It’s Marriage Or Ruin. Liz Tyner
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and languages and the more boring aspects of learning, and I was the second son. I liked charcoals and oils, so Father indulged me. My mother has one of my paintings on the wall. I signed it simply Westbrook.’
‘I saw it. It’s good. Skilful.’ A fine showing, but not exceptional. Especially adept if he didn’t practise. He had natural skills. She realised he had signed his family name and it hadn’t occurred to her that he was the one who’d painted it.
He bowed in acknowledgement of her words. ‘Marcus doesn’t let me scatter around my attempts at landscapes in his residence, but I have a few tucked away there. Of course, I would be pleased to dig out a few for you to critique, privately. If Marcus knew of your presence, he would be so angered. Propriety and all.’
‘That is thoughtful of you.’
‘We artists should support each other.’
She pondered her choices. Mr Westbrook seemed willing to ruin her. Considerate of him. She pushed aside her awareness that she really didn’t care for him. He would certainly make her option of choosing marriage or choosing to be ruined easier. Marriage to him would distress her so.
Her mother and Marcus returned to the room and she slipped her hand from Mr Westbrook’s and increased her distance from him. Her mother’s view wavered, uncertain about whether to be upset Westbrook had taken her hand, or to scold Emilie for pulling away.
But if she were to guess, by the glare in his eyes, Marcus’s teeth were near to breaking.
Emilie turned, following her mother’s exit to the carriage.
Marcus wasn’t given to sweetness as his brother was. But Marcus would be so much better for a portrait.
How he had not married gave her cause to guess the women of the town were smart to avoid a rascal, or had no wits about them that they wouldn’t try to entrance someone so superb.
She doubted she was up to the task of having Mr Westbrook for a husband. She figured if one got used to having ravening hawks about one, but at bay, one could become complacent. And the sly hawk could wait patiently, relaxing, paying scant attention, until the guard was lowered, pounce on the little weasel, gulp and be done with it.
Such a shame that Mr Westbrook would be the better man for her husband. He did paint, of course. She had noticed the buttons on Westbrook’s coat and knew they were mother-of-pearl and had a nice stone in each centre. Marcus’s buttons were unremarkable. She knew he, as the elder, could have had as nice a coat as Westbrook had. Perhaps Marcus wasn’t inclined to spare the coin, or perhaps he didn’t care about fashion as much.
Scrutinising them from memory, she could see why she’d mistaken Mr Westbrook for the eldest. His tailor spared no expense and Marcus wore muted tones and few frills.
But he didn’t need embellishments.
She could hardly stand how her stomach turned over when she saw him. That could disrupt her. She must keep him a safe distance from her.
She feared if she lingered in his arms, she might become a shadow of herself. A woman who hid inside herself, waiting for Marcus to notice her again. She couldn’t become vulnerable to him. He was just a man.
Emilie couldn’t risk corruption from someone like him. Her life had to revolve around her aspirations. Some day, she would enter a gallery and her work would grace the wall, or her landscapes would be purchased as a legacy to hand down to grandchildren. If it meant scrawling a signature across the bottom, and perhaps even letting Mr Westbrook claim credit, she didn’t care. She wanted her impressions to live and be noticed. Only by being exhibited would anyone other than her family have access to them.
She could easily paint and display, or sell them as Mr Westbrook’s work, although she envisioned herself better than him. Having to sign his name to her creations—actually, she wasn’t sure if she could do that.
But no one would dare ignore a painting done by an earl’s son. She could pull off the ruse, but she wasn’t sure she wanted to. And she wasn’t sure she wanted to be in any sort of a compromising position with Westbrook either.
Marcus, on the other hand. She might like to see him more. Purely in the interest of inspiration. But, she would have to content herself with engravings of Michelangelo’s work, although she wasn’t sure if Marcus was more of a David or a Moses.
Marcus was flesh and blood. Distracting. And he could not see the colours that made her landscapes come alive. He would never know the true appearance of a scene. He’d never comprehend her passion.
Marcus had watched his brother at the birthday celebration and noticed Nathaniel could not keep from observing Emilie. He could read the ideas in his brother’s mind as clearly as if they were spoken. He wanted to shove Nathaniel into the wall.
With a brief goodbye, he set out on foot, leaving the carriage for his brother.
He strode to Lady Semple’s address, letting the exertion calm him.
The butler let him in.
She sat in her chair by the fireplace and didn’t burn coal, but had a few twigs which wafted a warm comforting scent into the room.
‘So many young beauties in London, yet you have time for a moment with me.’ Her turban had a fringe of white hair escaping from it.
‘Youth has its allure, but there is much beauty to be found in the mature appearance as well.’ He bowed to her.
Her visage reminded him of a sage and the sharpness of her wit and her astute observations drew him to her. For that reason, he always spoke with Lady Semple when he saw her and he always found her conversation enlightening. Sometimes too enlightening, as she could speak about anything without a stammer or a blush, and she made him uneasy if she got carried away.
‘But I fear one must search harder for beauty in the older countenance.’ She reached to adjust her turban and her hair moved in such a way he wondered if the locks were connected to the wrap.
‘Not with you, Lady Semple.’
‘I do not have to search for your flattery, which is always appreciated and shared with my friends.’ She batted away the words. ‘Will you be joining us again this Thursday for cards?’
‘Lady Semple, that is first in my calendar.’ He moved closer.
She got to her feet, and put a hand to the small of her back. ‘Weather is changing. I’d best move or soon I won’t be able to.’
She appraised him. ‘So what brings you here? All flattery aside, as I know that you are deeply devoted to me, particularly when I am losing funds to you in a game of cards.’
‘You know my brother, Nathaniel. The one who refused to let you win the money back.’
‘Without spectacles, I can scarce tell you apart from a distance.’ She stopped him, reaching out. She tucked away a piece of his neckcloth which had escaped his waistcoat. ‘But, I doubt I’ve spoken to Mr Westbrook in years.’
‘Occasionally people mistake me for my brother and he for me. If I am in the act of doing something well, I correct them.’ They moved into an alcove. ‘If I am not so sure of my actions, I thank them for their greeting. He said he is the same.’
‘I am sure you must always correct them.’
‘Of course.’ He smiled, putting innocence into his words and following them with an exaggerated leer. Her laugh would have fitted a tavern woman.
‘And what of Miss Emilie Catesby? Are you well acquainted with her family?’ He kept his voice bland, but her reaction told him she read the direction of his reasoning.
‘Miss Catesby. I’ve heard her mentioned.’ She straightened the turban, again moving the silver fringe.