Six
The Earl of Westhaven steered his horse around a frozen mud puddle, while the Duke of Moreland’s bay gelding splashed right through, indifferent to the breaking ice or cold, muddy water. Westhaven, like his horse, was more of a Town fellow, while the duke longed for the countryside.
“Her Grace is growing restless, sir. I trust you are aware of this?”
Meddling adult children were a loving father’s cross to bear. The duke glanced over at the handsome fellow who was his son and heir. “How is your wife, Westhaven?”
Westhaven rode bareheaded, so His Grace could see his son’s expression take on the sweet, distracted air of a man contemplating the woman about whom he was head over ears. “Anna thrives. She is completely over the birth of our second son, and completely in love with the boy. He’s a quiet little fellow, but sturdy and very alert. Anna says he takes after me.”
“She’s in good health then?”
“As good health as a woman can be when she’s the sole sustenance of a growing boy. It helps that this is not our first. We’re no longer raw recruits to the ranks of parenting.”
With two children still in dresses, Westhaven could wax parental, as if he’d invented the occupation himself upon the birth of his firstborn.
“How many siblings do you have, Westhaven?”
“Seven extant, two deceased, an increasing variety of siblings by marriage. What has this to do with my mother’s discontent, Your Grace?”
Westhaven was a plodder, not given to leaps of intuition but incapable of missing a detail or failing to notice a pattern. When he took his seat in Parliament, England would be the better for it.
Though as a son, he could try the patience of a far more saintly papa than His Grace.
“I have raised ten children with Her Grace and been privileged to partner her in holy matrimony for more than three decades. Do you think I wouldn’t know if the woman were growing restless?”
Westhaven’s lips quirked up in a smile his lady likely found irresistible. As a young husband, His Grace had possessed such a smile, though ten children had rather dimmed its efficacy with their mother.
“I suppose not, sir. I could escort her to Morelands, if that would help.”
“You will do no such thing, Westhaven, nor will you intimate to my duchess that you’ll spirit her away from my side. You will caution your brothers and brothers-in-law not to make any such offer either.”
A rabbit nibbling on a patch of brown winter grass looked up as the horses ambled along the path. Nose twitching, the little beast seemed to weigh the pleasures of filling its belly against the danger of remaining in sight of humans. It snatched another few bites then loped away.
“I confess myself puzzled, Your Grace. You are usually Mama’s slave in all things, and the entire family is to gather at Morelands for the holidays. I don’t know why you’d deny her the pleasure of preparing for our arrival, when she’s so anxious to quit Town and return to Morelands.”
His Grace was not above dissembling when it came to his family, though he’d learned that dissembling was a fraught undertaking where his duchess was concerned. So with his firstborn, he dissembled only a little.
“I haven’t found Her Grace’s Christmas present yet.”
Westhaven’s expression softened. “Your Christmas presents put the rest of us fellows in the shade, you know. Anna won’t even hint what I might give her. If His Grace can come up with such inspired gifts, then surely a small token shouldn’t be beyond me?”
Balderdash. Anna, Countess of Westhaven, was likely already hinting about a little sister for her pair of boys.
“Each year, it becomes more difficult to find something original, something unique. The challenge is to think of a gift your mother hasn’t even admitted to herself she longs for.”
Though she longed to have her family gathered together for the holidays. His Grace could be stone-blind and still see that.
“So you’ll tarry in Town until inspiration strikes?”
“If I must.” And because Westhaven would be Moreland someday, His Grace went on in the most casual of tones. “I don’t think Jenny minds keeping Sophie company while your mother and I are in Town, particularly not when Harrison also bides at Sidling, doing portraits of the little ones.”
Westhaven brought his horse to a halt at a fork in the bridle path. “Harrison? Elijah Harrison? The painter?”
His Grace’s bay came to a halt as well. “Harrison is Flint’s oldest boy, though he’s likely close to your age by now. Fancies himself a portraitist, and when old Rothgreb was grumbling about children growing up too soon, I might have mentioned Harrison to him.”
“Elijah Harrison served as Kesmore’s second at last year’s duel,” Westhaven said. He stroked a hand over his horse’s crest. Westhaven had inherited shrewdness from both sire and dam lines, so His Grace said no more but let his son ponder the puzzle pieces. “Seemed a decent sort. There’s been no gossip about the duel, in any case.”
“I wouldn’t know anything about that, just as I have no idea what I’ll get your mother for Christmas, though I’m scouring the shops until something comes to mind. I trust you’ll pass along any worthy ideas?”
“Of course.” Westhaven looked like he might have a question brewing in his handsome head.
His Grace lifted a hand in parting accordingly. “My regards to your family, Westhaven, and I’ll look forward to seeing you out at Morelands ere long.”
Westhaven saluted with his riding crop and trotted off in the direction of that wife and family, while His Grace considered whether and how best to explain this latest parental gambit to his dear wife. Perhaps she’d have some idea how long two artists might be thrust into each other’s company before the creative passions took over.
Reading Reynolds’s Discourses was getting Elijah nowhere. The grand old style of portraiture—an approach that flattered subjects, carefully posed them, and surrounded them with heroic symbols of great deeds—was fading.
Children had no heroic deeds, in any case. They had sticky fingers, silky curls, and a particular scent, of soap and innocence, that Elijah had forgotten.
The door to Elijah’s sitting room creaked open. His first thought was that a footman, presuming the occupant to be abed, had come to douse the lights and bank the fire.
His second thought… evaporated from his mind when he saw Genevieve Windham standing inside his door in her nightgown and robe, a sketchbook clutched in her hand.
“I want to do you in oils,” she said, advancing into the room. “I will content myself with some sketches first. I trust you can remain awake for another hour.”
“Awake will not be a problem.” Sane, however, became questionable. “Genevieve, you cannot remain in my rooms with me unchaperoned when the rest of the house is abed.”
She flipped a fat golden braid over her shoulder. “I was unchaperoned with you at breakfast; I was unchaperoned with you in your studio before the boys arrived. I was unchaperoned with you in the library when the children went for their nap after luncheon. How did you expect to pose for me, Mr. Harrison, if not privately?”
“You are—we are—not properly clothed.”
Her gaze ran over him assessingly, as dispassionately as if this Mr. Harrison fellow were some minor foreign diplomat with little English.
“Had I been accosted in the corridor by my sister, Sophie would have taken greater notice were I not in nightclothes. Besides”—a pink wash rose over her cheeks—“I have seen you without a single stitch and memorialized the sight by the hour with pen, pencil, and paper. Perhaps you’d like to take a seat?”