Liz Tyner - It’s Marriage Or Ruin

‘That is the purpose.’ Emilie unclasped her arms and held her fingers near the frame as if she could cup the face on the canvas. ‘And the skin tones…’

‘If you say so.’

Oh, the picture truly was a work of brilliance. Emilie blinked back tears, both of awe for her aunt’s talent and sadness that she herself had not perfected her own skills. She had wasted so many hours on fripperies when she could have been improving.

‘Might I share a waltz with you?’ the voice asked, so softly she could barely hear.

‘Have we been introduced?’ Emilie gazed at the tints of the painting of the Marchioness, still unable to take her gaze away from it, tears almost blinding her now. It would not do at all for someone to notice her sniffling over a painting. Her mother would be enraged.

‘We have.’ The words were clipped.

‘Of course. I recall now,’ she said. Her mother had insisted she meet so many people that she’d not remembered most of them. ‘Certainly.’

‘A waltz…’

‘That would be enchanting.’

Thankfully, he moved away and she used her glove to wipe the moisture from her face.

Her mother returned, standing by Emilie, then taking her arm to guide her away from the likeness. ‘You picked the right moment to study the painting—when the Marchioness’s eldest son was viewing it. For once, your fascination with daubs of pigments did you well.

‘Avondale’s son,’ her mother continued, leading her closer to the musicians. ‘I overheard the Marquess of Avondale’s eldest son ask you to waltz. The eldest,’ she repeated. ‘The Earl of Grayson.’

Emilie realised she’d agreed to a dance. She’d not been paying attention to anything but the portrait in front of her. She glanced at her mother and put sincerity into her words. ‘I’m so very thrilled.’

Her mother frowned. She whispered in Emilie’s ear as the music for a reel started, ‘You were not paying any attention, were you? You were staring at the canvas. Lord Grayson and his brother, Mr Westbrook, are matrimonial prizes—at least, on the surface. Their cousin, Mr Previn, as well, but he’s not here tonight.’

‘But you said they were all rakes,’ Emilie responded, remembering the quick whisper of warning her mother had given earlier.

‘I know.’ Her mother’s scowl speared Emilie as she spoke. ‘But you can’t be too choosy. You’ve waited a little late for that.’

Emilie didn’t argue. She knew that was the true reason her mother had brought her to London. Her mother had married out of the peerage, for love, and had raised her children away from society. Then she had decided that, while love was nice enough, love and a title would be much better.

Actually, the one person Emilie truly wanted to spend time with, her aunt, was surrounded by well-wishers. Her aunt laughed, the sound reverberating in the room, causing others to chuckle along.

Emilie sighed. There was so little difference in their ages, yet her aunt had succeeded, where Emilie had not.

Emilie’s deepest dream—the dream which made her spirit live—was to create art which mattered to people. Portrayals which people noticed. She wanted to leave a legacy. James Gillray was gone and still people kept his caricatures of the Prince Regent.

Her mother snorted, ever so delicately, and Emilie knew she’d best give her mother full attention.

‘Do not get your expectations up, Emilie. Avondale’s son is likely to be considering you for a dalliance, nothing sincere. But by dancing with him, the other men in society will notice you. This is indeed beneficial to your marriage prospects.’ Her mother looked at her, then in the direction the man had taken. ‘He’s speaking to his brother now. Perhaps both of them will dance with you tonight.’

Emilie tilted her head so that her mother might not study her too closely and notice the remaining tears. ‘Very beneficial. Yes, Mama.’

She compared the two brothers, talking, with drinks in their hands. They were too far above her in every way. She would say one reached almost to the doorframe and the other was taller still. Well, she was tall enough herself. She would not oversize them. The tallest one grinned at her. The other one reminded her of someone she couldn’t place. It was as if she’d seen him in a painting before, yet she was certain she would have remembered a portrait with that image in it.

She bit the inside of her lip, concentrating.

The more serious one took a drink from the glass in his hand. His frown changed and she assumed he’d glanced her way, but she wasn’t sure. A tiny crease showed on one side of his mouth. He seemed to be paying attention to his brother, but the tickle inside her told her she’d been viewed—pleasantly. Not as a country miss overstepping her bounds, or as a woman in search of a marriage, but as a person who might be interesting.

Both men were completely comfortable at the soirée, speaking as if they were alone. She wondered what brothers could find to talk about. But everyone in the room seemed to have plenty of things to discuss with their friends, or to be enjoying the spontaneity of the gathering. Even the other young woman whose mother inserted her directly into the line of marriageable men appeared at ease.

Marriage wasn’t in Emilie’s future. She knew that. She pretended to be on a husband search because bringing down the wrath of her mother never ended well. Paints could be tossed away. Brushes broken.

But she rarely had a chance to study features on men near her age and the serious brother was familiar. ‘Do you mind if I stand near the Marquess of Avondale’s sons so I will be ready when the waltz begins?’

‘That is a questionable plan, Emilie. You must not talk much, and remember to say pleasantries. You’ve not demonstrated that as a ready quality.’ Her mother paused. ‘But we’ll make the best of it.’

‘Which is Lord Grayson and which is Mr Westbrook?’ Emilie asked, realising she didn’t know which brother was the eldest.

‘Nature was fair. The younger son, Mr Westbrook, inherited Avondale’s handsome face and immense charm. Lord Grayson inherited the title,’ her mother told her.

Then Lady Catesby contemplated Emilie and whispered. ‘But don’t remind anyone of our connection to Beatrice. Your aunt Beatrice was a late-in-life baby and our parents doted on her far too much. Father was busy training Wilson to take over the ducal estates and Mother spoiled Beatrice. She married for the wrong reasons and ended up on the worst of terms with her first husband. The worst.’

‘I’ve heard of her attacking a carriage.’

‘Shush,’ her mother whispered. ‘Fortunately, that husband died and she married someone who calms her. Mostly. But she has excellent conversational skills when she wishes and that has advanced her somewhat. Could hold a conversation with a teacup and kettle at the same time. Probably has done so and doesn’t care at all how she embarrasses us.’

‘She is my favourite aunt.’

‘I know. I’ve kept you apart from her for your own good. You have the same leanings as her. It is so obvious. I would not have let you attend tonight had I not known how many marriageable males would be here and received your promise of good behaviour.’

Marcus watched Miss Catesby. He could remember her from many years before, but he was fairly certain she didn’t recollect him.

The soirée was a crush—the largest one this Season. Sometimes his mother did get her feathers in a swirl and decide to show everyone that she was the Marchioness of Avondale. She stood, talking with Miss Catesby’s mother.

Miss Catesby had wandered again into his line of vision. He regretted asking her for a waltz. He’d spoken with her to help him recall where he’d seen her before. It wasn’t until after she spoke that he’d remembered she was the hoyden at the wedding.