Chapter 17
Chapter Seventeen
“Don’t you dare say you regret not choosing the hat with the blue feathers,” Marianne said as they stepped out of the milliner’s and into the summer-bright street. “I’ll never forgive you if you do.”
Elizabeth laughed, squinting against the sunlight as they strolled across the cobblestones. “I don’t regret it. I merely foresee Lady Grisham comparing me to a blue jay squawking for a mate.”
“An elegant blue jay,” Marianne countered cheerfully. “There’s nothing wrong with a little plumage now and then. We should all look a little wild from time to time.”
Elizabeth shook her head, but her lips twitched with amusement. She had missed this—her sister’s humor, the ease of walking side by side without judgment pressing on her spine like a weight.
“Do you have everything you need?” Marianne asked, glancing at the small stack of boxes now secured with twine and nestled in the waiting footman’s arms.
“I do,” Elizabeth replied. “And several ribbons and bonnets that Lady Grisham might disapprove of. Which means, I believe, we’ve succeeded.”
Marianne gave a satisfied sigh. “Excellent. Our time was not wasted.”
But for all their levity, there was a quieter truth to their outing.
This wasn’t simply about hats and ribbons.
Marianne would be leaving London again soon, returning to Oakmere with her husband and her new responsibilities.
Elizabeth knew this walk through Bond Street wasn’t just an indulgence—it was a farewell, of sorts. And a moment of stolen freedom.
They passed by confectioners and silk merchants, pausing occasionally but buying nothing more.
Elizabeth’s gaze lingered only once—on a small, tidy art shop nestled between a stationer and a bookseller.
A modest place, with warped windows and a dusty canvas in the front, but something about it called to her.
“Let’s go in here,” she said suddenly.
Marianne looked up at the sign and grinned. “Ah. Still drawn to charcoal and ink? Good. I worried you’d forgotten.”
Elizabeth shook her head. “I’ve actually been drawing more lately. I’m not sure why, it’s just… come back. Like a tug in the chest.”
The bell chimed gently as they entered. The scent of paper and wood and old pigment greeted them like an old friend.
Inside, the walls were lined with delicate brushes, rich blocks of watercolor, tubes of oil paint in muted golds and greens, and sketchbooks bound in leather.
She took a deep breath, as if she could absorb inspiration through the air.
“I’ve missed this,” she murmured.
“Then fill your basket, Lizzie. Take what you need.”
Elizabeth picked up a brush, examined its sable bristles, then set it down again. She hovered near a set of fine charcoal pencils, her fingers twitching… but she didn’t reach for them.
Marianne turned from a rack of handmade paper. “Why aren’t you picking anything?”
Elizabeth hesitated. “It’s all lovely. But I shouldn’t indulge right now.”
Her sister raised an eyebrow. “And why ever not?”
“It’s not the time,” she said quietly. “I need to focus. On the Season. On securing a match. That’s my priority.”
“Did Lady Grisham say that?” Marianne asked, her tone sharpening.
“She doesn’t need to,” Elizabeth said. “I already know.”
Marianne sighed and set down the folio she’d been admiring. “Lizzie. You are allowed to want things that bring you joy. That aren’t attached to lace and titles. Art is not a frivolity.”
“It is if it takes my eye off what’s at stake.”
“And what is at stake?” Marianne asked. “Marriage? Safety? Reputation? Or something deeper?” She touched her arm gently. “You don’t need to forget who you are in order to survive this.”
Elizabeth didn’t answer. She couldn’t. Her fingers brushed the corner of a blank sketchbook, but just as she reached for it, the sound of approaching footsteps made her freeze.
“Lady Elizabeth. Duchess of Oakmere,” came a familiar, cheerful voice.
The Earl of Whitton.
Elizabeth turned, her stomach twisting. And there he was, all bright-eyed charm… and behind him, Alasdair.
He stood tall and composed, the very picture of restrained masculinity in a deep navy coat that hugged his broad frame. There was no trace of the man who had kissed her breathless in a quiet room. His expression was cool. Distant.
She hated how it made her stomach sink.
“Gentlemen,” she greeted, forcing civility into her voice. “What brings you here?”
“Shopping for art supplies, I gather?” Lord Whitton said, glancing around. “It does make one curious whether my dear friend here is secretly a patron of the arts. Redmoor?”
“We’ve already stopped at three tailors,” Alasdair replied flatly.
“And he complained through all of them,” Lord Whitton added. “So I’ve dragged him here to distract him with pigments and prettiness.”
“You’re doing noble work, my lord,” Marianne said with a laugh. “We’ve just been spending the day together before I return to Oakmere. This seemed a worthy stop.”
Elizabeth offered the barest of smiles. “We’ve been trying not to spend all our time in dress shops.”
“You could’ve fooled me with that bonnet, Lady Elizabeth,” Lord Whitton teased.
Elizabeth was about to deflect when Alasdair’s voice cut through the room like low thunder.
“Do ye paint, me lady?”
She turned to him. His eyes were on her, and for a moment, she saw past the detachment to something else. A flicker of that intensity he never quite managed to hide.
“I sketch,” she said. “A little.”
“‘A little,’ she says,” Marianne snorted. “You’d think she dabbles in stick figures. But her sketches are better than anything you’d find on a gallery wall. She captures things most people miss.”
Alasdair tilted his head. “Is that so?”
Elizabeth flushed. “It’s just a hobby,” she said quickly, eyes darting away. “Nothing worth speaking about, Your Grace.”
But he was still watching her. His gaze lingered on her—not in the crude way some men did, but in a way that felt like being unwrapped. She felt bare beneath his eyes, seen in a way she both craved and feared.
His lips curled slightly. “A fine hobby, if I may say so.”
There was a heat in his voice. It was contained, but unmistakable. And it pooled in her stomach, even as she forced her posture stiff again.
“Marianne, we should be going.”
Her sister raised an amused brow. “Ah. So soon?”
“Indeed.”
Alasdair inclined his head. “A shame. Seeing the two of ye has made this a far more interestin’ afternoon.”
Elizabeth dipped into a curtsy, careful not to meet his eyes again. “Your Grace. Lord Whitton.”
The men returned their bows, and she turned, heart pounding, the bell above the door chiming as they stepped into the street once more.
She didn’t glance back.
She didn’t have to.
His eyes followed her like a brand across her skin.
She felt them. Every step of the way.
After a morning of shopping and unexpected encounters, Elizabeth needed silence.
People often mistook her for reserved, but it wasn’t shyness that made her quiet.
It was the toll of company, the constant alertness, the careful words, the awareness of every glance and every implication.
It wore her down, and when that happened, she needed to be alone to breathe again.
To remember who she was beneath the expectations.
So, she retired to her sitting room, choosing a peaceful activity to occupy her hands. Embroidery usually soothed her nerves, and she had just begun working a delicate floral pattern when her needle snagged.
“Please don’t tell me you’re as stubborn as the people I know,” she muttered under her breath, tugging gently at the thread.
It caught again, twisting into a knot.
Before she could curse it entirely, a quiet cough drew her attention.
“For you, my lady,” said the butler, stepping into view. He held a slim, neatly wrapped package in his gloved hands. “It was delivered only moments ago.”
Elizabeth sat up straighter. “Thank you,” she said, accepting it carefully.
The ribbon was silk and tied with precision. The paper was thick and slightly textured. Not anonymous. Someone had taken care.
She stood, cradling the parcel in her arms, and crossed to her bedchamber, where she could open it in private.
She untied the ribbon and lifted the lid—then gasped.
Inside was a set of art supplies, beautifully chosen and unmistakably high-quality.
Graphite pencils in various grades. Sketch paper rolled in soft vellum. Finely tipped brushes. Even small tubes of paint: deep indigo, burnt sienna, a pale gold.
Had Marianne noticed what she’d paused before in the shop, even when she hadn’t reached for it?
Her throat tightened. She felt like crying, but not from sadness. It was the sort of ache that came from being seen. Understood.
There was a folded note nestled between the pencils and paints. The paper smelled faintly of something clean but not overpowering.
She opened it and read:
Lady Elizabeth,
Let your imagination run free. Sketch and live.
-A.
Her heart stuttered at the signature.
Alasdair.
The man the ton dismissed as savage. The man her stepmother scorned. The man who teased and challenged and kissed her until her soul threatened to leave her body.
He had seen her. Heard her. Even in her modest, dismissive way, when she had brushed off her talent as “just a hobby,” he hadn’t believed her. And now, here it was, his answer. A gesture that said, I know who you are, even if you try to hide it.
She swallowed past the lump in her throat.
There was no question what she needed to do next.
Elizabeth moved to her writing desk and unrolled a fresh sheet of paper. Her fingers hovered over the pencils for only a second before choosing one. The weight felt perfect in her hand.
She didn’t even have to think. Her mind conjured the image before she sat down. She’d been sketching pieces of him for days, his jawline here, his broad shoulders there, the slant of his crooked grin, but never all at once.
Until now.