The Marquess Method by Kathleen Ayers

1

London, Some months later.

Theo marched into the park just as the sun was beginning to pinken the sky, thinking how fortunate it was that the Averell mansion backed up to the rolling expanse of grass and trees. The park was easily reached through the mansion’s garden gate, usually kept locked to avoid any unwanted guests from wandering onto her brother’s property. Something that had never happened. The Averell footmen were incredibly vigilant.

When it came to someone slipping into her brother’s garden.

No one spared Theo a glance as she left her bed before the sun was up and made her way down the double staircase. Or if they had, they’d chosen not to pay attention. Not an unusual occurrence. Theo was used to moving quietly through the house, unnoticed except by perhaps Pith, their butler.

Phaedra, Theo’s younger sister, would have drawn notice immediately. She demanded attention. Olivia, her mother’s ward, would never sneak into the park without escort at the crack of dawn.

If any one of them possessed an ounce of ladylike decorum, it was Olivia.

And Theo’s elder sister, Romy? Now married, she no longer lived at the Averell mansion. Instead, Romy resided with the immense block of stone everyone in London referred to as the Duke of Granby. The newlywed pair had left only yesterday for an extended tour of Italy and wouldn’t return for several months.

Theo tucked the bit of canvas she carried more securely beneath her arm.

Painting and contemplating the Earl of Blythe was how Theo planned to spend her morning. His birthday was next week. An invitation for the celebration, planned by his mother, had already arrived at the Averell mansion. Theo would be attending with Cousin Winnie and Rosalind. She’d already chosen the gown she would wear.

Blythe’s gift from Theo, rather splendid if a bit improper, was finally finished and already sitting in a tiny wooden box decorated with a bow. The gift was sure to compel Blythe to offer for her, something Theo desired above all else.

Her fingers tightened on the handle of the rosewood box containing her paints and brushes. The blanket she carried shifted against her hip. Theo paused to tuck the blanket and the canvas more securely beneath her arm.

If Romy were in London, she would be quite distressed by Theo’s plans. Horrified, in fact. Frankly, Theo herself was more than a little shocked. But nothing was ever achieved by being a milquetoast, according to Theo’s mother, the Dowager Duchess of Averell. Still, before her departure, Romy had made Theo promise she wouldn’t do anything impulsive. Or brazen. Blythe’s mother was known to be a bastion of propriety. She wouldn’t look kindly on a bold young lady attempting to ensnare her son.

Theo rolled her eyes as she trudged along, the rosewood box banging against her thigh. What did Romy know? Granby hadn’t courted Romy properly. He’d ruined her and then married her.

Though Blythe hadn’t asked permission to formally court Theo, he’d paid her a great deal of attention at Granby’s house party. By his own admission, he regarded her highly. Blythe had also danced with Theo at Lady Cambourne’s ball and at Lady Ralston’s, two of the social season’s most significant events. He’d called on two separate occasions. They had even read poetry together in the garden. And during Romy’s wedding to Granby, he’d winked at Theo from across the aisle of the church, his golden beauty, clothed in a suit of peacock blue, nearly blinding her with its magnificence. A blush had warmed her cheeks at the affectionate gesture.

Until she’d caught sight of Haven sitting next to Blythe.

Theo stumbled over a tree root. “Drat.”

Haven’s eyes had lingered far too long on her bosom before reaching her mouth, a not-too-subtle reminder of the kiss he’d stolen from her at Granby’s house party. What was worse, she’d enjoyed that kiss far too much. Embarrassing to admit, but true. Even more humiliating when she learned how competitive Haven and Blythe were with each other. Haven, poverty-stricken marquess that he was, envied Blythe his wealth and a great many other things.

Her first real kiss had surely only been done to anger Blythe.

Theo had little choice but to avoid Haven on principle. When Haven had called at the Averell mansion for Romy—as an ambassador of sorts on behalf of Granby and under the guise of friendship—Theo had made herself scarce. Fortunately, outside of Romy’s wedding, Theo hadn’t seen Haven at any of the events she’d attended, for which she was grateful. According to Cousin Winnie, Haven’s interests were solely focused on Miss Violet Emerson.

Good riddance.

Theo forced her mind back to the task at hand and the entire reason for being in the park at such an ungodly hour. Olivia had issued Theo a challenge. Create something other than a miniature. Yes, miniatures showcased Theo’s singular talent, but wasn’t it time to expand her horizons? Try something different? A landscape perhaps, or a bowl of fruit.

Or a breast.

Theo bit her lip. Olivia would faint dead away even mentioning the word.

But Theo acknowledged it was time to move on. After all, the miniature she had painted for Blythe was by far her best work. Difficult to surpass. One of a kind. Incredibly improper. Perfect. She might not ever paint another miniature.

Earlier this week, Theo had finally yielded to Olivia’s pressure and sketched out the small pond hidden in a copse of trees at the base of the hill she now climbed. Theo’s pencil had scratched away while Olivia had perched on the blanket beside her, calmly paging through one of the dull books on gardening she found endlessly fascinating.

Hyacinths. Peonies. Soil fertilized with cow dung. An interest Olivia unbelievably shared with Granby, of all people.

Theo enjoyed a good book as much as anyone, but her tastes ran more to romance. Lately, she’d developed a taste for novels featuring pirates. Thieves. Dangerous highwaymen. Horrid villains. Not the proper way to prune a rose bush.

The sun was beginning to rise as she approached the top of the hill, soft morning light spreading out atop the slick surface of the water. She took bigger steps, hoping to get to the correct spot before the light changed and ruined the vision in her mind’s eye. There were very few people in the park at this hour, which was a good thing. No one would remark on the reclusive, slightly odd middle Barrington daughter alone without escort, though Theo didn’t consider herself quite so solitary or strange now, thanks to Blythe and his attentions.

She set down her artist’s kit and the canvas before tossing out the blanket tucked beneath her arm. Spreading the blanket across the grass, she turned her gaze to the pond.

The mist was just starting to burn away, giving the water and surrounding grass a mysterious, otherworldly look, a mood she wanted to capture. Peering into the hazy morning mist, Theo tried to make out the cattails at the edge of the pond.

She squinted into the mist as a goose honked. Somewhere.

Theo refused to wear her spectacles when out in public, and this morning was no exception. Blythe still didn’t know how vision-impaired she was, and Theo had no intention of him finding out. She had worn them when she sketched out the pond the other day, but only because Olivia had been beside her, promising to alert Theo if anyone of their acquaintance came by.

Settling herself on the blanket, Theo opened the lid and took out the easel, setting the small canvas against it. The palette was cleverly tucked away inside the lid of the box, and she placed it in front of her. Looking at the array of colors, each securely tucked in small glass tubes, filled Theo with a sort of giddy joy. Smoky greys. Pale pinks. Soft creams.

She loved, loved, colors. And pencils. Chalk. Pastels. All of it.

The tiny containers holding the paints were so clever. A fairly recent invention by Winsor and Newton, where Theo purchased most of her supplies. She supposed her adoration of the glass syringes was what had led her to decide not to use watercolors for this painting.

Carefully, she selected a glass tube, placing just a dab of cream—Flemish White, her mind whispered—on the palette. Next, a tiny drop of Cadmium Yellow which she swirled on the tip of her brush while watching the sun make its way above the horizon, bathing the pond with early morning light. Working quickly to capture the exact right hue, she hummed to herself, pausing only to squint at something she couldn’t see clearly, which was nearly everything. She told herself the details weren’t important. This painting was more about color.

“That’s not right.”

Startled, Theo’s brush slashed across the canvas.

Drat.

“You’ve forgotten the green tinge to the water,” the gravelly voice continued, acting as if he had any idea about art, which Theo sincerely doubted. “Pond scum.”

Dear God.Where had he come from? Only moments ago, Theo had been hoping she wouldn’t see him ever again. “Lord Haven, what an unexpected pleasure.”

“Isn’t it?” Haven’s voice always sounded as if he’d just woken up, every word sounding utterly decadent. “A pleasure, I mean.”

Theo turned to view him, noting the lovely coat he wore, the color of freshly ground nutmeg. Obviously new. She stifled the urge to flick paint in his direction. Paint was much more difficult to get out of a coat than ratafia.

“Can you even see what you’re painting?” He gave her an innocent look, the mossy green orbs of his eyes sparkling in the early morning light. “I’m terrified you might poke yourself in the eye with your brush or miss the canvas and ruin your dress, which is very pretty, by the way.”

Haven, despite his other faults, did have amazing eyes. She’d give him that. The color of moss clinging to river rock. Close to Mitis Green, but a shade darker.

“I can see the pond perfectly well, my lord. It’s quite large.”

“So are servants. Candlesticks. Me. You’ve run into all of those with regularity, though I will admit, I did enjoy it when you stumbled my way.”

Theo had hoped Haven would never, ever mention Theodosia’s Unfortunate Incident, as she had labeled the kiss in her mind, but she should have known better. As grateful as Theo was that he’d never told anyone else, especially Blythe, it still didn’t leave Theo feeling charitable toward him.

Pretending to misunderstand, she said, “I’ve apologized several times for spilling ratafia on your coat, my lord.”

“You have,” he agreed. Haven’s hair, much too long for a proper gentleman, looked like it had been cut by poorly sharpened scissors. The color of the strands, which Theo likened to BurntUmber, buffeted gently against his cheek. Strong jaw. Glorious cheekbones, like the bold slash of a knife across his face. Patrician nose sporting that tiny bump. The scar in the shape of a half-moon on his chin. Haven had none of Blythe’s perfectly curated attractiveness nor an ounce of his friend’s charm.

Theo’s pulse fluttered madly at his presence, though she willed it not to.

Her fingers itched to paint him with all his delicious hollows and hues. But Theo would never ask him to sit for her. Haven was to be avoided. Especially by Theo. He needed to move along before anyone saw them together.

“Don’t let me keep you, Lord Haven. I’m sure you’d like to be on your way.” She turned back to the canvas and lifted her brush, hoping he would take the hint. “Good morning.”

Haven ignored her less-than-subtle suggestion to leave, plopping down next to her on the blanket without asking permission. He studied her artist kit and the tiny vials of paint contained within. A forefinger trailed over the rosewood box, pausing only to trace her initials.

“TLB. What does the L stand for?”

She caught a whiff of spice and attempted to slide away, trying to put some distance between them.

“Louise. My paternal grandmother’s name,” she answered.

Haven traced the edges of the rosewood box holding her supplies, his fingers gliding over the letters of her name. Almost a caress. The same way his fingers had skimmed the length of her back when he’d kissed her. Inappropriate things began to fill Theo’s mind. Naked things. Lips and mouths. Moans and whispers. All of them belonging to Haven.

The paintbrush she clutched in her fingers wobbled. She quickly pulled it from the canvas lest she ruin what little work she’d already done.

“Theodosia Louise.” A smile hovered at his lips. “And a brother named Leo. Must get confusing around the dinner table. Leo. Theo.” A small sound of amusement left him. There was a strange light hovering in his eyes, like fireflies sparkling in a field of summer grass.

“Are you acquainted with my brother?”

It seemed unlikely. She doubted Haven could afford a membership to Elysium.

“We’ve met.”

Theo didn’t know much about Haven, but what she did know had been supplied by Cousin Winnie. Haven’s father had been a wastrel, drunkenly gambling away the family fortune. It was not a stretch of the imagination to assume the former Marquess of Haven had spent at least some of his time and coin at Elysium.

“It’s a clever little box,” he said. “Does the palette fit just here,” he pointed to the inside of the lid, “when you’re finished?”

“Yes.” The longer Haven’s large, broad-shouldered form hovered near hers, the more unsettled Theo became. His presence on the blanket gave the air around them an expectant flutter, the sense that something barely restrained would burst forth at any moment.

Very unlike the way she felt around Blythe.

She wished he’d go away. Why was he in the park so early? Haven didn’t strike Theo as someone who embraced the morning. She pictured him quite clearly in a smoky tavern at night.

Her eyes flitted to the left and right. No horse, though admittedly there might be one near and Theo just couldn’t see it. Nearly everything beyond the small cluster of trees a short distance away was fuzzy about the edges.

“I feel certain, my lord,” Theo tried to keep the exasperation out of her words, “you’ve much better things to do than watch me paint. I don’t want to keep you from your morning stroll.” She threw another hint in his direction.

“I’ve a bit of time before meeting a young lady for a walk.”

The color of his eyes deepened to emerald as he peered at her from beneath his lashes. It was difficult to discern if Haven was being truthful or not, though if he were meeting a young lady, it would explain the coat. But if that were Haven’s purpose, he should have taken the time to have his hair cut properly.

Theo raised a brow, curious. “I know few young ladies who would be interested in such an early morning stroll, my lord.”

“You’re here.”

“I’m painting.” Really, he was infuriating. “At least, I’m trying to,” she said pointedly.

“Are you acquainted with Miss Violet Emerson?”

“I haven’t had the pleasure.” Cousin Winnie was correct, as usual. Haven was pursuing the adored daughter of Viscount Emerson. Petite, raven-haired with porcelain skin, Violet was renowned for her beauty and ladylike manner. She doubtless also possessed perfect eyesight.

Something curdled in Theo’s stomach.

“I doubt you two would get on,” Haven said casually as he drew a circle on the blanket with his forefinger.

Theo had no idea what he meant exactly, but it sounded like an insult.

“Besides,” Haven said before she could speak again. “I find your creative process to be fascinating.”

“You’ve no idea what my creative process entails. Or anyone’s creative process. I’m doubtful of your appreciation for artistic endeavors.” She dabbed her brush in another circle of paint, intent on capturing the glistening of the water as the light rippled across the surface, and deliberately turned her back.

The skin behind her ear tickled as Haven breathed over her shoulder. “I sense you don’t like the thought of me walking with Miss Emerson.”

Theo’s entire back arched in his direction. To her utter horror.

“Relieve yourself of such a notion, my lord. With whom you walk in the park is none of my affair.” Her brush hovered; she was more annoyed than she had been previously, and it would surely influence her work. Because Theo didn’t care for the thought of Haven kissing Miss Emerson as he had her.

Turning her head to once more urge him to move along, Theo found his face mere inches from her own. If Haven so much as tipped his chin, their lips would touch.

“You forgot the green.” His voice was a low hum against her skin.

“I didn’t forget anything. Will you please go? I can’t concentrate with you chattering away next to me, Lord Haven. I’m sure Miss Emerson is impatient for your company.”

“But I wish to see you work on your painting. It is a painting, isn’t it? Despite the smaller size? Though not small enough to be a miniature. I understand you are quite good at those.”

“I am.” She nearly smiled back at him, thinking of Blythe’s gift. Daring was what the miniature was. Bold. Painted to showcase both her talent and affection. It was meant to compel Blythe to announce his intentions. She refused to believe it would not work.

“Must have been what ruined your eyesight. All that tiny painting.”

Theo’s lips tightened. She came very close to stabbing Haven with the end of her paintbrush. “I’m experimenting with a larger canvas.”

“You are? How interesting,” he purred.

Haven probably sprang from the womb mildly debauched and rumpled, with a cheroot in one hand and the other reaching for a glass of scotch. But if he thought for one moment that Theo would be taken aback by his blatant attempt to insert impropriety into their discussion, he was sorely mistaken. She had two older brothers, both of whom were far more masterful at innuendo than the marquess sitting next to her.

“Where does one hang such a thing?” Haven finally said after pretending to study her canvas with great interest. “It’s barely larger than a book.”

“It is much larger than a book,” she snapped, concerned with the stretch of Haven’s fingers next to her skirts. “One hangs a picture such as this in their home. Perfect for a nook in the foyer or a study. Possibly a parlor.”

“A nook?” Haven made a small grunt. “I can’t imagine art specifically for a secluded, dark corner. Why would you bother? If one is in such a place,” his voice lowered, “their intent is not to observe a painting.” He leaned close again, the edge of his chin brushing lightly atop her shoulder. “Though the strokes are very fine.”

Spice filled Theo’s nostrils. “You know nothing about painting. Annoyance, however, is a different matter.”

“You’ve missed the geese.” He pointed first to the canvas and then the pond, the movement of his lips as he spoke grazing just over the curve of her ear. “You probably can’t make them out clearly. Those blobs of white, just there.”

“I know what they are,” she said through gritted teeth, trying to steady herself. “I am not blind.”

“Are you certain? Because you’ve missed them,” he said.

“My lord, is your presence here this morning meant to punish me in some way? Perhaps because I insulted you at Granby’s house party? After . . .” She moved her paintbrush in the air.

“After I kissed you?” he said in a solemn tone. “When you claimed you thought I was Blythe?”

“Yes.”

“After you kissed me back?”

Theo didn’t care to be reminded of her lapse in judgement. “I made it clear I didn’t enjoy your attentions. I’m sorry if you found that to be insulting—”

Her words were cut off by a snort of derision coming from Haven as he waved away her excuse and sat back from her. “I’m only trying to help, my lady.”

“Your help isn’t required.”

“Clearly it is because you’ve missed the geese. You really need to wear your spectacles. I can’t believe you’d allow your art to suffer for vanity.”

Theo wondered, if she screamed loud enough, if the Averell footmen would hear even from this distance and rush to her aid. Pith would certainly come barreling into the park. Better yet, Theo could simply lure Haven to the edge of the pond, pretend not to see him, and push him in. Haven, for whatever reason, seemed determined to irritate her with his presence and unwelcome comments. This had been the entire theme of their limited acquaintance. He wasn’t at all like Blythe.

With a sigh, she took a rag from the rosewood box and wiped off her brush, resigned to having had her morning ruined.

“Aren’t you going to finish?” Haven’s eyes dipped to her bodice where a spray of freckles emerged from the very modest neckline of her dress.

Blythe often likened the line of freckles to a constellation in the night sky, though he’d never actually been able to name one. Theo still took it as a compliment.

“No,” she replied tartly. “The light is no longer correct. You interrupted me, spoiling my work.” She wiped the paint off her palette before stowing it away in the rosewood box and tossing the rag inside. Placing the easel atop the rag she said, “I hope you’re pleased with yourself, my lord.”

“I’ve angered you.” Haven stood and offered her his hand. “Let me help you. I’ll escort you home.”

“Absolutely, positively no.” She stood and smoothed her skirts. “I do not wish to be seen with you and risk my reputation. Go away.”

“You’re very hostile this morning, Lady Theodosia.” There was a tiny smirk on his lips. The wretch was enjoying her discomfort.

“Perhaps the cause is the uninvited company.”

He pressed a hand to his chest, where she guessed his heart might be. If he possessed one. “You wound me.”

“Get off the blanket,” she snapped. Really, Haven was the most trying person she’d ever met. If he annoyed everyone as he did her, it was no wonder the result was a punch thrown in his direction.

Stepping off with a small hop, Haven held his hand out again, which she ignored, opting instead to snatch up the blanket. Tucking the blanket under her arm Theo picked up the rosewood box and her canvas.

“You must allow me to help. You could drop your canvas.”

“I managed to get everything out here on my own, my lord. And you’ve helped me quite enough for today. Good morning, Lord Haven.”

“I should escort you.” He kept pace with her easily as she headed in the direction of the gate to the Duke of Averell’s garden. “You might run into a tree. Or bump your head into the stone wall surrounding your brother’s house. What if you reach for the door leading inside and instead of the knob, one of the footmen is there and you grab—”

Theo quickened her pace before she could hear the rest.