Chapter Five
S eeing sunshine upon opening her eyes the following morning, Brilliance let the memories rush in. She was not at her home on Piccadilly in London. She was in Bexley and about to have her first full day at Lady Twitchard’s country manor. And she had already been kissed.
What more excitement might possibly be on the horizon?
As that question buzzed in her busy brain, she was up and, with the assistance of her maid, Belinda, dressed in a lovely morning frock. Within a quarter of an hour, she headed downstairs.
Some guests would be strolling the property or taking tea in the gardens, but Brilliance had always been fond of stoking her inner hearth with a cup of chocolate and, at the very least, a coddled egg or two before starting her day.
The previous night’s supper had been held in the same pink salon in which they’d been told to take their breakfast. It was a nice change from one long table in the dining room. Four tables were set up around a white marble font. Instead of water, it contained a lovely display of living plants.
“Good morning,” Brilliance said to one and all. However, a brief inspection of the room’s occupants indicated neither Lord Hewitt nor Martine was there. In fact, only two gentlemen were as yet eating.
That was a bit of a letdown, as Lord Hewitt had not put in an appearance at the previous night’s light supper of soup and bread, either. Brilliance had tried not to let her disappointment ruin the fun of being up late at a party without a chaperone or her parents or siblings. She had enjoyed the soup while being showered by Martine’s questions.
“Where on earth did you disappear to?” her friend had asked.
“Lost,” had been Brilliance’s truthful answer, but Martine had given her the horse-eye.
“A rather long time to go from the gallery to your room,” her friend had declared. “I made it back downstairs and chatted with the others and still you didn’t reappear.”
Brilliance had simply shrugged until her friend had given up, deciding there was nothing to know.
Now, as the two gentlemen rose to their feet, Brilliance hesitated in order to determine the protocol. Should she take a seat or go to the sideboard and help herself?
“The footman just went off to get more toast,” said the blond Lord Patterson. “But there is no standing on ceremony. Allow me,” he added.
Picking up a clean plate from the sideboard, he lifted the silver lid off the first chafing dish.
“Coddled eggs or scrambled?”
“The first, please.” Brilliance went to join him.
“Bacon or sausage?” he asked upon lifting the second lid.
“Why not both?” she asked. “Otherwise, I might not make it until dinner.”
“We don’t want you passing away from hunger,” he said, matching her teasing tone before placing two rashers of bacon and two sausages on her plate.
“There are sweet onion tarts, too, and creamy potatoes,” he added as they strolled along the sideboard.
“Perhaps if I have room,” she said, taking a seat beside the one he had vacated. “Thank you.”
She helped herself from the chocolate pot, proclaiming it, “Superb.”
“Everything is of the finest quality,” agreed Lord Fincham, whose name she remembered because his face reminded her of a bird.
“Especially the guests,” said Lord Patterson, nodding at her. “I am happy to be among so many nice people.”
Brilliance approved of his friendly disposition. She hoped he would return her best friend’s interest. If possible, she would help matters along.
“I am glad to have your company, my lord, as my lovely and very sweet friend Lady Martine must still be abed. Were you introduced to her?”
“Indeed, I was. The lady with the mole on her neck,” he said.
“The same,” Brilliance agreed. “I think it is a pretty birthmark.”
“I suppose it can be considered such, by some.”
Brilliance wasn’t sure he sounded all that approving.
“Your clear complexion is deemed far more desirable,” the gentleman added.
Oh, dear. She had no interest in the golden-curled lord. She must take his attention off herself.
“What is the first item on our day’s schedule? Lord Fincham, do you recall? Silly me, I forgot to look.”
“For the gentlemen, nothing more taxing than strolling down to the stream, although undoubtedly carriages will be offered, too,” Lord Fincham responded. “We are fishing.”
“And the ladies?” she asked.
“I believe you ladies will have the opportunity to paint,” said Lord Patterson. “For my part, I would be happy to watch you paint for hours.”
Noooo! “That sounds dreadfully dull for you,” Brilliance said.
Luckily, Martine entered. Again, both gentlemen rose. However, with the footman having returned, Lord Patterson didn’t need to play the server this time. Regardless, Brilliance had hoped he would wait upon her friend as he had done for her. He did not.
“I didn’t realize how late the time was,” Martine remarked, taking a seat. “I vow I sleep more deeply and longer in the country than I ever do in Town.”
“It’s not all that late,” Brilliance said. “I think the majority of people are still abed.”
“That’s a relief.” Martine took a sip of chocolate. “My, that’s delicious. And restorative. In any case, I thought it was later because Lord Hewitt is already practicing in the conservatory.”
Brilliance sat up straighter. The man was dedicated, indeed, if he would play before breakfast.
“Lord Patterson tells me we are painting this morning.”
Martine nodded, then turned to him.
“Do you paint, my lord?”
He laughed unnecessarily. “No, what a notion!” His tone was derisive, as if he had never noticed that most of the famous painters in the world were male.
“The gentlemen are invited to fish,” Lord Fincham repeated.
Brilliance thought him superior in disposition and wished Martine would switch her interest to the birdlike man.
“My eldest sister and my brother adore fishing,” Brilliance told him. She wondered if Lord Hewitt would fish and whether female guests could eschew the finer arts, of which she had no skill, in favor of the rod and line, of which she also had no skill. At least, with the latter, her lack of prowess was less noticeable.
As more guests arrived, they chatted about the week’s upcoming events, including the final evening’s ball. After Lord Fincham left, Brilliance decided to do Martine a favor by leaving her alone with Lord Patterson for a few minutes as no one else had come to their table.
Unfortunately, as she rose, his lordship quickly stood, too.
“I hope you will excuse me.” She ought to have come up with a reason beforehand. Yet Martine was looking at her with gratitude and understanding.
Rather than retaking his seat, however, Lord Patterson looked as though he was going to escort Brilliance from the room. She would have to be forceful.
“I hope you will keep my very good friend, Lady Martine, company. And I shall see you both outside in a little while.”
His lordship appeared disappointed, but he regained his chair. That settled, Brilliance considered taking a plate of food to Lord Hewitt until she decided she was being presumptuous. Still, a bowl of cherries, already pitted by the scullery maid, could hardly be unwelcome.
With the offering in hand, she returned to the conservatory door.
Sure enough, Brilliance could hear him. Surprisingly, this time, she knew the music he was playing. Not his own, but the work of Mr. Ambrose Castern, of whom everyone was familiar. For a while, this particular piece was played not only at his concerts but at those of other pianists. People clapped when they heard the opening notes, knowing what was to come.
With less hesitancy than the day before, she opened the door.
Lord Hewitt’s back and his same upright posture greeted her. And after a few moments, the same cessation of playing. However, this time, when he turned, he didn’t look nearly as irritated, although perhaps the tiniest bit hesitant.
For her part, she didn’t feel the least unnerved by the fact that when last she’d seen him, they’d had been pressing their mouths against one another’s.
“I brought you some cherries. Without stones,” she added.
He rewarded her with a small smile that tickled her down to toes.
“What a lovely smile you have, my lord.”
It grew broader. “Thank you. It’s very kind of you to say. But why did you bring me cherries?”
“Because I didn’t see any other fruit,” she confessed, hoping he wasn’t embarrassed. “My mother once sent a large basket of fruit to an actor. It seemed to help him tremendously.”
His brow furrowed. Yet in the next instant, he took the bowl from her.
“Again, I thank you.”
Brilliance was thrilled he was willing to try to cure his stage fright. “Is it your habit to skip breakfast?”
If it was, then should they marry, she would have to keep herself company by reading the morning paper while drinking her chocolate.
“Not at all,” he said, “I simply lost track of time. I didn’t intend to play this morning, but somehow, here I am. Have I missed it altogether?”
“I am sure your cousin won’t starve you.” Brilliance went to the large windows where she could see guests gathering on the lawn. “But I believe it is nearly time for the first entertainment. Do you intend to fish?”
“Do you?” he asked.
She spun around with interest. “If you are inviting me, then I will. I am not as good as my eldest sister and my brother, but perhaps not as terrible as my other two sisters.”
“I haven’t fished since I was a boy.” He looked pleased at the prospect while popping berries into his mouth.
“I am sure you shall easily recall how to do it. You have a magnificent memory, after all,” Brilliance told him. “I am most impressed by how well you were playing Mr. Castern’s piece when I entered.”
To her amazement, Lord Hewitt’s expression darkened. Any hint of happiness disappeared, and he slammed the porcelain fruit bowl onto the piano.
With disbelief, she watched a few of the juicy red cherries “escape” as she fancied their quick movement. For it appeared as if they’d hopped over the rim of the shallow bowl before rolling across the smooth surface of the piano and falling to the rug below.
“It isn’t his music,” Lord Hewitt hissed.
Was he teasing her? “I beg to differ, my lord. I have heard it many times, and that was the very same. I am certain you can compose something as good if you put your mind to it.”
She decided to pick up the cherries. Lady Twitchard would not be pleased to find stains on her carpet should someone stand on them. Nearly as bad as spilling a glass of burgundy wine on a cream-colored table linen. Brilliance had done that, too.
Crouching low to retrieve the wayward fruit, she almost missed his next words.
“Leave me in peace.”
“It won’t do to let these remain on the rug,” she began before realizing what he had said. Having quickly picked up the errant berries, she rose.
“I beg your pardon?” Brilliance asked, dropping them back into the bowl.
“I asked you to leave.” His tone was sharp. “I have music to practice.”
“What about fishing, or even a mouthful of breakfast?”
“Out,” he said, rudely lowering himself onto the stool and giving her his shoulder.
Cherries certainly affected him differently than an orange, which had put him in a good mood. She did not like the foul one that had come over him.
He was apparently jealous of Mr. Castern.
It seemed petty and beneath a man of honor, especially one with such talent. About to tell him that very thing, Brilliance restrained herself, albeit with difficulty. Instead, she left without another word, taking the bowl of cherries with her.
What’s more, she would try her hand at painting. Again! There was no point in dragging her skirts to the possibly muddy stream if Lord Hewitt was going to remain in the conservatory.
Fishing! What a pointless waste of time unless one intended to catch something substantial for one’s dinner. However, Vincent knew what was in the nearby waters that flowed through Alethia’s estate toward the River Cray — nothing but small dab. Maybe some trout if one was lucky.
Besides, he didn’t want to stand there tossing in a line and hook when he could be practicing.
For what? came the unkind voice in his head . Or for whom?
Regardless, he ran through the sonata again. His sonata. One of his favorites, originally named for a young lady as beautiful and treacherous as King Arthur’s Guinevere. Lydia. Naturally, the scoundrel, Ambrose Castern, had changed the title.
Unexpectedly, Vincent made a mistake halfway through. Beginning again, he found himself looking down at the keys. That didn’t help. He made another mistake, hesitated, and then ground to a halt.
Lady Brilliance!
His normally sharp concentration was shattered. And it was the lady’s fault. What with her damned cherries! She obviously had sawdust between her ears.
Luckily, when he stormed into the pink salon, no one else was there. He poured himself a cup of lukewarm coffee, which put him in an even worse mood. Then he had some hard toast, a piece of cold gristly bacon, and a rubbery sausage before giving up.
He ought to be a dutiful guest and join the fishing party. Instead, he wandered into the back garden, finding it blooming with ladies and their easels.
“Why are you looking like a thunder cloud?” his cousin asked him. From her vantage point on the terrace, Alethia was overseeing the others in lieu of painting. Vincent knew her to be quite skilled and not one to risk bruising her guests’ tender psyches.
“Because I am trapped at your party,” he shot back.
Alethia didn’t look the least upset, nor even insulted.
“Mr. Warbly, please go help the lady by the delphiniums,” she said to the painting master she’d hired. “Her painting looks more like a giraffe than a flower, don’t you think?”
Then his cousin turned her attention to him.
“Who spat in your tea this morning?” Alethia asked.
“What a disgusting thing to say.” Vincent spied Lady Brilliance by the rose arbor. “Are there no gentlemen here?”
“Apparently not,” she said pointedly.
He blinked at her. She raised an eyebrow. Finally, he relaxed.
“I apologize for being out of sorts. It must have been the lumpy mattress.”
“I own no lumpy mattresses,” she protested.
He wasn’t going to mention a pretty lady who set his teeth on edge.
“Is the Colonel at the stream, too?” Vincent liked his cousin-in-law. Colonel Twitchard was a no-nonsense man of action whose only weakness was his wife. And while the man didn’t understand the finer points of composing music — “how can you string all those notes together in any order that sounds pleasing?” — he was still a good one with whom to hash out anything troubling.
Yet the one thing Vincent had never spoken to Twitchard about was what troubled him most. The Colonel would never have allowed his music to be stolen!
“Yes, my husband is fishing. Why aren’t you?”
Vincent shrugged. He was behaving badly, but he couldn’t enjoy himself until he’d apologized to Lady Brilliance.
“I may head down to the stream in a few minutes,” he said. With no further explanation, he stepped off the terrace and ambled toward Lady Brilliance by a circuitous route around his cousin’s whimsical topiaries and past the other painters as if he had no particular destination.
He thought some of the paintings were quite good. One of the ladies from the gallery, Lady Georgiana if his memory served him, and it usually did, looked up at him as he passed.
“Take a look at my attempt, Lord Hewitt. But be kind.”
Since she was inviting him to look, he knew it would be good. Yet she continued in her false self-deprecation.
“We cannot all be as talented as Mr. Turner.”
Her painting was certainly not similar to Turner’s, which were all light, shadow, and impressions of objects. But it was skillful nonetheless in a more pedantic and realistic way.
“That is the very likeness of those flowers, my lady. Precisely done.” He couldn’t be more enthusiastic, since her painting had no personality, merely a representation of the flowers in front of her. It would have been better as a sketch, in fact.
Lady Georgiana seemed pleased with his words, offering him a coy tilt of her head as she said, “Why, thank you, my lord. I never expected such praise.”
Nodding, Vincent continued on, hoping not to make eye contact or be brought into any more conversations with these females. Finally, he came upon Lady Brilliance. Approaching from behind her, he was able to spy her canvas while she was as yet unaware.
It was beyond anything he’d ever seen in its absolute atrocity. If he could not see the roses in front of her, he would have no idea what her subject was. Shaking his head, he recalled he had little experience in the world of art. Who was he to judge?
Unfortunately, that thought did not help. Even if he had never seen a painting before, he would know in his bones how terrible this one was. The stems growing directly up from the ground were too short and thick, while the roses looked like salmon-colored, misshapen mushrooms. And unless he was sadly mistaken, she had put one of those pieces of fruit she was always giving him — a large, dimple-skinned orange — in the distance.
Coming closer, he circled around until he was in her field of vision. “Good day, Lady Brilliance.”
Looking up at him, she shaded her eyes with her hand despite wearing a bonnet. He noticed she had paint on her cheek and her ungloved hand and now on the brim of her bonnet.
“Good day, Lord Hewitt. I should be angry at you and shun you with silence, but what is the point in that?”
He’d never met such an affable female. She entirely lacked the veneer of game-playing that covered even the nicest ladies upon occasion.
“No more point to it than fishing in a rain barrel, in my humble opinion,” Vincent said before clearing his throat. “I came to apologize for my earlier outburst. I am sorry for spilling the cherries and for chasing you away.”
Her smile was breathtaking.
“Perhaps your mood was brought on by a bout of peckishness,” she said. “That’s why I always go straight to the breakfast table when I awaken. A cup of chocolate and something nourishing staves off any bad moods or headaches.”
Although he knew his lack of food had little to do with his earlier anger, he nodded.
“I went to the salon and had some toast and coffee. And you are correct, I am much improved.”
“And yet, here you are amongst the ladies instead of with the gentlemen. Are you going to claim an easel, too?”
“No, I shall not. I haven’t the patience, nor the skill for it.” He wished he hadn’t mentioned skill. For she glanced at her painting and then back at him, her expression clearly questioning.
Vincent hated to lie to her, so he said nothing. He merely rocked on his heels, put his hands into his coat pockets, and squinted into the distance as if something had caught his attention.
“You haven’t yet remarked upon my painting,” she said. “Where are your eye-glasses?”
Perhaps they would help, but he feared his spectacles would only bring her disaster-in-oil into clearer focus. Withdrawing them from his pocket, he donned them and looked at her work of art once again, trying not to flinch.
“An interesting composition,” he said. “I particularly like the orange. You’ve captured the fruit’s roundness and color.”
Her eyes widened, and she studied her own painting in silence for a long moment. Stepping back, he did the same from his vantage over the back of her bonnet. When her shoulders began to shake, Vincent feared the worst.
Lady Brilliance was devastated, sobbing and distraught. It was all his fault!