Chapter 8
Muriel whistled a merry tune, sketchbook clasped tightly under one arm as she strode across the lawn in the direction of Lord Savorton’s greenhouse.
Today, she would focus on a preliminary sketch of Buxton and then, once she was satisfied, would transfer the sketch to the canvas.
Already, her mind was riffling through the different shades of red and gold she meant to use.
A considerable amount of time had been devoted to how best to incorporate a radish into his portrait, though she still saw him as an oak tree.
The nose was the most obvious choice, but it didn’t feel…
right to her. Placing a radish elsewhere would be a challenge.
“Muriel, where do you think you’re off to?” Nora stopped her, taking in the sight of the sketchbook with a grimace. “The duke’s portrait I suppose. I don’t know why he would want one of those…monstrosities.”
Monstrosities. Nora had little appreciation for the magic of Arcimboldo.
“Yes. I’m to sketch him in the greenhouse, as it happens. And my paintings are not monstrosities.”
“His Grace truly appreciates,” the words stumbled in disbelief. “Your vision?”
“I’ve said as much, Lady Allred.” Buxton appeared, charm dripping off him as he took Nora’s hand in his own “You don’t mind, do you?”
“Well, I—this is most unusual, Your Grace.”
“Oh, I disagree. I’m curious to see how Miss Bell emulates Arcimboldo.
You wouldn’t deny me such a pleasure, would you?
” He didn’t wait for Nora to answer. “I thought not.” Buxton turned Muriel’s stepmother in the opposite direction.
“Allow me to seat you outside on the terrace in a spot that will give you a clear view of the greenhouse. Entirely made of glass. A true marvel. Savorton once told me the construction cost him a fortune. You can watch Miss Bell sketch me with a glass of lemonade in your hands.”
“But—”
Buxton took her hand and placed it on his arm. “Do not concern yourself further, Lady Allred.”
Nora, much like every other woman at the house party, was no match for Buxton’s charm. “Very well, Your Grace.” She sent Muriel a pointed look. “Nothing too…horrendous. You don’t wish to offend the duke.”
“Miss Bell could never do so, my lady,” he said smoothly before Muriel could protest. “Allow me to direct you to one of the tables set up on the terrace. You’ll be pleased, I think.”
Good lord, he was really good at that. Leading about females. Disarming them. Not Muriel, of course, but the others. Nora was speechless, blushing like a schoolgirl at his attention.
Muriel marched to the greenhouse and stepped inside, breathing deeply of the orange scented air as she entered.
Buxton was right. This was the perfect place to sketch him, far better than the gardens.
Not only would they not have to worry about rain, but there was a line of orange trees and what looked like an entire box of tomatoes, the plump red orbs dripping from the plants.
Muriel stopped short, considering the tomatoes.
Perhaps for his cheeks?
Not a moment later, the air in the greenhouse shifted. Cedar and spice mixed with the scent of the oranges. Muriel stayed perfectly still at Buxton’s approach, her form vibrating with awareness.
“Where do you want me, Miss Bell?” he purred, sending a delicious quiver trailing down her spine.
“Must every word you speak be laced with innuendo, Your Grace?” Spinning about, Muriel brandished a bit of charcoal, only to be met with those startling eyes, greener than the leaves of the lemon tree to her right. There was a bit of indecency in them, which Buxton made no attempt to hide.
“Part of my charm, Miss Bell.”
“Dubious charm.” She did her best to ignore the sparks lighting against her skin and struggled to keep her heart from racing.
He was only a gentleman, much like…Epcot, for instance.
No matter how spectacular. “Just there, I think.” She pointed to a bench beneath an orange tree. “Your Grace,” she added.
“Ah, I hadn’t thought of tomatoes.” Sunlight streamed through the glass of the greenhouse, striking Buxton’s shoulders and turning the curls around his ears to burnt copper. The light dipped along the line of his jaw, highlighting the slash of cheekbones, making his gaze that much more feline.
Muriel’s pulse skipped once more. He is really quite…stunning.
“I’m considering incorporating tomatoes into your cheeks,” she replied in an authoritative manner.
A low chuckle filled the greenhouse. “Of course you are.” Amusement gleamed in the depths of his eyes, along with something else.
Goodness.
Last night, Muriel had considered why Buxton would ask for a kiss as part of the payment for helping her with Todson. The portrait, she completely understood. He found her hobby to be eccentric. Could he be…attracted to her?
Don’t be foolish.
Muriel hadn’t fallen all over him upon their first meeting. To Buxton, that in itself must have been a small blow to his ego. The only reason he might ask for a kiss? To make a point.
Yes, that was it. She nodded to herself. His arrogance wouldn’t allow for anything else.
Buxton took a seat on a nearby bench, crossed his legs, and made an exaggerated pose. “Like this, Miss Bell?” Lifting his chin, he pretended to look down on her. “Appropriately ducal?
A laugh escaped her. Buxton liked to be dramatic and possessed a flair for ridiculous behavior. Not what she would have expected from a duke, though pretending a relationship with a young lady to save her from the clutches of Todson wasn’t either.
“Perfect.” She settled across from him on a stool she’d found by the potting bench, sketchpad and charcoal in hand. “I must draw you first, Your Grace.”
“Where will the radish go?” He tapped the end of his nose. “Here?”
“Too obvious,” she informed him crisply. “You are overly concerned about radishes, Your Grace.”
Buxton shrugged. “I like them, Miss Bell. Roasted or not. Sliced. A bit of salt.”
“Stop speaking,” she instructed. “I need you to remain still.” He was already distracting enough without his witty remarks.
“You are exceptionally authoritative, Miss Bell.” His voice was like the low rumble of a waterfall, making her insides twist in a delicious way. “I find I like it.”
“Be still, Buxton.” Drat. “I mean, Your Grace.”
His eyes followed Muriel’s movements as the bit of charcoal in her grasp moved across the paper, quickly outlining Buxton’s magnificent set of shoulders and broad chest. The greenhouse went silent except for the muted sounds of the other guests outside on the lawn.
The minutes ticked by as Muriel focused on the portrait of Buxton, considering what else besides tomatoes and radishes she might use to paint him.
Olives, somewhere. Perhaps in place of the buttons on his coat.
“Why don’t you wish to marry, Miss Bell?”
She paused, rubbing at her paper. The curve of his ear wasn’t correct. “Not that it is any of your concern, Buxton—Your Grace. But it isn’t that I’m opposed to having a husband.”
“Hmm.”
“But I do not want a match purely for the sake of making one. Shouldn’t I have some say in the matter?
Find common ground with a gentleman before I am given over and the rest of my life is dictated for me?
I hope for a semblance of affection. Friendship.
I don’t think that too much to ask. Do you, Your Grace? ”
“I do not. My own parents, as it happens, adored each other, so much so that society found their excess of affection to be unfashionable. What duke should be chasing his duchess around the gardens for a kiss while the servants watched?”
Muriel’s fingers halted. “Seems entirely undignified. You’re jesting.”
“I am not. Mother would shriek and pretend Father some great beast as he caught her, so effusive in his regard, they once rolled down a hill and into a fountain. I may have been ten or so. My older sisters were horrified. That is perhaps when I decided.”
“Decided what, Your Grace?”
“That I also did not wish to wed simply out of necessity or because it was expected. I’m often reminded of my duty to title and family.
Producing the requisite heir and all that.
” Buxton sent her one of his lazy, sensual grins.
“But I wish to emulate my parents, much to the dismay of the young ladies throwing themselves at me.”
He really does resemble a cat lounging in the sun.
“No one inspires feeling in you, Your Grace?”
“Possibly. I’ll keep you informed.”
Lady Lavinia, no doubt, given how cozy the pair had looked in the drawing room before Muriel’s untimely interruption. They’d been together again this morning. Muriel felt a bit of envy for Lady Lavinia, followed by a triumphant sensation at setting their courtship back by a week.
“Don’t turn around, Miss Bell,” Buxton murmured after another quarter hour had passed. “We’ve attracted a great number of onlookers. I’m sure Savorton expected bowls to be the highlight of today.”
Muriel cautiously tilted her chin to peek over one shoulder.
The game of bowls had moved…closer to the greenhouse.
So had three young ladies engaged in a game of shuttlecock.
Nora sat perched on a chair situated only a short distance from the greenhouse, neck craned as she sipped a lemonade, Father hovering nearby.
Lady Lavinia, bow in hand, an arrow dangling from the other, stalked back and forth, features tight, eyeing the greenhouse and Muriel with no small amount of fury.
“Goodness.” Muriel returned to Buxton. “Should I be concerned that Lady Lavinia has not yet relinquished her bow?”
“You might wish to stay out of range, as she rarely misses her mark. Also, Lavinia is rather good at bowls, which hurt quite a bit if aimed at one’s foot.” A sound left him. “She aspires to be a duchess, as do Lord and Lady Fabel on her behalf.”
Just as Muriel suspected. She had interrupted their courtship. “If your…assistance is interfering with your interest in Lady Lavinia, I apologize, Your Grace. I can speak to her, if you like, and explain—”
“You are not.” Buxton’s lips lifted into a soft smile. “Her ambitions do not match my own, Miss Bell. Lavinia is akin to a beautiful, expensive vase which everyone covets. One that is admired and is certain to enhance my drawing room. But alas, I don’t care overmuch for vases.”
Muriel regarded him over her sketchpad. So, it was not Lady Lavinia who stirred Buxton. Difficult to believe since Lord Fabel’s daughter was perfect in every conceivable way. “Someone else then, in London,” she asked.
Buxton shrugged unwilling to disclose more.
“Are we finished for today, Miss Bell? I’ve been sitting here for at least three hours, and I’ve a cramp in my leg.
And I’ve promised Lavinia a walk through the gardens.
” He came to his feet, the green of his eyes fixed on Muriel.
“I am a man of my word, so I dare not disappoint.”
“Though you do not care for vases,” she said softly, that strange, wonderful sensation filling the air between them once more.
“Yes, but I can appreciate them all the same.” His chest rose as Buxton took a deep breath, smiling down at her. “Until tomorrow, Miss Bell.”