Page 64 of The Lady Makes Her Mark

Chapter 21

After a cold, damp, and fruitless trip to Exeter to listen to a bespectacled man with graying skin and ink-stained cuffs confirm what Alistair already knew, the very last thing he wanted on his return was a party.

Particularly not one planned by his Aunt Josephine.

If he had to spend his evening among people, he would have preferred the noisy comforts of the family sitting room and losing a game of chess to Harry.

If he had to look at that damned portrait and be reminded of a future he’d rather not face, he would have preferred to do it with Constantia at his side.

“Absolutely not!” he scolded himself as he slipped into one of his oldest, most comfortable coats, after hesitating a moment too long over the blue one. Someone had ironed out the wrinkles and sponged away the dust. It looked just as if that afternoon had never happened.

Constantia’s message had been clear enough.

No more visits to the studio. No more indulging his desires.

No more dreaming of what might have been.

He tried to take some comfort in the fact that his aunt was too much of a stickler to have invited a person as humble as the artist tonight. Seeing her would only weaken his resolve.

The drawing room, whose elegant, rarely used furniture had still been draped in holland cloth when he left, was now ablaze with the light of wax candles he couldn’t afford—but which, he presumed, his future wife would be able to.

He glanced around at the assembled guests: four sisters—only Danielle had not yet appeared; one aunt, her trusty lorgnette already in hand; the elderly rector and his wife, whose presence at Rylemoor was a rarity, since that gentleman preferred the comforts of his other parish; and, to his even greater surprise, Forster, the long-suffering curate, whom Aunt Josephine surely thought of as unworthy of the attention. Alistair only hoped Eddie hadn’t sold her soul to wrangle his invitation.

As he approached the center of the room, he spied an easel. The small, unframed painting upon it was turned at present toward the wall, awaiting the moment of dramatic revelation.

He pressed two fingers to the center of his forehead, attempting to hold back an incipient headache.

Freddie appeared at his elbow, wearing one of the low-cut, costly gowns from Madame D’Arblay’s shop. The throbbing between his temples grew.

“Are you unwell, brother?” she asked, though her expression was one of barely suppressed amusement, rather than concern.

“Tired,” he replied. “I did not expect to be hosting a party tonight.”

“I think, technically speaking, Aunt Josephine considers herself the hostess. Which may call into question the appropriateness of the term party for this particular event.”

Alistair’s lips curved in spite of himself. “What would you call it, then?”

“Oh, I’m withholding my answer until I see your portrait.”

Unbidden came an image of everyone’s faces if the picture turned out to be the one Constantia had playfully sketched of him after . . . well, after. Heat crept up from beneath his collar.

“I think you are unwell,” Freddie insisted, peering at him. “I’m going to fetch you a glass of wine.”

She stepped away to be replaced by Edwina’s intended. “How did you find Exeter?” Forster asked.

“Dismal,” Alistair snapped, then inwardly chided himself for his rudeness. He genuinely liked Forster and believed the fellow would make Eddie happy. If all went according to Aunt Josephine’s plan, the two of them would not have long to wait, now. “Sorry,” he said in a chastened tone. “Legal business always makes me grumpy.”

Forster gave a knowing nod, then seemed to realize his error and shifted to shaking his head. “No, never pleasant. Though I daresay this must have been a bit better than most—planning for your nuptials, eh? Drafting marriage settlements and the like?”

Alistair pressed his lips into something he hoped would pass for a smile. “Yes, something like that. Still raining?” he asked, a transparent attempt to turn the conversation.

Weather in Devon was always a fruitful subject because it was changeable and, on the moors at least, frequently dramatic.

“Oh, aye,” the curate confirmed. “With the air this heavy, I wouldn’t be surprised if we had a storm.”

The strength and duration of this possible storm then had to be discussed, with hopes expressed that neither person nor property would be greatly harmed if it came to pass. That took up the several moments required for Freddie to return with his wine. His sister and the curate then took up the topic, while he once more scanned the room.

At the sight of his aunt bearing down upon the easel, he brought the glass to his lips and drained half its contents in a single gulp. He couldn’t decide what he hated most about the evening: viewing the portrait itself or having to face the moment in such a public fashion.