Chapter 5 #2
For a long moment he simply glowered at her, but it was no good. Laughter tickled the back of his throat, the corners of his lips seemed determined to turn upwards, and the temptation to join in was more than he could endure.
“It could be worse,” he said, his voice cool and dignified. “I have a cousin who is Lord Tiddlethorpe.”
He waited a moment to gauge her reaction and then grinned.
Celia dissolved.
“Goodbye, my dears, goodbye!” Bertram, Reverend Honeywell, waved the young couple off and turned to go inside, still chuckling to himself.
“What on earth was all that caterwauling about?”
Bertram turned to look at Mrs Adie as she came out of the dining room. He grinned.
“Young people newly betrothed can have rather an excess of emotion. It shows itself in different ways, but I confess, laughter is my favourite. Ah, such a lovely couple they are.”
Mrs Adie lifted an eyebrow, her expression dubious.
“Oh, aye? I thought it was that wicked Lord Rivington, and I heard how he ruined the poor girl.”
Bertie sent the lady a gently reproving look that made her colour rise.
“Rivington is an interesting fellow. One who's been dealt a tough hand, but Lady Cecilia is more than a match for him, I suspect. Indeed, I believe she is exactly what he needs. She likely knows it too, which is why she chose him, but it won’t be easy for her, poor child. I see rough water ahead, but I believe with a little luck, they may reach the shore safe and sound.”
Mrs Adie shook her head indulgently. “You see the good in everyone, that’s your trouble. Some folk just don’t want to be saved. That fellow looks like trouble to me. He’s certainly at the centre of some scandal or other each time one looks in the papers.”
“Sometimes, a little trouble is just what a person needs to discover their own potential. If one is never challenged, one cannot rise to meet it,” he said with a wink, before returning to his study and discovering to his delight that it was the perfect moment for a little aperitif.
The Heights, Little Valentine, East Sussex, 7th September 1816
“It was decent of you to lend me a mount,” Marcus said, as they rode up the steep hill to Seagull Heights.
“Well, I wasn’t going to trudge up this bloody hill,” Hawkney remarked.
“And you suspected the climb might kill me,” Marcus added dryly.
Hawkney winced. He could not deny he’d wished to save his friend from the arduous climb but hoped it hadn’t been too obvious.
Not long ago Marcus would have left him and Sherry in the dust. There was nothing Marcus could not climb, no distance he could not cover.
His incapacity must be driving him distracted.
Deciding it was safer neither to confirm nor deny, Hawkney held his tongue.
“Won’t she be thrown into confusion, having a duke arrive on her doorstep without a by your leave?”
Hawkney glanced at Marcus and shrugged. “I don’t think so. She’s rather a self-possessed young woman, from what I’ve seen of her. Rather unconventional.”
Marcus’ lip curled. “Oh, God, Hawk. I’ve changed my mind. You never said—”
“Don’t be ridiculous. We’re almost there. What did you expect an artist to be like, anyway?” Hawkney demanded impatiently.
“Very well, but if she spouts poetry or talks about spiritualism, I’m leaving.”
“Fair,” Hawkney agreed.
Finally, the house came into sight. A tall, narrow villa perched on the hillside and secluded amongst mature trees, it was blessed with stunning views out across the sea.
Though modest compared to the great houses of the district, it was elegant and possessed an undeniable charm.
Roses and vines clambered up its pale honey-coloured facade, the edges of which had been softened by age and exposure to the harsh coastal winds.
The steep slate roof and twin chimneys gave it an air of solidity, however, as if it remained certain of its place and knew no storm could dislodge it.
“Charming,” Marcus observed.
Hawkney nodded and dismounted, leading his horse around the back of the house. Though there were stables, they were obviously unused, so Hawkney drew water from the well and filled the trough for their mounts before they made their way to the front door.
The knock echoed, and Marcus sent him a hopeful glance. “Perhaps there’s nobody—”
His words were cut off as the door opened and a woman appeared.
Hawkney took off his hat and smiled. Miss Eustacia Foxworthy was a stunning woman with startling blue eyes, a wide, mobile mouth, and a lush figure.
She also possessed an extraordinary amount of curling mahogany hair, which was currently rioting, barely tamed around her head.
Wearing a deep green silk morning gown, trimmed with black lace that highlighted every lavish curve, she presented a startling picture.
Hawkney slanted a look at his companion to see Marcus wearing a barely concealed expression of shock.
Well, he had warned the fellow she was a tad unconventional.
Miss Foxworthy looked from Hawkney to his companion and back again.
“Are you planning to burn me at the stake?” she asked conversationally.
Hawkney, never normally at a loss, still took a moment to catch on.
He laughed. “I beg your pardon. No, I apologise if we present a rather sombre picture. It is not precisely a social call, but there will be no burning, I assure you. It is more serendipity, in fact, for my friend here, Lieutenant Colonel Hamilton, has been asked to have his portrait painted by the Duke of Wellington. Miss Halfpenny told me about the wonderful portrait you have produced of her… and so, here we are.”
Miss Foxworthy folded her arms, looking increasingly doubtful. “The Duke of Wellington?”
Marcus, who had been ominously silent until now, chose this moment to wake up. “Yes, you may have heard of him. Fellow with a big nose and a big hat.”
Hawkney would have sent his friend one of his most withering stares, only Marcus was not looking in his direction and, as it happened, Miss Foxworthy did a fine line in withering stares herself.
“You don’t say,” she replied, green eyes flashing.
Hawkney cleared his throat, seeing his chance to view the portrait slipping through his fingers. “Yes. It’s for a series of portraits entitled Heroes of Waterloo.”
He could feel Marcus’ irritation bubble up around him, but he kept his attention on Miss Foxworthy, whose expression had softened a degree.
“I see,” she said. “Well, surely Thomas Lawrence or Raeburn—”
“Marcus does not wish for a society portrait painter.”
“I have a tongue,” Marcus muttered, scowling at him.
“Yes, but so far you’ve only stuck it out,” Hawkney replied, sotto voce.
Marcus snorted but apparently conceded the point.
“You want something different?” Miss Foxworthy guessed, addressing the question to Marcus.
He met her eyes and Hawkney sensed his discomfort, the temptation to give a cutting reply battling the desire to tell her what he needed. There was a tense silence.
“I’m not a bloody hero. I’m just a soldier who did his duty. I don’t want some rose-tinted version of me,” he said gruffly.
“Just as well. I don’t do rose-tinted,” Miss Foxworthy replied, swinging the door open. “You’d better come in.”
They followed her along the corridor and up a flight of stairs. The sharp scent of polish mingled with the tantalising aroma of something sweet baking, both of which were quickly extinguished by the overpowering smell of oil paint and linseed oil.
“Sebastian, we have company,” she said as she strode into a room which could only be her studio.
All Hawkney saw at first were a large pair of feet propped up on the end of a rather battered settee. For a moment he feared they had interrupted a tender interlude with a lover, but he was soon disabused of this notion. She pushed them to the floor and there was a heavy thud, followed by a curse.
“Damn it, Stacy—”
“Sebastian, His Grace the Duke of Hawkney, and Lieutenant Colonel Hamilton. Gentlemen, forgive my brother. He had rather a late night.”
The fellow hurriedly stood, indeed looking a trifle hungover.
He wore breeches and boots and a shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows, but no waistcoat or coat.
Hawkney would not have needed the confirmation of their relationship if she’d withheld it, for they were obviously close kin.
His hair was as wild as his sister’s, though a dark blond instead of brown, and his eyes the same startling blue.
He was a handsome fellow, with the brooding looks of a poet.
Oh God, don’t start reciting, Hawkney thought irritably.
They were so close to viewing the portrait.
Still, the fellow executed a creditable bow. “Your Grace, Colonel Hamilton, forgive me, we were not expecting visitors.”
Hawkney waved this away. “No apology necessary, it’s entirely our fault for arriving unannounced, but your sister was good enough to indulge us.”
“Forgive me,” Mr Foxworthy said hesitantly, eyeing Marcus, “but are you the Hamilton, of Hollow Road fame?”
Hawkney felt rather than saw Marcus brace himself and hastened to intervene before he could say something offensive. “He is indeed, but being a retiring fellow, he’d rather stick pins in his eyes than speak of it.”
“Ah.” To his credit, the fellow nodded his understanding and did not pursue the subject.
“The colonel wants his portrait painted,” Miss Foxworthy explained.