Chapter One

      Emilie Catesby could not be dancing at the wrong moment.

      She stood in her very best dress, with her very best demeanour, which she quickly changed to her very best frown should any man try to catch her eye.

      Finally her mother departed for the ladies’ retiring room and Emilie saw her chance. She’d not been fetching those lemonades for her mother purely out of daughterly devotion.

      Lightly clasping the side of her skirt, so she could lift the hem enough to move quickly, Emilie made her way across the ballroom floor, one destination fixed in her mind. The pianoforte music and violins faded into silence; all her concentration was on her task.

      Her mother didn’t want anyone to be reminded of Emilie’s fascination with art, but Emilie had to examine the portrait of Lady Avondale.

      The likeness rested on an easel, to the opposite side of the musicians, its unveiling the excuse for the soirée.

      Then she stopped, gazing at the life-sized replica of the Marchioness, the scent of the dried oils still lingering.

      Emilie folded her arms behind her back and examined the brushstrokes. The blending of colours. Lady Avondale’s interlaced fingers were almost hidden by fabric and her aunt had painted them by blending skin tones with the hues of the dress. They gave more the appearance than the reality. As Emilie browsed from the outside of the portrait to the centre, she realised the painting became more detailed. An observer’s attention was being directed by the artist. Emilie was entranced. Such mastery.

      The features were well defined. Wrinkles were hinted at on the subject, but were softened. This was not Lady Avondale upon serious scrutiny, but the woman a loved one might observe. A true likeness seen through devotion.

      The painting had captured the spirit. It said more than colours on canvas. It spoke of vivacity.

      Emilie sighed.

      Her aunt was beyond great. She was not only an artist, she was a master of the brush.

      ‘A good painting.’ A deep baritone voice resonated in her ear, coming from behind her shoulder.

      Emilie didn’t turn, still gazing. ‘Magnificent.’

      ‘You’ve been staring at it and, while it is beautiful, I cannot but realise that you are used to seeing more loveliness in the mirror each morning.’

      ‘Mmm…’ What nonsense. This was true splendour. Captured for—well, eternity. A legacy. The woman’s visage would remain in the family’s midst for ever. Alive. A child generations in the future would view the image and feel they knew this woman.

      ‘The hands…’ Emilie said. ‘I had no idea you could paint them that way.’

      The voice sounded closer, as he peered over her shoulder. ‘I had not noticed them before.’

      ‘That is the purpose.’ Emilie unclasped her arms and held her fingers near the frame as if she could cup the face on the canvas. ‘And the skin tones…’

      ‘If you say so.’

      Oh, the picture truly was a work of brilliance. Emilie blinked back tears, both of awe for her aunt’s talent and sadness that she herself had not perfected her own skills. She had wasted so many hours on fripperies when she could have been improving.

      ‘Might I share a waltz with you?’ the voice asked, so softly she could barely hear.

      ‘Have we been introduced?’ Emilie gazed at the tints of the painting of the Marchioness, still unable to take her gaze away from it, tears almost blinding her now. It would not do at all for someone to notice her sniffling over a painting. Her mother would be enraged.

      ‘We have.’ The words were clipped.

      ‘Of course. I recall now,’ she said. Her mother had insisted she meet so many people that she’d not remembered most of them. ‘Certainly.’

      ‘A waltz…’

      ‘That would be enchanting.’

      Thankfully, he moved away and she used her glove to wipe the moisture from her face.

      Her mother returned, standing by Emilie, then taking her arm to guide her away from the likeness. ‘You picked the right moment to study the painting—when the Marchioness’s eldest son was viewing it. For once, your fascination with daubs of pigments did you well.

      ‘Avondale’s son,’ her mother continued, leading her closer to the musicians. ‘I overheard the Marquess of Avondale’s eldest son ask you to waltz. The eldest,’ she repeated. ‘The Earl of Grayson.’

      Emilie realised she’d agreed to a dance. She’d not been paying attention to anything but the portrait in front of her. She glanced at her mother and put sincerity into her words. ‘I’m so very thrilled.’

      Her mother frowned. She whispered in Emilie’s ear as the music for a reel started, ‘You were not paying any attention, were you? You were staring at the canvas. Lord Grayson and his brother, Mr Westbrook, are matrimonial prizes—at least, on the surface. Their cousin, Mr Previn, as well, but he’s not here tonight.’

      ‘But you said they were all rakes,’ Emilie responded, remembering the quick whisper of warning her mother had given earlier.

      ‘I know.’ Her mother’s scowl speared Emilie as she spoke. ‘But you can’t be too choosy. You’ve waited a little late for that.’

      Emilie didn’t argue. She knew that was the true reason her mother had brought her to London. Her mother had married out of the peerage, for love, and had raised her children away from society.