Liz Tyner - It’s Marriage Or Ruin

If he’d known she was going to keep her attention on the portrait when he’d spoken to her for the dance, he’d not have requested her to partner him. His brother had watched the interchange, and found it amusing.

She moved closer, and he and his brother, Nathaniel, greeted her.

‘You are radiant tonight,’ Marcus said, taking her gloved hand to bring it to his lips for a kiss. The glove smelled of springtime roses.

‘Thank you.’ Emilie turned to his brother. ‘I’m so looking forward to our dance.’

Marcus’s eyes narrowed and he studied her.

Nathaniel tensed, straightened a bit, but then gave a bow and took her glove to raise it almost to his lips and brush a kiss in the air above it, fighting a grin. He didn’t release her glove as he should. ‘I would indeed love to partner you, Miss Amelia.’

Marcus waited for Emilie to correct the mispronunciation of her name, but she didn’t. Nor had she, it was obvious, taken notice when Marcus had been the one to ask her to dance.

‘It is my good fortune that you accepted. My immense good fortune,’ Nathaniel continued.

He finally released her fingers. ‘But can you imagine the dilemma that this presents for me? While I asked you to dance, my brother asked Miss Geraldine the same question and she mistook him for me.’ He put a hand over his heart. ‘Happens repeatedly. They are thinking of me when he appears and, well, I suppose it is a purposeful game they play to try to get closer to me. So, I really should waltz with Miss Geraldine as she has been expecting it. You alone can make this faux pas fade into nothingness, Miss Amelia. Please do me the great honour of saving the evening and my brother’s deep embarrassment, and move to the floor with him.’ His lids lowered. ‘Of course, I would be happy to partner you before the night is over.’

Marcus stared at his brother’s grin and the confused regard of Miss Catesby, whom he now rather disliked.

Her eyes opened wide.

‘It would indeed be fortunate if you saved me grave embarrassment, Miss Catesby.’ Marcus shot a glance at his brother before giving her a bow.

‘Oh, how awkward for you.’ She turned to him in sympathy. ‘Of course I will partner you.’

‘If you will pardon me, I must fetch Miss Geraldine,’ Nathaniel said, moving away.

Marcus nodded to Emilie. Her heart-shaped face and delicate lips were beyond ordinary. He regarded her enthusiasm. She could sparkle with radiance when she inspected splatters of colour…or his brother, Nathaniel, or even a particularly good lemon, he recalled.

The music started and he held out his hand for hers.

She moved into his arms and the waltz began. Marcus planned this to be his last tête-à-tête ever with Miss Catesby.

She stared at his cravat and he looked over her, noting that she did feel rather perfect in his arms.

‘This must be awkward for you. But I assume it’s the curse of the younger brother,’ she said.

‘I have a younger sister, who is married and in Staffordshire. She is a treasure. And I would have to agree with your assessment that it can feel a curse to have a younger brother,’ Marcus said.

‘There is one younger male than you in your family?’

‘Yes. He is dancing with Miss Geraldine now.’

She gasped. He felt it. ‘Oh, I thought him the eldest.’

‘He just looks older. It’s all the dancing he does. It wears on him.’

‘Then it really must chagrin you,’ she spoke as he swirled her around, ‘when people confuse the two of you.’

‘They don’t often.’

‘And you are a wonderful conversationalist,’ she added. ‘I dare say you could carry on a conversation with…a…a teapot?’ She frowned. ‘That did not come out exactly right, did it?’

‘Perhaps you should have said anyone .’

She shrugged. ‘I’m not very good at speaking with people. It’s I who lack conversational skills.’

‘Perhaps you could practise.’

‘I prefer to speak through my canvas. I know nothing of the subjects that other people talk about.’

‘The trick is to listen and encourage them to speak more.’

‘A brilliant theory.’ She paused. ‘And what interests do you have?’

He firmed his lips, set his jaw, then gazed at her. ‘Beautiful women. Fine refreshments.’ He gave a slight twist to his lips. ‘A night of dancing.’

She raised one eyebrow. ‘You have your conversational skills honed.’

‘I practise.’

‘And what interests do you truly have?’

‘I gamble, on occasion. Small amounts. Drink. Small amounts again. And then, of course, I prefer an occasional soirée, but not masquerades. I know the object is to pretend to be someone else, but it’s too frivolous for me.’

Her mouth opened, then her lips turned up. ‘I saw a reproduction of Dressing for a Masquerade once and the event looked exciting.’

Marcus took a moment before speaking. ‘I’ve witnessed that particular portrayal of Thomas Rowlandson’s and I would advise strongly that you take caution when you see anything with his name on it. He doesn’t consider that a woman might view what he creates.’

‘I live for drawings and oils and charcoals. And sometimes the life that is reproduced is not always polite.’

‘Miss Catesby, that doesn’t mean that it shouldn’t be. The world doesn’t begin and end at the end of a paintbrush, and artists should only create to educate.’

‘Well…’ she moved within the waltz and the distance between them lessened ‘…the world doesn’t revolve around gambling, women and drink for me.’ She beheld him through her lashes. ‘Please allow me my vice.’

‘I would prefer to credit you with only virtues.’

She laughed. ‘Yet you prefer me to presume only vices for you.’

‘Where you are concerned, that is probably for the best.’ He’d so wanted to dislike her, but when she laughed, the sound resonated inside him and made him want to hear it again. ‘And accurate.’

‘Shame on you, Lord Grayson. If I may be so straightforward, you have a dashing profile.’

He bowed in acknowledgement of the compliment.

‘What did you think of Lady Avondale’s portrait?’ she asked. ‘I know you said it is good, but…’

He glanced down. ‘I should like to view a likeness of you.’

She gasped with pleasure. ‘That is so kind of you. Are you fascinated at all by art?’

He blinked. ‘No. I don’t see colours the same as other people. I can’t tell the difference between most of them.’

She closed her eyes for a moment. ‘I am so sorry you have missed out on the beauty of hues.’ She shook her head. ‘I will try not to be bothersome to you, Lord Grayson. I feel for you. I could not live without the colours of my paints.’

‘I am sorry I have missed out on the beauty as well.’

When the music ended, they stopped, but didn’t immediately separate. He imagined her in a portrait. On his wall. To gaze at. He swallowed. His conversational skills had evaporated.

‘Would you like a stroll in the gardens?’ he asked.

She studied him. ‘You don’t like art?’

He firmed his lips. ‘Not usually.’

‘Oh…’ She peered beyond his shoulder. ‘If you will pardon me, your brother is beckoning me.’

Neither spoke as they went in opposite directions.

Emilie walked away from the couples, feeling she’d just stumbled, instead of dancing. And she was certain she’d not missed the steps.

Mr Westbrook strolled her way and she asked him if he liked watercolours, and he regaled her with a day his father had hosted the caricaturist Gillray, years before, and Mr Westbrook continued on, discussing prints he’d seen, and agreed that he, too, dabbled with paints. The talk of tints and hues should have been more interesting. But it wasn’t really.