Chapter 18 #2
Eustacia wondered how to put him at ease and smiled inwardly as she realised a minor battle of wills was likely her best option. Besides which, he looked like he’d not eaten a proper meal in months.
“Mmm, that’s better. Tea is all well and good, but sometimes coffee is the only answer.
Now, you will eat some cake. Mrs Wainwright makes a splendid fruitcake.
Truly it is a thing of beauty. Arias ought to be written to Mrs Wainwright’s fruitcake, it’s that good,” she said, eyeing him speculatively to see how he reacted to such bullying.
“No, thank you,” he said, the words stiff.
Eustacia held his gaze, which was a deal harder than she liked to admit.
Keeping her voice firm, but with a teasing lilt to take the sting out, she issued her command.
“Forgive me, Colonel, you seemed to think that was a question. I said that you will eat some cake. I presume a man of your ilk is used to taking orders? Well, this studio is my domain, and I rule here.” She cut an enormous slab of cake and handed it to him.
He glared at her, at the cake, and back at her again.
Eustacia steeled her spine, refusing to look away from his incinerating gaze. Just take the cake, you stubborn man, she begged in silent appeal.
“Are you always this bossy?” he demanded curtly, taking the plate from her with a scowl.
Eustacia returned a sweet smile before cutting a slice for herself. “Don’t be silly. Of course not. Usually, I’m far worse.”
He snorted at that which she considered a victory of sorts, and they ate in silence for a few moments.
Eustacia studied him, wondering if she ought to moderate her usual blunt manner of speaking, and immediately deciding against it.
Either he could stand being in her company, or he could not.
If he wanted her skills, he’d simply have to deal with her.
“What is the nature of your injury?”
His jaw clenched, and he set down his plate with a clatter.
Eustacia eyed it, pleased to note that it was empty.
She leaned forward and silently cut another slice, filling his plate once more.
“I do not ask because of a ghoulish desire to hear the frightful details, but because you will need to sit for long periods of time. If you need to support an injured leg or arm, then it would be better that we choose a pose that accommodates the injury. I will not endure a fidgety model.”
She handed him back his plate.
His eyes narrowed and the urge to avert her gaze was nigh on irresistible but somehow, she managed it and he took the plate with a tsk of impatience.
“A musket ball. It damaged my lungs. Sitting is not a problem. I’ve been sitting on my arse for months, which is why moving is rather more difficult.”
She nodded her understanding. “You’ll need to build up your stamina. But building it up does not mean galloping leagues before you can walk a mile, you know. It’s supposed to be done in stages.”
He glowered at her. “So, I’m told,” he remarked before breaking off a piece of cake and chewing. Good lord, he even chewed like he was angry.
“Well, I will have Mrs Wainright’s son hitch up the gig, and he will give you a lift down the hill.” She held up her hand, forestalling any argument. “It is either that or allow me to accompany you. Your choice.”
His jaw tightened, but he did not refuse the offer of a lift, which was something.
Her gaze travelled over him, noting the immaculate cut of his suit, the fine tailoring, and that it all looked a little on the large side.
He’d lost a considerable amount of weight, along with his strength.
No wonder he bristled so. For such a virile, vigorous man, the limitations his injury imposed upon him must chafe badly.
“Well, now that the portrait of Miss Halfpenny is done, I am willing to begin yours, if you wish to give me the commission. I should warn you against delay, however. Once her portrait becomes public, I expect to be exceptionally busy.”
His mouth, which seemed always to be held in a rigid line, quirked a little at this observation.
“You are very sure of yourself, Miss Foxworthy.”
Eustacia shrugged. “False modesty is pointless. I’m likely one of the best painters in the country.
Certainly, I’m the most honest. That will limit my clientele and my success, for I shall flatter no one, and there are plenty who will not like me for it.
But if you truly want to show the world the man you are, not the gilded image that the newspapers delight in prating about, well, then I am the one you want. ”
His gaze was piercing, and Eustacia wondered what he saw when he looked at her.
Certainly, he gave nothing away. She meant what she’d said about false modesty and was used to the impact her beauty had on men, and yet Colonel Hamilton seemed indifferent to her, treating her with no more or less attention that he would a maid or a duchess.
“Yes. I rather think you are. Very well, madam. When shall we begin?”
“It is Miss Foxworthy, as I am very sure you are aware,” she said crossly.
He got to his feet, tugging at his jacket to ensure the impeccable line was correct. “Then you ought not be taking tea alone with me,” he said, his tone nicely judged to make her want to hit him.
“You know, you are the most provoking man,” she said, suddenly all out of patience with him.
He grinned then, and all the breath left her in a swift whoosh as the impact of that smile, full of wickedness and charm, hit her full force. She thought perhaps it was simply that it was unexpected, but his words only deepened the blow.
“Why, Miss Foxworthy, you say the nicest things.”
The Mermaid, Little Valentine, East Sussex, 21st September 1816
Cilly woke just as the first tentative glimmer of light pierced the curtains.
Disorientated, she blinked, raising her head and belatedly noticing how very warm and snug she was.
A heavy arm that did not belong to her was slung across her waist, one hand settled possessively over her breast, and it made her heart sing.
Damian slept close behind her, the warmth of his body enveloping hers, the soft sound of his steady breathing in her ear.
He had stayed.
Morning was breaking, and he had stayed. It felt like a victory of stunning proportions.
Sleepy and quietly elated, Cilly closed her eyes and allowed sleep to take her under again.
The next time she woke, she was alone in the bed, but upon glancing around she saw Damian standing before the looking glass, tying his cravat with deft movements.
“I thought Finch took care of such things for you?” she said, her voice still heavy with sleep.
“He does, and guards the privilege most jealously, I assure you. But I deferred his help this morning. I preferred to stay and watch you sleep. You make the most endearing little snuffling sounds,” he remarked idly, meeting her eyes in the mirror.
Cilly scowled. “I certainly do not.”
He chuckled but said no more, concentrating on his cravat until a knock at the door sounded. Damian, who seemed to be expecting it, went into the next room, and Cilly heard the murmur of voices.
A short while later, Damian returned. “My lady’s meal awaits, if you wish to break your fast?”
“Heavens, yes. I’m famished!” Cilly exclaimed, moving to slip from the bed before realising she had no clothes on. She bit her lip, aware Damian was watching her, then got to her feet, allowing the covers to fall away.
Head high, she walked to the wardrobe and found the beautiful silk dressing gown he had bought for her.
She slipped into it, all the while aware of the heat of his gaze.
Tying the sash, she turned to look at him, her cheeks a little pink but otherwise she felt rather daring and sophisticated, now she was a married woman.
Damian approached her and reached for her hand. “What a lovely creature you are, wife of mine.” His gaze upon her was warm and appreciative as he took her hand and raised it to his lips. “Are you well, Celia?”
She smiled up at him, feeling like a besotted fool as her gloriously handsome husband gazed down at her.
“I am perfectly splendid,” she said, aware she sounded a little breathless.
He smiled at that. “You’ll get no argument here, my love. Now, food. There is chocolat chaud, so you had better drink it before it gets cold.”
“Aren’t you joining me?” she asked, a little disappointed.
“I rarely eat in the morning, but with your permission, I will arrange a carriage for us. I thought we might visit the house I spoke of.”
Celia grasped his arm, delighted at the prospect. “Oh, Damian, yes, please. I should like that very much. I’m dying to see it.”
“Then go eat, I’ll be back soon.”
He settled her at the table, which was laden with fresh bread, butter, jam, and a variety of cakes and pastries.
“Good heavens! I can’t eat all this. I’ll be the size of a house!”
“Ah, but you must keep your strength up, love,” he said, winking at her and bending to kiss the top of her head. “I’ll be back soon.”
Celia nodded, watching him go with a happy sigh before turning and reaching for a pastry.
Damian walked out of the hotel, looking around him curiously.
Everything appeared the same as usual. The shops were in the same places, the sea a constant rushing sound in the background.
Overhead, seagulls shrieked, and the sun tried its utmost to peer around the thick curtain of tumbling clouds that filled the sky.
All was just as before, and yet it seemed fundamentally different, as if the very fabric of the world around him had changed in some vital way he could not see or touch but of which he was viscerally aware.
Everything seemed just a little brighter, just a little better than before.
“Good morning, Lord Rivington. Congratulations to you on your marriage.”