Page 11 of A Very Surrey SFS Christmas

Chapter 3

Clayton, Joseph, and Susanna

Christmas Eve

“Who is the sweetest boy? You are!”

Mr. Clayton Irving turned from his observation of winter colors and shapes out the parlor window, and smiled angelically at his second cousin Beatrice. “Why thank you. I do try.”

She snorted. “I can think of many words to describe you, Clay, but sweet boy is not one of them. David, however…”

They both peered down at the dark-haired, dark-eyed infant in his arms, two months old and indeed the sweetest boy. Well, when he wasn’t exploding vile substances from either end of his body, of course. It was truly astonishing how much could erupt from something so tiny, and without any warning. Thankfully he had a great many old painting smocks that he could don before cuddling his godson, the child of his lovers and life companions Lord Joseph and Lady Susanna Fenton. David preferred to be carried about like an emperor so he could observe all activities in the household, and when he’d had his fill, contentedly napped. If anyone put him straight down into a cradle, however, he would make his displeasure plainly known.

Babies really did need to come with an instructional guide. Or a few tips at least. He’d not understood before how all-consuming they could be, how many hours could be spent just observing or sketching them. The wonder on David’s face as he discovered something new…or perhaps the way he waved his hands and kicked his tiny feet in greeting when Papa Clay looked into his cradle.

If only he could shift his talent for sketching his godson back into the erotic art commissions that were piling up in London. That he couldn’t muster enthusiasm for the activity he so loved, was disconcerting indeed.

“Now you’ve gone and done it,” Clayton said, his lips twitching. “For choosing David over me in the sweet boy stakes, I’m going to hide all the balls of yarn and give Mittens your bonnet instead.”

Bea’s gaze narrowed. “Diabolical. I hope David decorates your trousers with a most fragrant shade of brown.”

“Not a frightening concept, I’m afraid. I’ve become accustomed to such an event. Although in saying that, I’m not sure I’ll be able to paint a brunette or anything wooden ever again. Tis fortunate this little scrap is adorable,” Clayton replied, tickling David through his soft woolen blanket, and making him gurgle in delight.

“Have you painted anything since he was born?” she asked softly.

He shook his head. “No. In fairness, we’re all struggling a little. Joseph and Susanna have had to take a step back from the business and trust others to take care of matters at the docks.”

“Could you get a few more nursery maids to help?”

“We could, but we’re all foolishly stubborn and far too used to making our own way in the world,” he finished with a rueful grin. “Asking for help feels a bit like failure.”

Beatrice patted his arm. “If you do not come to your senses, I solemnly swear to allow Mittens a full hour alone with your paints. We’re all here for the Irving-Fenton family. Besides, I know all will be well. You love each other so much.”

“Yes,” he rasped. Apart from Bea and the other members of the Society, he’d never known such love and acceptance as with his darling Susanna and Joseph.

Being a man who desired other men as well as women was a hard road to walk. His family had tried to cure him of the ‘affliction’ before eventually disowning him. The wretched law of the land meant he and Joseph had to be careful in public. But the joy he’d found in their ménage, the laughter and comfort and incredible pleasure in bed, made it all worth it.

From the day he’d met Joseph, an Irish tailor made a baron for services to the crown, and Susanna, heiress to a textiles fortune, everything changed for the better. They had hired him to paint an erotic portrait of Susanna, and in that process he’d found the man and woman of his dreams. All now lived together in a lavish London townhouse, and with David’s arrival, life was practically perfect. The only smudge on the canvas was his current inability to paint.

How unsettling, to pick up a brush and feel…nothing. Erotic art had been his whole life, the only rainbow in an otherwise bleak and stormy outlook. And he was good at it. Very, very good. So good in fact, that the Prince Regent had hosted an exhibition of his work at Carlton House, and declared a Clayton Irving painting an essential item for every ton bedchamber.

He would find his way back. He just needed a lantern for the path.

“You are my favorite,” said Bea, her eyes soft. “You know that.”

“And you are mine, the only blood relative I want in my life. I’m so glad you have Amelia. No one deserves true love more than the two of you.”

“Oh, stop it. You’ll turn me into a watering pot,” she sniffled. “And then I shall be forced to allow Mittens two hours with your paints.”

“Good God—”

“Irving!”

At the irritable hail, they both turned to see Fairfield enter the parlor, his cane thumping with more than usual force.

“Irving,” the duke repeated when he reached them, his lips pursed as though he’d just eaten a lemon. “Miss Irving. Because I am a damned errand boy rather than a duke these days, I am here to inform you of your expected duties. Miss Irving, it is now your turn to have your hair trimmed for the ball. Irving, you’re to go to Fenton and be fitted for your demi mask…oh, good afternoon Master David. Aren’t you looking well? Yes you are.”

Clayton and Bea exchanged an amused look, and he chewed his lip to stifle a laugh as Fairfield bent and cooed at the baby. The duke might be constructed almost entirely of curmudgeon and rascal, but there was about a fingernail’s worth of sweetness. Mostly reserved for David and Jessica, though he grumbled constantly at the ‘modern’ way they were cared for.