In Pursuit of the Painter by Ashtyn Newbold

Chapter Two

By candlelight, the drawing room of Briarwood was showcased at its best. Warm light from the flickering flames bounced between the wooden furnishings and the red velvet chairs, creating a golden glow to the room. That same golden glow settled over Patience’s skin and ivory gown, showcasing her at her best as well. This was not a time to be anything but her best, not now that she had finally captured a seat beside Lord Clitheroe.

The marquess had played on her father’s team in the cricket match earlier that day, and he had accepted the invitation to return for dinner that evening alongside several other guests. He had never dined at Briarwood before, and he might not ever again, so Patience had to take advantage of this opportunity while it was before her.

“You played well today, my lord.” She spoke in the way she had rehearsed during her season in London—coy and confident at once. It was a fine balance. Even with all her practice, she had failed to make a match during her season. She had received several proposals, but none had been a marquess, and that was the problem. She needed, at minimum, an earl, but it was never unwise to aspire to greater heights.

Lord Clitheroe twirled a lock of his hair around one of his fingers as he leaned an elbow on his lap. He cast her a playful smile, his eyes half-closed. “I did not play well enough.”

She consoled him with a glance. “Oh, you are too critical of yourself.” She lowered her voice. “I do believe the opposing team cheated. How else could they have won?”

Lord Clitheroe smoothed his waistcoat as his posture straightened. “I have the same suspicion. Those men cannot be trusted. They are riotous and uncivilized. I was appalled for your father’s sake when he was struck by the ball due to their carelessness.”

“My father would be grateful for your sympathy.” Patience studied Lord Clitheroe’s face. Did he ever open his eyes fully? They seemed to be constantly hooded by his eyelids, and his lips were always curled in a smug grin. He was handsome enough, though not nearly as handsome as half the men on the opposing team had been. If she could have traded Mr. Cavinder’s appearance with Lord Clitheroe’s then he would be the perfect man. Obviously, this imaginary man would have the marquess’s wealth and title. As far as his character was concerned, she would certainly prefer Lord Clitheroe’s, for he had not insulted her father as Mr. Cavinder had that day.

“I hope you will forgive my boldness,” Lord Clitheroe said, “but I must compliment your gown. I have rarely seen such fine…craftsmanship.” His eyes swept over her figure without reservation. Patience resisted the urge to shift away. Her mother had suggested the deeper neckline, reminding her that men fell in love with their eyes first, and if Patience were to secure a marquess, she would have to give him plenty to look at. Her stomach turned when his eyes finally returned to her face.

“I thank you, my lord. All compliments from you will be happily received, I assure you.” She offered a flirtatious smile, fluttering her lashes as she looked down at her lap.

“We are in agreement, Miss Hansford,” he said in his slurred, dramatic voice. “I would happily receive compliments from you just as well.”

“Oh?” She looked up, surprised to find him watching her expectantly.

“Have you yet to find something to admire in me?” His smile lifted more on one side, his thick side whiskers hiding a dimple.

“Well—yes, indeed I have.” She straightened her shoulders. She caught her mother watching them from across the room, hiding her attentive gaze with a book. The many guests mingled all around her, so she was grateful that her mother would be unable to overhear the conversation. Her mind swirled anxiously as she tried to think of a compliment to offer. “Your cravat…the knot is very intricate. I do quite like an intricately knotted cravat on a man.” She grimaced inwardly at her awkward choice of words. She would never be as talented at flirting as her elder sister.

Lord Clitheroe touched a hand to his neckcloth, the other side of his lips rising to complete his grin. “Ah, I am glad that it did not go unnoticed.” He smoothed a hand over his hair. “Though I cannot take credit for it. I have the most skilled valet in the entire county, I am sure. It is very important to be presented well in all aspects of life.”

Patience nodded her agreement, her back aching from maintaining her stiff posture all evening. Her scalp also ached, sore from holding her heavy hair atop her head.

“Your father showed me the portrait gallery this morning before the match,” Lord Clitheroe said in a slow voice. “I did not see your likeness there among the others. I saw your sister, and she is indeed a rare beauty. I now find that beauty has been pronounced upon all the Hansford women.”

Patience’s stomach twisted as it usually did when she was compared to Hattie, even if it was meant to be complimentary. “My likeness was taken once, but my father disposed of the painting because he did not feel I was properly portrayed.” Patience lifted her chin. “He is quite selective when it comes to artists.” Patience remembered the long hours of posing for the portrait. Her muscles had been shaking. Her father had hung the portrait for a week and then taken it down because it hadn’t compared to Hattie’s, not receiving as much praise by his guests. Hattie herself was a work of art, so how could Patience ever hope to compare?

“Who painted his own portrait?” Lord Clitheroe asked. “The artist must have been quite talented to have won his approval.”

“Mr. Richard Cavinder.”

“Hmm.” The marquess rubbed his chin. “I have not heard of him. Perhaps I will have him paint my next. My last is quite outdated now.”

Patience shook her head softly. “I’m afraid, my lord, that he is no longer in practice. His son is now working in his stead.”

“Is that so?” Lord Clitheroe cocked one eyebrow. “Then that is even more ideal. I have never trusted old men with their feeble hands with the delicate work of painting. The son is likely more robust and capable. I shall trust your opinion and schedule an appointment with him.”

Patience swallowed, her nostrils flaring. “Well…the son hasn’t yet proven his talent. I would not wish to direct you to his shop without knowing his skill.”

“How should we know if we do not try?”

Patience was going to try, that much had been determined earlier that day at the cricket match. Her father had promised a new likeness would be taken of her for her twenty-first birthday, this time by a more talented artist. Perhaps he and her mother hoped that by then Patience’s beauty would finally be as notable as her elder sister’s. But that was still six months away, and Patience was growing quite, well…impatient.

When she had found Mr. Cavinder during the match that day, she had been most eager to speak with him. The elder Mr. Cavinder had painted Patience’s father’s portrait, and it had been sufficient, even with his very selective tastes in art. She wasn’t certain the younger Mr. Cavinder could paint as well as his father, but she was willing to take the risk. She had enough pin money to pay him herself, and she would have the portrait hung to surprise her parents. Her heart stung each time she thought of how she was left out of the portrait gallery simply because the previous work hadn’t been good enough.

Or, perhaps, because she hadn’t been good enough.

The idea scratched at her heart, making it sting all over again.

Lord Clitheroe leaned closer. “What troubles you, my dear?”

The endearment was surprising, but promising. Lord Clitheroe was her opportunity to prove her worth to her family. To stand every bit as admired and esteemed as Hattie. “I am not troubled. I do tend to become lost in thought often.” She gave a quiet laugh, casting him another flirtatious glance.

“I long to know what you have been thinking of. Do end my misery at once and tell me.” The marquess stared deeply into her eyes, his own still half-closed. Did he think it made him appear more handsome? Charming? Tired, perhaps? It didn’t matter what the answer was. All that mattered was that this marquess seemed to be intrigued by her. Did he have marriage on his mind? Likely not, as young as he was. He seemed something of a rake, intent only to woo women, not to marry one.

“My sister is engaged,” Patience said. “She is in London now, becoming further acquainted with the family of her betrothed. I have been thinking of my happiness on her behalf, and also of my despair that she will be leaving Briarwood.” Despair was not the correct word. Relief might have been more accurate. Without Hattie in the house, Patience might finally have the opportunity to be noticed.

“I see.” The marquess gave a tight-lipped smile. His entire demeanor changed, and he settled back into his chair. “I did wonder where she was this evening. I hoped to make her acquaintance after seeing her portrait in the gallery.”

Patience’s face grew hot. Had he only been speaking with her because of his interest in Hattie? Her question was answered as he gave a nod to excuse himself, rising to his feet. “It was a pleasure making your acquaintance, Miss Patience. I’m afraid I must now socialize with the other guests whom I have not met.” She watched him flit about the room for a moment before he settled on a seat by the fireplace, where he engaged an older gentleman in conversation.

Patience’s lungs deflated, her heart sinking to her toes. Heat climbed to her ears, and she was grateful for the dim light to hide the color. She felt much like a weed that had just been plucked from the earth, cast aside and forgotten in an instant. All her hopes for the marquess crashed down over her shoulders, and she felt nearly crushed by the weight of it.

Her mother’s eyes captured hers from across the room, a disapproving pucker on her lips. She mouthed something Patience could not decipher before drawing an exasperated breath. Patience was relieved to see that her father had not witnessed Lord Clitheroe snubbing her. A marquess, in Papa’s opinion, could do no wrong, so the only fault he would find would be in Patience. She could already hear the conversation in the back of her mind. “Hattie would have kept his interest.” Or “Hattie would have known the correct subjects of conversation that would not bore him.”

Patience straightened her posture, clenching the muscles in her neck to keep her tears at bay. Her mother’s scrutiny continued from across the room as Patience sat alone, avoiding her gaze.

Her heart hammered in her chest as she thought of the portrait that would soon be painted of her. Her stomach twisted with nervousness and excitement at once. The young artist Mr. Cavinder had a lofty task ahead of him. It took a great deal to impress her father.

And in turn, it took a great deal to impress her.