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And throughout all of this tumult, Elijah held her close. She had the sense that if Their Graces had burst through the door, Elijah would not have moved unless and until Je
“I m-miss him.”
“Victor.” Not a question.
“He could make me laugh. Even when he was dying, he could make me laugh, and he never protested when I sketched him.” She’d filled pages of the same sketchbook with images of her brother, chronicled his long, miserable battle with an enemy nobody ever defeated. Another entire notebook held Bart, always laughing and smiling.
“Victor understood you.”
Three words holding a world of insight. “He understood everybody. Victor was a charming man, but by the time he died, he was a wise man too.”
“When did he die?”
Another quiet comment, but this one reverberated through Je
When she settled against Elijah again, she felt less at the mercy of grief, and on the strength of the one simple insight. “The a
And her family would ignore it. Perhaps in the privacy of the ducal apartment, Their Graces would acknowledge the date somehow. Maybe some of the glances between her brothers would be about old loss, but in public, the past was not part of the upcoming holiday.
Elijah brushed her hair back from her face and said nothing, though his silence was comfortable, like Timothy purring right beside her.
“I want to look at those sketches,” Je
“Next week, when we’ve made more progress on Their Grace’s portraits. For now, you need sustenance.” He produced a handkerchief, which Je
“I need to compose myself.”
He withdrew his arm but remained right beside her. “No, you needed to lose your composure. I think you also need to go to Paris.”
An after-shudder hit her, though she was done with her tears. “You’re concluding that only now?”
Timothy rose and stalked across Je
“I knew you wanted to go to Paris, that you longed to be there. Now I understand that you need to go. It will be hard, Genevieve. When you’re starting out, there’s competition from every quarter, and it won’t help at all that your papa’s an English duke.”
She reached over and stroked Timothy’s sleek, dark fur. He was not purring, which struck her as odd. “I know that. Will you write me some introductions?”
He hesitated a single instant. “You won’t need them. Your talent will be your introduction, and the French have discernment, Genevieve. They can spot ability, regardless of how unconventionally it’s presented, or how unusual the artist.”
His refusal hurt, but his compliment was genuine. He had faith in her. The notion comforted wonderfully. She set aside the temptation to wheedle anyway. “I am famished. Shall we have our luncheon?”
“We shall.” He picked Timothy up and rose to set him on the mantel. The cat looked about itself, clearly not pleased with the change of location.
“He’s contrary,” Je
Elijah helped her to her feet then surprised her by pulling her into his arms. “We will look at those sketches, Genevieve. They are magnificent.”
She did not question the embrace, but rather, closed her eyes and breathed in his scent. “Next week, then. I will hold you to it.”
He surprised her yet again by kissing her. His lips on hers were warm, firm, and lovely—nothing fleeting or demanding. When he raised his head and did not step back, she tried to figure out what his kiss had been about. Respect, of course. Elijah was never disrespectful of her person.
But even more than respect, his kiss had tasted of awe, as if he were kissing a goddess come to earth. Je
“Come, my lady.” Elijah shifted to link their arms, ballroom promenade-fashion. “We will fortify ourselves. Your brothers will likely be stirring, the mistletoe is still threatening from every corner, and if I understand aright, yet more family will be arriving today.”
His smile said that amid all that mayhem and holiday nonsense, she would have an ally. She would have a quiet place to come and paint; she would have a handkerchief when she needed one.
She’d have a friend who would not risk any more folly with her, regardless of how badly she’d miss him once they parted.
The realization hurt with a whole new pain, particularly when she thought back to when he’d noticed her the previous afternoon as she’d sat quietly in her dim corner. She’d studied her brothers, with their wrists, chins, and glances, and she’d studied Elijah too.
He missed his family, missed them more deeply than he likely knew. She would go to Paris, but if there was any benevolence to the holiday season at all, Elijah would give in to a towering case of homesickness and take himself off to Flint Hall.
Fourteen
Marriages developed a language as sophisticated and subtle as any code devised by the War Office—more so, for being flexible. The better a man understood that code, the more peacefully his marriage would proceed.
Charlotte glanced up from her embroidery hoop in a ma
He did not pass her the letter, not with Prudholm lurking by the window, gilding the shine on some adolescent sulk. “Elijah? Just the usual. His commission is coming along. He’s in good health. Lady Je
“Your son is a trial to a mother’s heart, but he understands the little ones.”
From a reading chair in the corner, Pru let loose a snort that might have resembled a cough.
“Moreland’s letter is more interesting.”
Her hand paused in midair, the needle drawn as far from the fabric as it would go without snapping the thread. “His Grace wrote to you?”
“Moreland has ever been a reliable correspondent. He says Her Grace has insisted that the artists be left to their work and disturbed as little as possible, lest her present not be completed by the Christmas Eve open house.”
“I have eleven other children to look after, Flint. I am not spending my Christmas Eve in some bouncing sleigh, freezing my—” She fell silent, her French grasp of subtleties stealing the rest of her outburst. “Artists?”
“Elijah has asked for Lady Je
Flint leaned closer to the candelabrum, as if to see the words more clearly. He was in fact thwarting his wife’s impulse to snatch the letter from his hands.
Charlotte stabbed her fabric as if it were the villain in a bad farce. “Handy with a paintbrush? That is ridiculous. That is a man who does not comprehend portraiture. That is a papa who is not paying attention. If Elijah says the girl is talented, then she’s likely a genius.”
“Perhaps.”
She looked over at him, arching a Gallic eyebrow that had captivated him across many a ballroom and every one of their bedrooms. “Flint, you try my patience worse than all your sons put together. What else does His Grace say?”