A Properly Conducted Sham (Most Imprudent Matches #5)

Chapter 19

Chapter Nineteen

BENNET HALL, SURREY - JULY 10, 1816

CHARLOTTE

The burnt-orange streak seeped into the parchment, the finishing touch on my watercolor. Careful of the wet paint, I set it beside the chart Lee was fussing with. “Is this how it should look?”

Lee turned from his notes slowly. For the last fortnight, I had taken to joining him in the observatory. While he observed the stars, I observed my husband. He was often reluctant to abandon a thought. It was as though he had to rip his eyes from whatever was occupying him.

But he always managed—without complaint—then he devoted himself with the same singular focus to whatever had pulled him away. In this case, my painting.

“This is extraordinary. You managed all that detail from the telescope?”

“No, I cannot see all the colors from your scope, or the individual rings. But it was described in that book.” I gestured to one of the texts left open to a description of Saturn. “And when you explained that they were separate, it made sense to paint them individually. Was that wrong?”

“No, not at all. It is perfect.”

My teeth caught my lower lip, hiding a pleased smile from his gaze.

“You do not mind it? Helping me here?” His eyes were wide and downturned when he asked. The expression he always wore when that same question crossed his lips.

It was never a lie when I replied, “I do not mind, truly. It is something quite different.” At his disbelieving expression, I added, “I find myself weary of painting floral vases and fruit.”

As always, his eyes narrowed at me, searching for the lie that was not there.

Ignoring the display, I turned to his notes for the night. “Will you show me the mapping again?”

Lee nodded distractedly while reaching into a pocket for a peppermint. I held my hand out expectantly and he dropped one into it. He always brought out an extra for me now. At first, it was the only thing that settled my stomach consistently. And now… well, I just liked them. The sharp bite, just shy of painful on my tongue, was soothing in a way it had no right to be.

I reached for his sketchbook and flipped to a clean page. Then I drew the requisite circles with the compass. I sketched the lines and labeled them as he had taught me a few days before, 0–23. He quietly directed me with the sextant and explained where to plot each star on the parchment.

“Here,” he murmured, pointing one line over.

I sighed and crossed out the star I’d drawn.

“Such a perfectionist,” he tutted, something teasing in his grin as his mint breath washed over me.

His chuckle was warm and bemused, and I must have rolled my eyes again. He seemed to find that unfortunate habit a source of endless amusement.

The fortnight since St. John’s had been quiet but illuminating. Our tacit agreement never again to mention that night served us well. It allowed me to observe my husband in his natural habitat. Here in the observatory, Lee moved with a kind of confidence he seldom displayed elsewhere. He stood even taller, was more decisive in his statements, and moved with purpose. In this room, he never faltered.

And the way he spoke to me, the soft praise, the gentle corrections—I hadn’t known men were capable of such… kindness. It was a jarring juxtaposition, this massive embodiment of masculinity speaking in a tone that could only be described as tender.

Enjoyable as it was in the moment, the encouragement, the praise, and the way they made me feel—it was worrisome. It was an addiction. I could almost believe he liked my painting. His words nearly had me convinced that I was doing quite well with this star charting. The thoughts warmed something in my chest.

Another few stars plotted without error earned me a genuine smile. He reached out to clasp my upper arm in his hand, pausing a breath away before closing the gap. His grip was warm and pleasant, seeping into the bone beneath.

“Soon you shall outstrip me, and I will be tossed from my own observatory.” Blueish gray eyes gripped my gaze, forcing me to acknowledge the comment with a small smile.

“Hardly.”

I knew, I knew these little compliments were things he offered to keep the peace, to placate a wife he hadn’t wanted. But he was so sincere when he delivered them, I could almost forget, if only for a moment.

He was so damn nice to everyone too. Even the vindictive cat who sat curled atop some piece of equipment I couldn’t recall the name of. It was certainly not a place he wanted her to be, but he just shook his head and allowed her to ball up there.

Was I like the cat? Someone who pranced in and did what she wanted but whom he indulged because he was too kind to do anything else.

“It took me months to learn to do this properly. And you’re perfection in a but a few nights.” It was certainly another lie, but it had something flipping in my belly anyway.

Lee’s sincerity made me want to be brave in a way I hadn’t in years. And as I watched the boyish delight cross his face as he urged me over to look at some star or other, an idea took hold.

Lee

She rolled her eyes again at the compliment. I wasn’t entirely certain she was aware of the motion. Every time I saw it, I was forced to bite back a laugh. Her reaction left me desperate to offer her more praise, just for the scoff and eye roll. How had she survived in the ton with such an expressive face?

If I were a better man, I would stop dragging her out here each night. Women with child needed rest, not hours in a chilled observatory with their eccentric husbands.

But I quite liked her company. She was a distraction, to be sure. But a nice one—a distraction that smelled of orange blossoms and lavender. A distraction that rolled her eyes at me and painted the most stunning depiction of Saturn I had ever seen put to paper. While I was perhaps the least productive I had ever been, I was also enjoying my work in a way I had quite forgotten.

Seeing the galaxy through new eyes was invigorating. Explaining things to her brought new life to them.

Cass took that moment to hop off her perch on the scaphe and onto the floor with an irritated chirp. She pranced over to my wife and wound herself around Charlotte’s legs, tangling in her skirts. And Charlotte gamely, just as she had the last three times the cat had done this, dropped her hand out for Cass to sniff.

The cat, seemingly approving, rubbed her head under the fingers before dragging her back along while Charlotte offered a few scratches down her spine. Every time before, Cass had rewarded my wife’s efforts with a bite. When Cass turned around, rubbing along my wife’s fingers again, I caught the edge of a flinch. But still, she did not remove her hand. And this time, to the astonishment of two humans, and probably the cat herself, she allowed a second set of gentle scratches down the spine. With a final chirp, Cass sashayed out of the observatory and into the night.

My wife turned to me, astonishment written across her face, which surely mirrored my own. “Did she just?”

“I think so.”

“What does that mean?” She whispered, eyes wide and lips parted fetchingly.

“Perhaps she likes you?”

“Surely not.” Charlotte shook her head. “She must be lulling me into false complacency. She will surely bite the entire hand off next time.” Her tone was full of mirth while she struggled to keep her expression sincere.

I lost my fight with my own laughter, and it escaped in a huff. “You’re almost certainly right. But it will be a challenge for her—even your tiny hands are bigger than her head.”

“My hands are not tiny. You just have massive, beastly paws.” I caught one of hers in mine and lined up our wrists.

Lord, she was right. They were beastly in comparison. Charlotte’s delicate fingers and carefully maintained nails did not even reach my second knuckle.

“Perhaps these are why you’re so skilled at painting—dainty hands. Probably explains the piano too.”

“Yes, it’s certainly the hands and not the hours of practice.” Another eye roll.

I caught my lower lip, hiding my smile. “Are you suggesting that it is a lack of effort on my part? I am personally offended, you know. My mother once convinced me to sit at the bench for seven entire minutes. Is that not enough?”

“Oh certainly. In fact, it was probably three minutes too long. I’ve heard that too much practice can result in an overly studied air.”

The desire to slip my fingers just the tiniest bit to the side, to slot them with hers and curl them around her hand was overwhelming. I broke our hands apart, turning back to her sketchbook beside us.

On top was the painting of Saturn she had done earlier, perfect rings delicately wrapped around the brightly colored sphere. “May I?”

She nodded and I flipped to the beginning. A vase filled with roses, another filled with tulips, a third filled with sunshine-yellow daisies. A bowl of fruit—she hadn’t been jesting. Regardless of the subject, they were quite good to my untrained eye. She captured the light and the textures, even with the watercolor medium.

I knew ladies were expected to have accomplishments. But surely, even among the most accomplished ladies, Charlotte was extraordinary.

“We should have some of these framed. Do you have favorites?”

“Oh, that’s not necessary. They’re nothing compared to the paintings that are already hanging.”

“They’re lovely.” I insisted, but I could see my protests were falling on deaf ears. With a sigh, I set the sketchbook back on the desk. I rather thought they belonged on the walls of our home—something to remember her by when she returned to town and left me behind.

Already I knew I had made a mistake. My promise to leave her to her life in town after one year… It would devastate me when she left. I knew that now. In a few short weeks, Charlotte had woven her way into my life. After a year, she would be essential to me.

I had time though. Perhaps I could convince her to let me keep the paintings—Saturn at least, and probably the daisies. They were bright and happy. And, if she still refused… I wasn’t entirely above stealing from my own wife.

If I couldn’t keep her, I could keep something of hers.