose a small, fine finishing brush, took up his palette, and added a dot of green to the drapery behind the duke.

“When was the last time you had any instruction in art, Genevieve? Anyone to discuss your ideas with, anybody to trade criticisms with?”

She watched as he brought His Grace’s curtains into harmony with the same drapes in Her Grace’s portrait. “I tried for a while after my come-out to work with Antoine, but the subterfuge was too much, and he became… He humored me.”

“And yet, you still painted. When you couldn’t paint, you drew. When you couldn’t draw, you embroidered.” He turned to aim a glower at her. “You are relentless.”

He’d all but growled the words, and yet, she was smiling a bemused smile. “After Victor died, I didn’t want to paint, but he’d made me promise, and he was right. I am … relentless. His Grace is relentless too—so’s Mama.”

She started in painting, still not getting the duke quite right in Elijah’s opinion. The portrait was all but completed, and recasting the sitter’s personality was not easily done in touch-ups and finishing work.

His Grace was relentless, and tireless in pursuit of his ends, but he was also a man capable of asking for what he wanted, even demanding what he wanted, and Jenny had far to go if she were to emulate her father.

He paused, his brush poised above the duke’s heart. Jenny had been very forthright on the dance floor. Elijah considered the curtains, decided they needed more work, and allowed Jenny to paint away the afternoon in silence.

“Elijah didn’t even suggest Sindal’s portrait should be sent to the nominating committee.” Jenny turned at the mantel and paced back across the parlor the ladies had taken over for the holidays. “He didn’t mention the Academy at all. Just told me to pack the thing up and send it along to Sidling.”

“Sit down,” Louisa muttered. “If I only have an hour before the baby wakes, I don’t want to spend it watching you careen about like a kite in the wind. Maggie, send that teapot over here.”

Maggie rose from her rocker by the fire and set the teapot—a porcelain confection of green leaves and pink cabbages roses—down before Louisa. “Jenny is worried for her artist. If the committee doesn’t see this portrait, then some old curmudgeon—Farthingdale?—will keep Bernward from being nominated to the Academy.”

“Fotheringale,” Jenny said, taking a seat next to Louisa. “He holds a grudge against Elijah’s parents. I believe Elijah has given up any hope of becoming an Academician.”

Sophie glanced up from her embroidery hoop. “Men have been known to give up when they receive no encouragement whatsoever.”

The door opened, admitting a flushed and flustered Lady Eve. “I have ruined Christmas!”

“Close the door,” Louisa groused. “We can at least be cozy while we endure this ruined Christmas.”

Eve flounced down onto the sofa on Louisa’s other side. “I’m serious. Deene and I agreed to exchange our presents on Christmas Eve under the mistletoe, because we wanted a tradition, and that’s today, and amid all the commotion and the coming and going, I left his p-present at L-lavender C-court!”

Louisa put an arm around Eve, who took to weeping, while Jenny exchanged looks with her sisters. Eve and Deene’s first kiss had been beneath a sprig of mistletoe, just as Elijah and Jenny’s had been.

“We’ll send a footman,” Maggie said.

“Can’t,” Eve replied, blotting her eyes with a handkerchief. “Mama has them running all about in preparation for the open house later today.”

“A groom?” Louisa ventured.

“They’re still decorating the ballroom,” Eve wailed.

“I’d send Sindal, but he’s gone off to fetch old Rothgreb,” Sophie said.

Jenny rose, before her sisters could stop her. “I’ll go. I’ll be there and back in a trice, and Mama won’t notice my absence, because you lot will distract her if the preparations don’t suffice. You will not tell our brothers, either.”

Another round of looks was exchanged: Louisa’s thoughtful, Sophie’s dubious. Eve looked hopeful—also quite gravid and in no condition for any upset—while Maggie looked… Maggie’s expression was hard to discern.

“Go then,” Louisa said. “Eve, describe this dratted present, and, Genevieve, you will not tarry or end up in a snowdrift, lest we’re left explaining to Mama why she has a portrait to show off to the neighbors this evening but no Lady Jenny, hmm?”

Jenny listened with half an ear as Eve described an oblong box left on a sideboard. Lavender Court wasn’t far at all—it adjoined the Morelands park on the other side of the woods—and far more important than Eve’s sentimental intentions toward her husband, this errand would free Jenny from Morelands for the space of at least an hour.

“Lady Maggie told me I’d find you here.” Clearly, had Elijah tarried even another minute above stairs, he would have missed Jenny’s departure.

Jenny paused as she fastened the frogs of her cloak. “And why would you be looking for me, my lord?”

He tugged her hands away and went to work on her cloak—my lord, indeed. “I wasn’t looking for you. I was enjoying a comfortable spot of tea in the agreeable company of your feline familiar, when Lady Maggie said you were haring off across the countryside, intent on some errand for your younger sister.”

The look she sent him gave away nothing, except perhaps general displeasure. His mother had perfected that very expression early in his boyhood.

“It’s snowing, my lady, and while you are yet in England, you will allow a gentleman to escort you on any cross-country sorties.”

He frenchified the word but kept most of his exasperation behind his teeth.

She held his greatcoat out to him, which Elijah took for a compromise. He might walk by her side on this short outing, but only because a week or a month hence, she’d be free to dodge the offal on the streets of Paris without even a footman to attend her.

The notion was increasingly hard to tolerate. “Take my scarf.”

“I have bonnets—”

He looped his scarf over her ears and around her neck, but did not wrap it right over her fool mouth. “Bonnets will not keep you warm, and bonnets do not fare well when snowed upon.”

She fussed with the drape of the scarf but did not hand it back to him. “It’s not snowing that hard.”

“Not yet.”

God help him, it felt good even to argue with his Genevieve. The duchess had been fretting over the weather all morning, though, worried that guests would not be able to attend her open house, worried they’d be snowed in if they did. Worried for her duke, who was serenely content to organize the loudest scavenger hunt in history for the children—or perhaps for his grown sons, who had apparently secreted bottles of French potation in various locations.

Lady Jenny pulled on gloves. “If it’s going to snow, then the sooner we’re off, the less we’ll have to contend with.” She gestured at the door, her posture and tone reminiscent of her mother.

Elijah did not attempt to offer the lady his arm, but rather, accompanied her out the front door, down a shoveled path past the stables, and on toward the home wood. When he could tolerate her freezing silence no longer, Elijah opened a topic he thought safe. “Is the scavenger hunt a tradition?”

Jenny crunched through the snow beside him, her pace approximating a forced march with the enemy in mounted pursuit. “Yes.”

“Do the ladies take part?”

“No. We enjoy some peace and quiet or we help Mama and the staff put the final touches on the public rooms for the open house.” She came around a holly bush and stopped short. “This didn’t use to be here. I could swear this wasn’t here the last time I rode through these woods.”

An oak of considerable proportions had fallen across the path ahead. “The way looks clear around to the—”

She was already scrambling over the horizontal trunk, despite the wet snow, despite the availability of a gentleman whose stated purpose was to provide escort.

Off to Paris, she was. She’d probably departed weeks ago—years ago, even. If Bartholomew’s death hadn’t purchased her a ticket for Calais, then Victor’s certainly had.

Elijah vaulted across the trunk, turned, and pulled her the rest of the way over the fallen tree. “You’ve snow all over you. Hold still.”

She tolerated his brushing at her cloak, stood still like some martyr enduring blasphemy. “Will you tell me about Paris?”

A small, chilly question, though it lit a flame in him. He finished dusting her off. “Anything you want to know. Ask me anything.”

To his relief, she wanted to know practical things: where to stay, where to procure food, where to never, ever go, even with an escort. To whom might she apply for instruction, where might she display finished works. How did one procure a horse and keep the beast and any conveyances, grooms, or coachmen? Where did one find domestics?

The last question comforted most, because it meant Jenny contemplated a cozy establishment, not some drafty garret where she’d enjoy only mice as companions.

Their pace slowed as they wound through the home wood, and at some point Elijah took Jenny’s hand. When they emerged from the trees, she stopped again but kept her fingers laced with his.

“I want to paint this. I want to paint Eve’s cozy little manor house, the snow coming down, the greenery adorning the windows. I want to paint it for myself.”

Because she’d miss this too. Elijah let her look her fill, the wind whispering through the trees behind them, flurries dancing on the frigid air. Snowy days had a scent to them, a subtle, different feel to the air.

Jenny was talented enough that she could probably paint even the scent of snow.

“Come, my lady. You’ll become an ice sculpture if we stand here long enough.”

She turned the same regard she’d shown the house onto Elijah, a memorizing sort of look that conveyed both affection and impending loss. He marched away from her, intent on escaping her scrutiny and the longing it held.

“Have you any more questions about Paris?”

She huffed out a sigh that made a little cloud before her. “I have nothing but questions, though I didn’t want to distract you from your painting. Have you ever come across a female sculptor?”

“I have not, thank God. Do you have a key?” The knocker was down, and staff likely let off for the holidays.

Jenny withdrew the key and handed it to him. “Why ‘thank God’?”

He pushed the door open, admitting them to an entryway that on a sunny day would glow with the light of polished wood, but at present was gloomy and cold.

“Thank God, Genevieve, because you probably have some notion of becoming the first internationally renowned female sculptor. Do you favor the proportions of a stevedore on a duke’s daughter? Bad enough you’ll heft heavy canvases. Sculptors wrestle their art from stone, you know, and—”

She stared at the floor immediately inside the doorway, making no move to free herself from his scarf or her gloves. He’d probably driven her clear off to Moscow this time.

He unwrapped his scarf from her, shook the snow from it, and draped it over her shoulders. “You aren’t listening to me.” Her gloves came next. “If you want to become a sculptor, then you must, because you’ll be brilliant at that too, but I cannot—hold still.” He used his teeth to get his own gloves off and went to work on her frogs. “I cannot countenance that you will face difficulties and you will have no support. You will have no one. Your art must stand or fall on its own merit—such as merit can be subjectively determined—and as much as I want to, I cannot be there to temper the winds of fortune for you.”

He stepped back and yanked at his buttons, lest he start shouting. She wasn’t asking him to temper any winds of anything for her, and she never would.

She stood there, her cloak hanging open and his scarf adorning her shoulders like some bishop’s stole. “That’s why you’ve taken me to task so much over my painting? You’ve carped and criticized because you think that’s what awaits me in Paris?”

The daft woman was smiling as if he’d given her some sort of holiday present.

“The French regard criticism as sport, Genevieve, and none are immune. Your gender, your birth, your looks—nothing will preserve you from their verbal violence if you cross the wrong Frenchmen in the wrong mood. They are utterly democratic in the sense that no one, not they themselves, not the masters of antiquity, and certainly not English aristos are spared when inspiration strikes—”

She stopped his ranting with two chilly fingers pressed to his lips. “Get your coat off, and let us find Eve’s present.”

So calm, and yet humor lurked in her green eyes. He was mad with worry for her, and she was amused. He pitched her cloak and his coat onto hooks, tossed his hat onto a sideboard, and let Jenny lead him through the gloom.

“This is a pretty little place. Was it part of your sister’s dowry?” And why, even when barely heated, did it have to smell so wonderfully of pine, cedar, and something else, something comforting—lavender?

“It was. Our grandmother thought, as the youngest, Eve might be older when she settled down, having to wait for her sisters to wed first. Eve got property, and the rest of us got competences, which have been invested for us. Westhaven has agreed to continue handling my finances for me after…” She started up a wooden stair. “After the holidays.”

Elijah followed her, resisting the urge to tackle her on the landing and make her say the words: After I leave everyone who loves me, and every comfort I’ve ever known, because I must be a martyr to my art.

She led him down a dim hallway then opened the door to a peculiarly cozy guest room.

“Ah, there it is.” Jenny crossed the room and picked up a little box done up in green velvet with red ribbon. “Eve was beside herself. Whatever this is, Deene had best appreciate—why are you staring at me like that?”

He closed the door and stepped closer. The room was unusual, built with a small balcony overlooking a conservatory that might have been added as an afterthought, hence its relative warmth and humidity, and the lush scent of foliage blending with all the other fragrances wafting through the house. “Looking at you like what?”

“Like… you just lost your best friend? Won’t it be wonderful to go home to Flint Hall, Elijah?”

Elijah was better than my lord, and because she seemed to need it, he lied for her. “Wonderful, indeed. Have you told your parents yet that you’re going to Paris?”

He had the sense she was waiting for him to leave Morelands first, unwilling to have his support even tacitly.

“Not… not yet.” She set the perfect little gift down. “Louisa says I must, and she grasps tactics with an intuition I can only admire. I wish…” Her gaze went to the elegant little parcel. “I wish…”

While Elijah watched, Jenny lost some of that distant, preoccupied quality that had characterized her since they’d finished their paintings. She gazed on that parcel as if it held secrets and treats and even a happy ending or two.

Once they completed the twenty-minute walk back to Morelands, they’d have no more private moments ever. He’d leave for London at first light; she’d sail for Paris, probably before the New Year.

“What do you wish, Genevieve?” Because whatever it was, he’d give it to her. His heart, his soul, his hands, passage to Paris—passage home from Paris. How he wished she’d ask him for that, but passage home was something she could only give herself.

“Will you make love with me, Elijah? You’re leaving tomorrow, I know that, and I shouldn’t ask it. I shouldn’t want it, but I do. I want you, so much. Please?”