Chapter 9
Muriel did not see Buxton that night at dinner.
Nor did he appear in the greenhouse the following day. After a handful of discreet inquiries, most of which took the remainder of the day, Muriel was informed Buxton had disappeared, along with Lord Savorton, to visit an old friend.
Odd, that Buxton hadn’t at least mentioned as much to her, though, she reminded herself, he was under no obligation to do so. The attachment between them wasn’t real. He has no reason to inform Muriel.
Lady Savorton gave little explanation for her husband’s sudden absence, only saying that Lord Savorton and Buxton would return in a day or two.
Speculation arose among the other guests as to who the mysterious friend might be or why their host would desert a house party at his own home.
But no one was brave enough to question Lady Savorton.
Todson didn’t hover about in Buxton’s absence, for which Muriel was grateful.
He’d been watching with the others while she’d sketched, and that had compelled him to focus his attention elsewhere.
Miss Marybeth Phipps now held his attention, yet another young lady, like Muriel, who was having a mediocre Season and whose parents wanted her to wed.
Miss Phipps didn’t seem to mind being pursued by an aging libertine.
On the second full day of Buxton’s absence, Muriel sketched out the tomatoes she meant to use for Buxton’s cheeks.
She filched a radish from the Savorton kitchens so she could get the shape correct.
Her vision of Buxton was still that of an oak, so his hair would resemble the leaves of a tree.
That evening, Muriel retired early, asking for a tray to be sent to her room.
The sketches were ready to be transferred to the canvas sitting in her room, one Buxton had begged from Lady Savorton, just as he’d said he would.
Nora and Father weren’t pleased, protesting that she couldn’t miss charades that night.
Dear God. She most certainly could. Her lack of skill at charades was legendary.
But invoking Buxton’s name—and his potential disappointment should she not be ready to work on the portrait when he returned—was enough to dissuade her parents, just as it had Todson. No one wanted to offend a duke.
This morning, Muriel meant to return to the greenhouse and begin to paint, with or without Buxton. She’d no idea when he’d reappear. Also, she had little desire to mingle with the rest of the guests.
“Muriel,” Nora stood at the door. “Are you coming down?” Her stepmother looked towards the canvas sitting in the room.
“I’m waiting on a footman to help me with the canvas, Mother Nora. I’ll be in the greenhouse today. The duke will want his portrait.”
A bright smile crossed Nora’s lips. “We are so terribly delighted, Muriel. I’m not sure…well, it is best not to question good luck, is it?”
Muriel gave her a weak smile.
Father and Nora would be so terribly disappointed when Buxton failed to offer for her.
There would have to be a sliver of time, a few weeks, during which they would eagerly anticipate he would call upon Father until Muriel would need to collapse into a fit of tears.
Claim Buxton had broken things off. The gossip would spread over London like a plague, enveloping Muriel and making her the subject of a great deal of pity.
She’d be left alone for the remainder of the Season. Hopefully.
But Nora would not be deterred forever.
“I’ll be just outside the greenhouse.” Her stepmother lifted the book in her hand, the unspoken question of when Buxton would return etched on her features.
“Wonderful.”
Nora would find another lord in need of a wife after the Buxton debacle. She wouldn’t stop until Muriel was wed.
Pity it won’t be to Buxton.
Muriel stilled at the unexpected—but not unpleasant—thought.
“I don’t wish to wed at all,” she whispered to the canvas.
Certainly not to an arrogant, mildly dramatic duke like Buxton.
Yes, she found him magnificent. And he had a strange effect on her breathing, but the very idea that the Duke of Buxton and she—especially on such short acquaintance—would suit was absurd.
He wants to kiss me.
“Merely to satisfy his ego.” Pushing aside the thought, Muriel crossed her arms. “I only hope he returns before I start on the radish.”
“Miss?” A footman, the one she’d requested, stood a few feet away.
She beckoned him forward. “Thinking out loud about the duke’s portrait.” She smiled and pointed at the canvas, covered with a cloth to protect the sketch. “Please take the canvas to the greenhouse and place it on my easel. Don’t allow anyone to look beneath the sheet.”
“No, Miss.” He hefted the canvas.
Her paints, neatly contained in her kit along with brushes, were already in the greenhouse. No reason to keep toting them about. But the canvas, while not heavy, was bulky, impossible to carry down the stairs when one was wearing skirts.
And Muriel was prone to tripping.
After the footman departed, Muriel made her way down the stairs, hoping Buxton would reappear soon. She worried Todson might turn his attention from Miss Phipps. It had absolutely nothing to do with the fact that she missed the duke.
Nodding in greeting at Lady Swindon, Muriel deftly avoided most of the other guests, including Lady Lavinia.
As soon as she entered the greenhouse and took a deep breath of orange mixing with all things growing in the dirt, she felt a great deal better.
Whipping the sheet from the canvas, Muriel took a step back to study her work.
She wasn’t happy with the shape of the tomatoes she’d used for his cheeks.
A lemon shaped ear. The olive buttons of his coat.
The leaves of his hair were perfect, though.
Muriel felt his presence, smelling of cedar with a hint of cheroot, well before he spoke.
“Doesn’t look much like a radish, Miss Bell.”
Composing her features, since it would do nothing but further his already inflated ego should he see how happy she was to see him, Muriel turned. “About time.” She paused. “Your Grace.”
Buxton’s lips twitched. “I think you missed me.” He leaned forward, close enough so that she could see the flecks of gold sparkling in all that green.
“I was concerned Todson might renew his interest,” she huffed.
“You did.” His breath danced over her cheek. “You’re blushing, Miss Bell.”
“The greenhouse is overly warm.” Muriel lifted a brush, pointing it at the canvas. “I’m ready to paint. You arrived at a most fortuitous time.”
“Aren’t you going to ask where I ran off to?”
“None of my affair,” came her flippant reply as he approached the canvas, studying her sketch with a tilt of his head.
“Leaves for my hair, which I suppose makes a great deal of sense, given you keep insisting I’m a mighty oak.”
“I don’t believe I ever said ‘mighty’, Your Grace.”
His eyes narrowed. “Wait, is that a lemon for my ear?” Buxton seemed somewhat taken aback. “I don’t mind the olives. But the radish for my nose is completely wrong.”
“It isn’t.” Muriel turned back to study the canvas. She’d spent hours on the radish. “Once I employ color and shading—”
“The shape, Miss Bell. It should look something like my nose, should it not?” He took his seat before her and tapped the end of his nose. “Somewhat?”
“Well, yes. But—”
“And it does not. Fix my radish nose, please.” Buxton’s fingers drummed on one thigh. “I insist.”
“I hardly think you are qualified to critique my drawing, Your Grace. You are not a student of Arcimboldo. And…it is hardly my fault you were not here the last few days. I had to work without a model. Draw from memory.”
“Prickly, aren’t you Miss Bell? I’ll put that down to missing me. Very well, I appreciate the inspiration to use peas as buttons for my coat. A bit small, but I suppose they’ll do.”
Muriel gritted her teeth. “Clearly, those are olives, Buxton, not peas. Green olives.” She breathed through her nose. “Your Grace.”
“Frankly, I don’t see it. But olives are more acceptable than peas. Can you imagine such tiny buttons on a gentleman’s coat? Well…” He held up a broad palm. “I suppose you could. You imagine a great many odd things, I think, Miss Bell. How is Todson, by the way?”
Peas. Was Buxton blind?
“Much the same.” A small falsehood, given Todson’s attentions had turned completely to Miss Phipps, though she didn’t want to admit as much. “Lady Savorton informed the guests that you and Lord Savorton were paying a visit to a friend. So your absence did not concern me.”
“You aren’t the only one in need of aid, Miss Bell,” Buxton’s tone was mild, though his gaze never left hers. “There are times when only a duke can…facilitate matters. But never fear, I would never abandon you to Todson.”
But Muriel had considered as much. That Buxton might simply decline to return the house party—after all, he didn’t enjoy house parties. He could have fled back to London. “I knew you would return for the portrait.”
“Among other things,” Buxton purred in that blatantly sensual way which had her insides twisting about. “Now…” He leaned back and crossed his legs. “Carry on. If I dose off, nudge me with your foot or something.”
Two hours later, Muriel paused, looking between Buxton and the canvas.
The light streaming through the windows had dimmed somewhat, which had thrown off the shading of the leaves for his hair.
Rain was coming. But if nothing else, the group of spectators peering at them would be forced inside.
Including Lady Lavinia, who had once more returned to furiously pace before the greenhouse without pretending to do so.
She’d pause every so often to glare at Muriel.
“Don’t worry,” Buxton drawled, casting a glance to Lady Lavinia. “She wouldn’t dare interrupt and risk my displeasure.”