Chapter Ten
Reluctant to call out into the hallway for a maid’s help as Mrs. Gunn had suggested, Christina was determined to take care of dressing for dinner herself.
Opening the wardrobe holding the few gowns she had brought with her, she searched for something suitable for a dinner party at Dundrennan.
As neither a personal guest nor an employee, she had not been sure what to bring.
Most of her clothing still leaned toward dark and somber, even though she had been widowed long enough that she need not choose black or shades of gray and purple. She was simply more comfortable in colors that allowed her to keep to the shadows.
Finally, she chose a silk gown in a muted plaid of gray, indigo, and a fine creamy stripe.
Its blousy bodice was trimmed with a high-necked inset of lace so fine it was translucent.
Tying black slippers on her feet, she pulled a lace-edged camisole over her corset and stays and stepped into cotton petticoats and a full but lightweight crinoline.
Smoothing the gown, she snugged a black velvet waister around her slender middle and took up a black cashmere shawl.
Her hands were trembling. Just a simple dinner party, she reminded herself, among relative strangers but for her brother.
And Sir Aedan MacBride had been unhappy with her earlier that day, so she expected some tension in him that evening.
Her feelings about him hovered somewhere between sizzling attraction and equally sizzling exasperation.
But a lady should express neither, so she would display quiet dignity.
At the mirror over the washstand, she smoothed her bronze-sheened dark hair, knotted and pinned at the nape of her neck.
Adding a black net snood and jet earbobs, she bit her lips for a little color.
Aedan had called her “Miss Burn” for her tendency to blush easily.
The very thought brought high pink into her cheeks, whether she wanted it or not.
Remembering their surprising kiss on the first night of her arrival, she felt her cheeks and throat grow even hotter.
She should have felt scandalized and insulted by his advances—but fresh, wild excitement had tingled all through her, and the very memory brought that back.
His tenderness had been unexpected and she had felt lovely and desirable again after so long without much attention.
But since then, he had been polite, even curt at times, though part of her longed for another passionate response.
Do not be daft, she told herself. Nothing he did should matter. They would never share kisses again, and besides, the man was not looking for love or courtship, subject to a curse, so she had gathered. She was not looking for anything either, she told herself firmly.
But if he had passionate intentions because she had once posed for a risqué painting, he could think again, she thought crisply.
Yanking on ivory kid gloves, she resolved not to fret over him any longer. And she should stop imagining his touch and his deep velvet voice. He was capable of kindness, but she had seen his temper too, especially regarding his infernal road.
Truly, if she was hoping to have a man in her life again, she should not anticipate any attachment from Dundrennan.
She shook her head at the thought. A spinsterish, scholarly life had brought a sense of safety.
If she wanted to change that status, she could marry Edgar Neaves, who offered only intellectual passion. That suited her fine.
Her tempestuous marriage to Stephen Blackburn had been a heartbreaking folly. Never again would she mistake hot passion for deep love.
She swept in silk plaid skirts toward the door.
*
“Mrs. Blackburn.” Dougal Stewart smiled as he bowed over her hand. “It is nice to see you again. You look lovely tonight.”
“Thank you, Mr. Stewart.” She smiled, her voice slightly hoarse.
Hearing that, Aedan tilted his head, wondering if she had acquired a head cold.
And well she might catch cold, he thought sourly, in that thin film of a bodice.
She was so damn fetching. Even Dougal, happily wed, was flirting a bit.
What man could help it, Aedan wondered, near so beguiling a young woman?
Subtle feminine allure emanated from Mrs. Blackburn in veritable waves, but she seemed ignorant of her effect on men, including him. A siren, but an innocent one. Her appeal was guileless and genuine.
Then she looked at him, and he glanced away, straightening his shoulders, keeping his expression neutral.
“Aedan, you must agree.” Dougal glanced at him. “Mrs. Blackburn looks a picture.”
Unfortunate choice of words. “Aye,” Aedan said casually, and saw her fierce blush.
“He’s a surly lad,” Dougal told her. “Scarcely notices a bonny lass in a pretty gown.”
Oh, he had noticed. From the moment she had entered the room, skirts floating, mahogany hair knotted at the curve of her nape, he had watched her discreetly.
He had noticed how the sheer upper curve of her bodice veiled creamy skin, graceful shoulders, and tantalizing breasts swelling above a lacy undergarment.
He had noticed her trim waist, snug in black velvet, imagining his fingers spanning there.
He would have imagined more, but he forced himself to look away, only to look back again.
Usually he did not pay much attention to gowns and such, noticing a color, appreciating the curves of bosom, waist, hips, and noticing the face, an expression, a light in the eyes.
He had barely noticed that Amy wore pale blue that night, that Meg was in green, and Amy’s sister Sarah was dressed in a flowery creation that swallowed her whole, poor girl.
Lady Balmossie, of course, wore her preferred black.
But here was Christina Blackburn clothed in the colors of twilight, indigo and gray and black with touches of cream like starshine. Somehow, she was prim and seductive all at once, fresh and alluring as a starlit evening. He craved her like he did sustenance.
Clearing his throat, he looked around, hoping MacGregor was ready to announce the meal. Then he smiled in response to whatever John Blackburn had just said to him.
“Er, aye.” He hoped that applied to the remark.
“And I want to thank you again for inviting me to work on the mural, sir,” John went on. “Miss Stewart showed me the painting. It would have been a grand thing. A pity the fellow could not finish.”
“He began after talks with my father, painted some, but died quite suddenly. Very sad, of course. Please feel free to decide if you want to complete his design or start over.”
“I’d like to incorporate his work with my own ideas. I’ve made some sketches.”
“We do not want to rush you, sir. I’m grateful that you happened to come here. We despaired of finding an artist to finish the mural. I am especially thankful that you are so talented.” He indicated a framed painting by John that his father had acquired years ago.
“Thank you, sir. I would like to take a closer look at that painting. I haven’t seen it for a long while.” He strolled with Aedan across the room, nearing Christina, who stood chatting with the Stewart sisters and Lady Strathlin.
“Chrissy, come see my Isabella,” John told her as they passed.
She excused herself to glide between the men, her wide skirt swaying, her gloved hands riding on the swell. Aedan repeatedly glanced down at her.
What the devil was happening to him? First secretly smitten by the painted image of a girl, he had been smitten a thousand times more by the model herself. Schooling his expression, he stood with the Blackburns to study John’s gilt-framed painting.
Jewel colors caught the firelight’s glow in the room, illuminating a knight in armor kneeling before a young woman who stood over him, her long blonde hair shining. In uplifted hands, she held a gleaming gold crown over his head. A halo of light suffused them with mythic ambience.
“Robert Bruce Crowned by Isabella of Buchan,” Aedan said, reading the brass tag on the frame. “My father particularly loved this one, Mr. Blackburn. I understand you trained in the Pre-Raphaelite circle for a time. Any work of art out of that group has rising value.”
“I stayed in London for a time after I left university,” John said. “I studied first with Mr. Rossetti, then with Mr. Millais, and began to form my own style. I had trained originally with my father.”
“Our papa is best known for history paintings in the grand style,” Christina told Aedan. “John leans toward historical and mythological subjects, but I think his pictures have less overblown pageantry in favor of a quiet emotionalism that is almost palpable.”
“Indeed,” Aedan murmured in agreement. He looked up as Rob Campbell, his engineering assistant, came to join them.
“What an excellent piece, Mr. Blackburn. May I ask if the female figure is intended to resemble your lovely sister? Or is that my imagination?”
Christina stilled, and Aedan sensed her tension. He too had noticed the resemblance and had wondered about it.
“Christina did model for Isabella,” John said.
“A wonderful likeness, Mrs. Blackburn. Aside from the hair color, you are quite recognizable. It is a testament to your brother’s skill and your own loveliness.”
She had gone pale, Aedan noticed, rather than blushing with the compliment.
“Thank you,” she said. “But it was years ago, Mr. Campbell.”
“My sister has classic features that any artist would love to paint. She modeled for my father too. But I kept her away from Rossetti and that lot. She sat for her late husband as well.”
“He was a painter too?” Rob asked.
Again Aedan noticed how passionately she colored at the question. “Aye, an artist as well. A distant cousin. I often sat for him. It gave me an excuse to do nothing but daydream.” She laughed softly, shrugged a little.