Chapter 1 #3
“Confident, aren’t you?” he mused. “I’ve met a great many people who dabble in artistic pursuits, though few achieve any of their aims. Or have talent.
I fear I’d have to see your work to determine which category you fall into.
” He stretched a palm over the worn wood of the table before him.
“So you wish to paint me? I’ve been asked to pose a time or two. ” A sigh. “Unclothed, mostly.”
“By young ladies?” Muriel asked, somewhat scandalized.
“And a handful of gentlemen.”
“That is not my specialty.” Muriel returned, though she was starting to imagine the breadth of his shoulders without the coat. “But I find your features interesting.”
“Interesting? Not refined. Attractive. Handsome?”
“No. Merely interesting. Take your nose, for instance.”
“My father’s. I do not take credit for it.” The smirk on his lips widened.
“And your jaw. Your hair. A most unusual color.” Muriel cleared her throat before she started to wax poetically that the hue reminded her of aged bronze. “I mostly paint portraits, though not typical ones. There is an artist I admire whose style I try to emulate.”
“Interesting.” He cocked his head, one arm dangling over the end of the chair. “Go on.”
Muriel was rarely asked about her aspirations. “The artist in question is from the Renaissance. He’s considered…different. He used vegetables, fruits, and other objects in his portraits,” she said, warming to her topic.
He nodded for her to proceed.
This was a rather heady experience. Once she mentioned Arcimboldo’s tendency to incorporate fruit and vegetables into his paintings, most people lost interest entirely. “He’s rather famous. Well, not entirely famous. Few appreciate his vision.”
“I can imagine, given his penchant for using potatoes and apples, I’ll assume.”
“Sometimes other inanimate objects. Symbolism, if you will, when he paints a portrait. Like a secret message of sorts. It is difficult to explain without showing you a specific example.” Her hands twisted absently in her skirts.
“So if I take your meaning, you might use a squash for my jaw?” His brows drew up. “My head imagined as an apple?” Lips, so full and sensual, curved at the thought. “Wait, let me guess. My nose resembles a wintered-over parsnip.”
Muriel opened her mouth to reply, but only a tiny squeak came out. Now that she was done telling him about Arcimboldo, she was really looking at him again. Particularly his mouth. Which made thinking, let alone speaking, difficult.
“Good lord, a turnip?” He slapped his palm lightly on the table, making Muriel jump. “I must stop you there, if you consider me a root vegetable, Miss—”
“Bell,” she finally croaked. “Muriel Bell. And what is wrong with a turnip?” Her feet inched closer. She avoided looking at his mouth, which made her stomach jump about, and focused on the shape of his nose.
“Nothing at all, I suppose. But I feel more kinship with a radish.” He tapped his lips with one finger. “Or a melon. Do you make such observations a habit, Miss Bell? Who is this artist you so admire?”
“I doubt you would know of him…sir.” She wasn’t sure how to address him. He was obviously wealthy. Possibly titled, given his arrogance. But he had yet to introduce himself.
“Hmm. Try me, Miss Bell. I might surprise you.” This time, he smiled, stunning her speechless once more for at least a full thirty seconds.
No wonder he is so arrogant.
“Arcimboldo.” She hoped he might recognize the name, even if no one else ever did.
He nodded slowly. “You are correct, Miss Bell. I’ve no idea who that is, though based on what you’ve said thus far, he must have been of some note.”
“His most famous painting, more a series, really, is titled The Four Seasons. And Arcimboldo didn’t limit himself to merely fruit and vegetables, as I mentioned before. In one of his works, he uses a fishhook for a nose.”
“How unusual. I confess, I’m intrigued. What do you think the fishhook represented?”
Muriel had never been able to discern the fishhook’s meaning.
“I’m not sure. But his use of olives, for example, was meant to reflect the subject’s wealth.
As I said, all his works contain such symbolism, and I enjoy the mystery, I suppose.
Hiding messages within a painting to see if anyone can guess what his meaning might be. ”
“You enjoy puzzles, I think. Or creating them. I believe that your true interest, Miss Bell.”
Muriel had never considered as much, though it certainly explained her affinity for Arcimboldo. “I’ve never given it much thought. But you could be right.”
“Would you care to sit?” He inclined his head at the chair across from him. “I’d like to know more about Arcimboldo.”
“You would? I mean, no, thank you. I’ve already interrupted your meal.”
“Meal? Oh, you mean these.” He motioned towards the small plate of what looked to be meat pies before him. “Not tasty at all.”
“So you would offer them to me?” she asked boldly.
That amused look crossed his features once more. “Well, the pies are a puzzle. I can’t discern the filling—some sort of meat and vegetables—but thought you might.” He wiped his fingers on a napkin.
“You want me to eat your terrible meat pies.”
“Taste them. Tell me what’s inside.” He pushed the chair out with one large, booted foot. “I’m sure Arcimboldo would.”
Muriel smiled back at him, marched forward, and sat.
Tentatively, she picked up a pie and nibbled.
An unwelcome taste filled her mouth. She didn’t even bother to hide the curl of her lips as she set the pastry back down.
“I am uncertain of the contents,” she chewed and forced herself to swallow.
“But I believe there is at least carrot. Possibly…chicken? The rest remains a mystery.”
He leaned towards her, filling the air with the heady scent of cedar and spice.
Those eyes, almost feline in nature, ran over Muriel’s form, lingering on her bosom.
All of which nearly made her forget the terrible taste in her mouth.
“But all of it unpleasant.” He nodded to his tankard.
“The ale is decent. I’m happy to share.”
“A young lady does not partake of ale.” Nor did she sit with a strange gentleman to whom she had not been properly introduced, discussing meat pies and Arcimboldo.
But Muriel didn’t care, at present. She hadn’t had a genuine conversation with a man in ages, if ever.
Most only discussed the weather, their connections, or their horses.
“What a pity. I think most young ladies would be improved with a little ale, don’t you? What is that horrid stuff they like to ply you with? Terribly sweet.” He made a face.
“Usually, punch or lemonade, both of which are equally terrible. But I think you are referring to ratafia. Served at balls, dinners, and house parties everywhere.”
Her parents strolled by the open window but, thankfully, did not glance in her direction.
Instead, Nora craned her neck towards the coach, likely checking to see if Muriel had returned.
Her stepmother would come looking for her soon if Muriel didn’t appear and would be horrified to see her sitting before a plate of cold meat pies engaged in conversation with a stranger.
Who had eyes like a cat. With glorious auburn hair the color of beaten copper.
“In a hurry to be off?” He nodded towards the inn’s front entrance.
“It is only that—my stepmother wishes to find me a suitor. Sooner rather than later. I do not wish you to be caught up in such nonsense, sir. Which you would be if she spied us together.”
“You don’t wish to involve me?” He seemed oddly…surprised. Picking up one of the pies, he took another bite, scowling.
“We are only having a conversation. It isn’t as if anything improper has occurred, unless one counts these atrocious meat pies. But my stepmother is somewhat determined.”
“Terrible.” He tossed the pie on the plate. He brushed off his fingers. “I meant the pies, not your stepmother. So she wishes to see you wed.”
Muriel looked down at her lap before raising her chin once more. “It seems to be her only purpose as of late. What is so wrong with remaining unwed? I wish to study art, not marry to satisfy society. Thus, I am on my way to a house party, one I have little interest in attending.”
“I’m not fond of house parties either, as it happens.
Hotbeds of matchmaking, particularly at this point in the Season.
” A big hand waved in the air, glinting off the signet ring he wore.
“Which explains the miserable plate of food before me, as Mrs. Catterby’s larder has likely been picked clean.
Half of London has stopped at this inn on their way to the Savorton estate,” he paused. “I’ll assume that is your destination.”
“It is,” Muriel said in a miserable tone. “There is bound to be an enormous amount of matchmaking.” Especially where she was concerned.
“I share your absolute misery, Miss Bell. As it happens, I’m highly sought after as a husband. So much so, I am hounded at a house party. Trapped like prey with no means of escape. Hunted like some poor fox—”
Muriel held up a palm. Splendid or not, she was in no mood for his dramatics, given her own situation. “I don’t doubt it.”
The green of his eyes sparkled back at her. “The matrons of the ton do nothing but toss their daughters in my direction. I must bat them away as if I’m engaged in a game of shuttlecock.”
She gave him a skeptical look. “You are comparing young ladies to a bit of cork and feathers.” The man before her was undeniably handsome, but even so, he wasn’t the only attractive man in society.
“You think I’m embellishing my appeal? But I’m the—” The words halted as he clamped his lips shut. “Best looking gentleman at every society function, and I’m wealthy to boot.” He smiled broadly. “Then, there is my wit, which is razor sharp. My charm—”
“Yes, yes.” Muriel gave him an annoyed look. “You’re perfect in every conceivable way. Stop attempting to convince me.”
A burst of laughter erupted from him, sliding along the length of Muriel’s body until her skin prickled in pleasure. “You are the only woman I’ve ever met who merely wishes to draw me as a vegetable and not wed me, Miss Bell.” There was a thread of disbelief coloring his words. “A true rarity.”
Muriel gave him a rueful look. “Not a vegetable. An oak tree.”
Those green eyes took her in once more. “An oak tree?”
“In autumn.”
“Ah.” He flicked one of the curls hovering over his ear. “I can see why that would make a great deal of sense, Miss Bell. So you are attending the Savorton house party where there will be a great deal of eligible gentlemen. Do you hope to find a lord who reminds you of a stalk of celery?”
“As I said, my stepmother is rather determined I wed. I am not of the same opinion.”
Why had she said that? Another of her failings—speaking without thinking. She’d enjoyed their conversation quite a bit, but the man before her was a stranger. Muriel shouldn’t be discussing her existence with him.
“You are a most interesting young lady, Miss Bell. Much like your Arcimboldo.”
“Because I don’t seek a husband?” She glanced towards the front of the inn, expecting Nora to appear at any moment. “Why must I wed to please society? Shouldn’t a match be made because it pleases me?”
He nodded slowly in agreement. “I have often felt the same.”
“Exactly. Pity you cannot convince Lord and Lady Allred of the same. I suspect, strongly, there is an unwelcome surprise waiting for me at this house party. I fear I am no match for their shared vision of my future.” Muriel looked down at her slippers.
“An unwanted suitor. One I will not be able to dissuade.”
He gave her a thoughtful look. “I see. That explains why you remind me of a rabbit trapped in a snare.”
“Unkind.” She glared at him.
He shrugged. “And the right man won’t mind, Miss Bell, what you paint or how often. You might be surprised, pleasantly, at the Savorton house party.”
“Doubtful. But I appreciate your confidence, all the same.” She came to her feet and bobbed politely.
“It has been a pleasure, sir, however, I must take my leave. I hope you manage to avoid being taken down like a bloodied fox during a hunt this Season. Should I see you in London, I will be sure to enjoy the spectacle. Now, I must go before…” She nodded in the direction of the inn’s door.
“Your stepmother appears.” He came to his feet as well and bowed. “I fear I haven’t introduced myself. I am Buxton.”
He cocked his head, as if waiting to see her reaction to his name.
“How lovely for you. A pleasure, Lord Buxton,” she said politely, the name unfamiliar. Muriel had never heard of a Buxton, lord or otherwise. Nora might recall the name, given she’d memorized Debrett’s Peerage, but Muriel had little interest in such things.
“How lovely for—” Buxton made a choked sound. “I see my reputation precedes me, Miss Bell.”
“Not nearly enough, I fear. I do apologize, sir. The name is not one I know. Sorry to disappoint.”
“Not at all, Miss Bell. I appreciate your candor. I’ve enjoyed our conversation. I hope to continue it at another time. If for no other reason than that I feel I should become more educated on Arcimboldo.”
Warmth bathed Muriel’s body at his regard. Her heart fluttered gently in her chest. That was rather nice of him. No one ever wanted to know anything at all about Arcimboldo. The air grew thick between them, and for one fleeting moment, Muriel thought Buxton might kiss her.
“Muriel.” Nora’s strident tone broke the spell. “Are you in here?”
Oh, dear.
“Good day to you, Lord Buxton. Perhaps we’ll see each other in London.”
“Perhaps.” A smile, so brilliant it caused Muriel’s knees to buckle, crossed his lips. “And should I see you, Miss Bell, I will happily dissuade any unwanted suitors.”
“You may be too late for that.” She tried to sound brave. Then she spun about and hurried away from the taproom, her heart beating like a drum in her chest. Wondering if she would ever see Lord Buxton again.