A Misguided Devotion (The Merry Romances #4)

1. Chapter 1

William Merry peeked around the corner into the hallway.

He recoiled at the sight. Lady Louisa was waiting for him.

Again. There was nothing for it. He would have to sneak down the servants’ stairs.

It was regrettable it had come to this, but he refused to lose another day’s painting because of his cousin’s unwelcome attentions.

Clasping his easel, the satchel containing his paints over his shoulder, William slipped out the back door into the garden.

He shuddered with relief. He would never have agreed to attend this wretched family house party if his father hadn’t requested it.

Not even that would have swayed him if he had not needed his father’s blessing on his plans for the future.

“My, oh my. We are being secretive this morning,” said a female voice behind him.

William didn’t flinch at his twin sister’s words and continued striding down the garden until he was out of sight of the house.

“You’re one to talk, Charlotte,” he said, setting up his easel facing a bench, which stood under the shade of a majestic old oak tree.

“You’d have retired to your bedroom indisposed for a week if a gentleman were trying to force his attentions on you with a fraction of the persistence with which our darling cousin Louisa is pursuing me. ”

His sister ignored the jibe. “I am aware she’s being rather troublesome, but you could be more sympathetic.

Her father is seriously ill, and no one knows if he will recover.

She needs a diversion. I know I would if my father were so unwell.

Why don’t you offer to paint her? That would distract her from her worries whilst keeping her at arm’s length.

She is quite pretty. Perhaps she could be your muse. ”

“Don’t be ridiculous! Her nose is too small, her chin too pointy, and her straw-coloured hair too ordinary to have any real claims to beauty.

” Even if he had found her attractive, he was too intent on self-preservation to give his cousin the slightest encouragement, however sorry Charlotte was for her.

Louisa already clung to his arm at every opportunity, her overfull red lips creeping alarmingly close to his whenever he dropped his guard. He had no more desire to capture her likeness on canvas than he had to be caught by her wiles.

“I need a muse who is more than just pretty if I’m to impress the powers that be at the Royal Academy.”

Charlotte narrowed her eyes and glared at him. “Is that how you judge every female of your acquaintance? On whether she is a beautiful enough subject for your art?”

“I can’t help it. I’ve been gifted with an artist’s eye.”

“Then I pity the lady you marry.”

Was she serious? “Why on earth would you do that? Louisa is not the only woman who would jump at the chance to be my wife, and if they got that opportunity, I’m sure none of them would appreciate your sympathy.” He fluttered his eyelashes. “Don’t you think I would make a dashing husband?”

Charlotte batted him with her arm. “Stop preening! Your looks are not in question. What woman wouldn’t want to be married to a six-foot tall man with white-blond hair and a smile that could launch as many ships as Helen of Troy?

It’s too bad that you are so aware of your own attractions.

One day, you’ll meet a lady who doesn’t succumb to your charm.

You had better pray you don’t lose your heart to her. ”

William puffed out his chest. “Never fear—I can charm anyone.”

“We’ll see. I hope, for both your sakes, that she isn’t too pretty.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You don’t understand, do you? If you value physical appearance above all else, how will you cope when your wife becomes old and wrinkled? Or if she gets ill and loses her bloom. Will your love evaporate with her beauty?”

William’s mouth opened, but no words came out. Did Charlotte really think him so shallow?

“That is, of course, if you ever find anyone who fits the bill to start with, which seems doubtful, as you never seem satisfied with anything you paint. What happened to the portrait you were working on in London? Don’t tell me—it wasn’t good enough.”

He undid his satchel and concentrated on setting up his paints. “Then I won’t tell you.”

“What was wrong with the painting this time? Was your client displeased?”

“Oh no. Lord Carrowbeg was delighted with the picture, but I felt it was lacking.”

“At this rate, you’ll never submit your work to the Royal Academy.”

William dismissed her words with his hand. “I’ll get there. I simply need more time. When I find the right muse, it will happen. I’m seeking that extra something, and it will be worth waiting for. Something to make my audience gasp, not just tell me it’s good. I can paint that well any day—”

“Ugh! You’ve become so puffed up with your own merit that I’m surprised you don’t fly away like a balloon. It’s not as if you gained your talent through your own efforts. It is a God-given gift, and you should not treat it so lightly.”

The accusation rankled. “Give me some credit. I’ve worked hard at my art, watching masters paint and asking lots of questions. And practising. A lot.”

“I appreciate that. I’m the same with my music. If I didn’t spend so many hours playing the pianoforte, my performance would suffer. We cannot control how much natural ability we’re born with, only what we do with it.”

“Exactly. To make the most of my talent, I need to study at the Royal Academy. If they are ever going to take me seriously, the piece I submit to next year’s exhibition must be breathtaking.

What I require is a muse, not a wife. Romney painted Emma Hart numerous times before she married Sir William Hamilton.

If I could find someone to fulfil the same role for me, I am confident I could achieve what I am looking for. ”

Charlotte’s mouth pinched at his words. “I trust your muse will be more respectable than his.”

William spied a blond-haired little boy coming through the gap in the hedge, toddling toward him as fast as he could. “I guarantee it—and here he comes.”

The child wrapped his chubby arms around his uncle’s legs, and William swept him into his embrace and swung him in a circle, eliciting squeals of laughter.

“Henry!” Eliza exclaimed as she caught up with her son. Panting, William’s older sister laid a hand on her swollen belly and sank onto the bench. “I wish you wouldn’t run away from your mama like that. If only I weren’t carrying all this weight, I could catch you in a trice.”

Charlotte hurried to her side and was still fussing over her when Eliza’s husband, Lord Beaumont, joined them.

Henry immediately burst into tears and pulled away from William, extending his arms toward his father. “Dada!”

“Come here, you little rascal,” said Beau, plucking the child from his uncle’s hold and rubbing noses with him until his weeping stopped.

It was an endearing sight that touched a chord inside William.

Who would have thought that a confirmed bachelor like Beau would turn into such a doting father?

He pictured himself in that role one day—but not yet.

He was in no hurry to gain such responsibility, and he desired the freedom to paint all the prettiest ladies without having to worry about making his wife jealous.

“Now that I have you all here, perhaps we can make a start on that family portrait you wanted,” he said.

Eliza huffed. “That’s the urgent need for our presence?”

William threw her a beseeching look. “It is urgent. Time is running out if I’m to paint your family before your confinement.”

His sister shook her head. “I’m sorry to disappoint you, Will, but I’m not up to it today. I got little sleep. The baby wouldn’t stop tossing and turning all night.”

“Nonsense. It’s the ideal occasion to work on the portrait.

It gives you the perfect excuse to do nothing but sit with your delightful offspring on your lap and your husband at your side.

I won’t paint your face this morning if you’re afraid you look haggard, though I would say you’re blooming.

No doubt Beau would not think you anything less than beautiful. Isn’t that right?”

William raised his brow at his brother-in-law as if daring him to contradict him.

“If Eliza says she’s too tired and uncomfortable—”

Trust Beau not to be able to see beyond his wife’s excuses.

What was a little discomfort compared with the satisfaction of the family portrait they would gain?

All his sister required was some gentle persuasion.

“Having you at her side is just what she needs to distract her from her aches and pains and—”

“Oh, you can tell how it will be, Beau,” Eliza said.

“My wretched brother won’t give us any peace until he’s started painting.

We might as well submit at once. I will not object to your spending the day with me, provided I’m allowed plenty of breaks to stretch my legs.

The sessions will have to be kept short for Henry’s sake. He won’t sit still for long.”

Beau took Charlotte’s place at Eliza’s side and placed Henry on his knee before stealing a kiss from his wife. “Are you sure you want to do this? I won’t let your brother plague you if you’d rather not.”

“I’m not plaguing her,” said William, “but this might be our only opportunity—”

Eliza snuggled up against her husband. “Just get on with it!”

That was all the encouragement he needed. He picked up his paintbrush and set to work, whilst Beau made animal noises to amuse his son.

“How was Grandmama?” Eliza asked.

The question nudged at William’s conscience, but the careless tone of his reply gave no hint of it. “How should I know? I haven’t seen her in ages.”

“I thought you were going to visit her before you came here.”

Another jab at his conscience. “I ran out of time.”

“Did you inform her you were delayed?”

Since when had Eliza taken it upon herself to hold him to account? She had been far less interfering before her marriage. “No, but Grandmama knows what I’m like. She never expects me until I turn up.”