In Pursuit of the Painter by Ashtyn Newbold
Chapter Ten
TEN MONTHS LATER
Spring, 1817
Lord Clitheroe was a little more handsome than Patience remembered him being. Perhaps his time aboard the ship in the sunshine had aided the color of his complexion. However, all the time spent squinting at the sun might have been what made his eyes droop even more than they had before. But none of that mattered. No, indeed—all that mattered was that Lord Clitheroe had been courting her for the last month.
He had been courting her.
At least, that was how it appeared. He had left flowers for her soon after his return to England. Then, when Papa had invited him to dinner, he had asked Patience to join him for a ride the following day. Since then, they had gone on a picnic, a stroll around the royal crescent, and many more rides through town. Patience’s work had paid off, it seemed.
She had spent nine months improving her flirting abilities. She had allowed Mama to coach her as she had always tried to. Patience had learned to be patient in waiting for the marquess to return and see who she had become. A smug smile climbed her lips. And now that Hattie was married, she did not have to worry about being overshadowed. Papa had even commissioned a new artist in town to paint a portrait of Patience, one that now hung in the gallery alongside all the other members of her family. For the first time in her life, she felt like she belonged.
The marquess had requested a private audience with her that day. She wore the pendant Mama had purchased for her in town nearly a year before. She considered it fondly as a lucky charm. She held it close to her chest, rubbing the cool metal against her neck. Her palms had been perspiring ever since she had heard the news that the marquess was coming. She wiped at her hairline and beneath her lower lip, clearing away the perspiration that had gathered there as well. Why was she so blasted hot? They were still on the coattails of winter, with spring just a few weeks away. She sat down on the settee in the drawing room at Briarwood just seconds before the door swung open and Lord Clitheroe was announced.
He stepped through the doors, bowing with a flourish. “There you are, my dear.”
He had started calling her my dear during their last ride. Patience found it rather charming. In all her days, she had rarely felt dear to anyone. To know that Lord Clitheroe held in in such high regard was comforting in a way she could not explain. “Good day, my lord.” Patience smiled, taking his hands when he reached her. “What has brought you here?”
He traced a finger over her cheek, and she resisted the urge to lean back. Stop, she demanded herself. Why on earth would she wish to pull away? This was a marquess, after all, and he was in love with her. He had not put it into words yet, but his actions indicated as much. Her heart thudded at the possibility that he might propose to her. How proud would Mama be? How envious would Hattie be, knowing she had married lower than Patience had?
“My dear Patience, I think you already know.” He winked, his gaze sweeping over her. “I have come to express my utmost admiration for you and request your hand in marriage.”
Patience blinked, studying his smug grin. It truly was ever-present. Was that all he wished to say? She might have missed his proposal if she hadn’t been listening closely enough. “Yes.” Patience nearly jumped on her toes. “Yes, I will marry you.”
Lord Clitheroe’s grin widened. Patience could hardly comprehend what had just happened. Her heart thudded. Where was Mama? She had to tell her at once. When Patience looked up at the marquess’s face again, she caught him staring at her lips. Would he kiss her now? This was the first time they had been alone together without a chaperone, and they had just become engaged, hadn’t they? If there were ever a perfect moment to receive her first kiss, it was this moment.
The marquess licked his lips, leaning closer. Patience felt that same instinct to lean back as she had before, but she stiffened her muscles, forcing herself not to pull away from him. There were many women who found Lord Clitheroe attractive. So why should she not find him attractive as well?
He threaded his fingers behind her hair and pressed his lips against hers. She stood perfectly still, doing all she could to kiss him in return. She listened to her heart, seeking the sensation she had expected to feel while being kissed. Exhilaration, passion, joy, longing, anything. But her chest felt hollow, like an abandoned bird’s nest in winter. Empty. Cold like Lord Clitheroe’s lips.
She was thinking far too much of the specifics. She had nothing to compare this kiss to, so perhaps this was simply what a kiss felt like. She banished every stitch of disappointment that threaded through her stomach.
Lord Clitheroe pulled away, a gleam in his eyes that unsettled her stomach further. She shook the feeling away, replacing it with a sense of hope. No one had ever wanted her before. It was a new experience, one that she hesitated to hold onto. What if he changed his mind?
They walked out of the drawing room to find her parents, intent to tell them the happy news. They did not have to wander far to find them. Mama had been listening in the hall nearby, and Papa was immediately pulled out of his office by his wife.
“This day could not become any better,” Mama said, resting a hand on her chest. “I have also just received word that Hattie will be coming to visit for an entire fortnight while her husband is away. Perhaps she can assist us with wedding preparations. She will be arriving in three weeks’ time.”
Patience swallowed. Why must Hattie always come to visit in the springtime? Patience hadn’t yet checked on the nest in the tree yet, but she suspected it was too early for the bird to lay her eggs. She was likely safe, but she would have to check every morning during the fortnight of Hattie’s visit so long as she brought her cat Aphrodite. She would not risk the birds being harmed again.
Papa offered his congratulations before striding back to the fencing room. He had been practicing his agility for the next cricket match that he planned to hold during the upcoming spring. This year, he was determined not to be struck in the face, or anywhere else for that matter.
“When shall we marry? In a fortnight?” she asked. That would give her time to wed before Hattie even arrived. She would prefer to be away on her wedding trip before Hattie could come to Briarwood.
The marquess chuckled. “Patience, my dear, you do not live up to your name.”
His words echoed in her mind, bringing an old conversation back to the surface. Nearly a year ago, Mr. Cavinder had said something similar. She hadn’t meant to, but she had thought of him often over the months since. She had seen his studio in the streets in town, abandoned and quiet. Each time she walked by, guilt whipped at her back. Where had he gone? Was she the reason his shop was closed?
She feared she would never know the answer.
She also feared to know the answer. Reflecting on her time spent in his studio brought a certain fondness to her heart. She did not have many memories that she held with fondness. It was strange that she would recall those days happily when she had ended them so harshly. It hurt to imagine what Mr. Cavinder thought of her.
The sound of Mama’s laughter shocked Patience out of her reverie. Mama’s laugher was rare, and it only presented itself when in the company of rich gentlemen. “Well, I suppose it is quite ironic that I gave such a name to my impatient child. Hattie is far more inclined to the virtue. I should have named her Patience instead.”
Lord Clitheroe gave a slow grin, his own eyes glazing over in thought. “We shall marry in one month. Do you approve of that? In that case, your sister may be in town for the wedding.”
Patience nodded, even though a knot formed in her stomach. Why was she feeling so ill? She had nothing to dread. This was what she had always dreamed of. “If I must learn to be patient, then I suppose I must practice.” She took a deep breath. “I will wait one more month.”
What Lord Clitheroe failed to remember was that she had already waited nine while he was away, and now ten. She had been anticipating his return, and she had successfully caught him. She was far more patient than she used to be, and it had worked in her favor. In one month, she would finally have achieved her greatest dream.
So why did she still feel so hollow inside?
“Michael!” Emma and Isabel came running across the stone path in front of their apartment, holding up their skirts to avoid tripping on the uneven stones. Isabel held a letter in her hand, waving it above her head like a flag.
“What is it?” He was grateful for the distraction from the pain in his back. He had been assisting his friend, a cordwainer, in his shop all day for a small payment. It was how he had spent the last nine months—scraping up meager bits of work where he could. Aside from offering assistance to established shopkeepers in town who had known his father and took pity on Michael, he had also managed to gather a few pupils to whom he taught art lessons each week. But even despite all his efforts, he had lost the studio, and they had nearly lost their apartment.
Even now, as Emma and Isabel ran toward him, their hems were torn and dirty.
“It is a letter from the Royal Academy,” Emma said, out of breath. She and Isabel exchanged an eager glance, the symmetry of the movement rather unsettling.
Michael chuckled, though his heart was in his throat. It had been so long since he had submitted his portrait of Miss Hansford—The Monstrous Debutante, as Father had named it.The only reason he had submitted it at all was to fulfill Father’s dying wish. After he had died, eight months before, Michael had finally sent the painting to the Royal Academy. He had never expected it to be accepted, so he had no hope in the letter that Isabel eagerly extended to him.
“It is likely a courtesy letter to inform me that the painting was not accepted.” Michael hadn’t allowed himself to hope for anything for months, not since he lost the two clients whose recommendations could have set off a lifetime of success as a painter. He had fallen too far to ever dare climb so high again.
“Open it, open it!” Isabel thrust the letter into his hand. “If Papa were here his curiosity would exceed all of ours. I daresay he is even watching over us right now, and soon enough he will come in spirit and open the letter himself.”
Michael laughed at the accuracy of her words. Father would have torn the letter open long before Michael even had a chance to see it.
“Very well, I’ll open it.” He tore the seal, unfolding the paper. His fingers shook and his heart raced, which meant he had not been entirely honest with himself.
He might have still had a little hope.
His eyes skimmed over the words, jumping to the most important phrase.
We are pleased to inform you that your piece, The Monstrous Debutante, has been selected to be displayed at the Exhibition of the Royal Academy.
“It as been accepted,” Michael muttered, reading the entire page again. “It has been accepted!” He looked up, raking a hand over his hair. He paused to breathe, shaking his head. “It says here that it will be displayed on the lower level where it may be viewed at a closer proximity by all who attend.”
Emma and Isabel began jumping, clapping their hands together with glee. “May we come with you to London?” Isabel asked. “I have always wanted to go to London.”
“As have I,” Emma added, eyes gleaming.
Michael rubbed his jaw, hardly listening to the requests that poured from his sisters’ mouths. His pulse still pounded past his ears. The sort of people who would be attending the exhibition would be wealthy and influential. If his painting could capture their attention, then he could have a list of clients too long to manage. He might finally feel that his family’s future was secure. A small part of him—a very small part—still worried over using Miss Hansford’s likeness in such a public way. He quickly banished the concern.
It was Miss Hansford’s wickedness that had first ruined them, so now, perhaps, it would be her wickedness portrayed in that painting that would save them.
It was only fair, after all. What harm could it possibly do?
