Grace Burrowes - Lady Jenny’s Christmas Portrait

To Elijah, His Grace’s casual use of the word “love” was more impressive than all the polysyllabic blather Moreland had at his command. “My recent work at Sidling notwithstanding, I do not make a credible holiday guest under your roof, Your Grace. Her Grace will have to know the portrait is being done.”

“Young man, do you think I’m going to sit still for hours with only your company to occupy me? Of course Her Grace will know. She will supervise the entire undertaking, making sure I behave myself adequately to see the painting completed. You will consult her on every detail of the composition, and thwart her wishes at your mortal peril.”

This was beyond an imperative; this was Moreland Holy Writ, perhaps Windham family Holy Writ as well.

“Of course, Your Grace, though to finish the portrait between now and the first of the year will be difficult. I haven’t yet completed Sindal’s commission, and I’m sure you’ll have holiday duties that interfere with your sittings.”

“You are a bachelor, so allowances must be made.” His Grace rose, took up the poker, and jabbed at the fire. Elijah studied the duke’s movement, the way he hunkered before the hearth, the confidence with which he wielded a substantial length of wrought iron.

His Grace was not merely spry, as that adjective was applied to old men who yet managed to dodder around unaided. The duke was limber, lithe, and strong, full of energy and… determination.

“When you wed,” Moreland said as he replaced the poker in its stand, “you will understand that he who fails to make proper gifts at the proper time where his lady is concerned risks disappointing that lady, and living with the shame of his failure well beyond the end of the occasion. Do you know why I maintain a conservatory here, Bernward?”

“To protect delicate plants over the winter and conserve them for the next year’s spring.”

“To give my duchess flowers when she’s in need of them. You’re here for the same purpose, to give my duchess a portrait when she’s in need of one.”

No, Elijah was at Morelands because he could not get out of his mind that sketch Genevieve had done of him when he’d been trying to write to his sister. The rendering had been accurate, but it had been another image of a lonely man—also a man bewildered by a simple bit of correspondence to a younger sibling.

And in some dim corner of his brain, Elijah perceived that the answer to his loneliness lay in Genevieve Windham’s hands—or at least the temporary relief of it.

“I’ll need some help if I’m to be done before Christmas, Your Grace. Perhaps Lady Jenny might again assist me?” He took the last sip of his drink in hopes that request might come across as casual.

“What says you have to be done before Christmas?”

Lady Jenny’s travel plans said it plainly enough. “The Academy announces its new members along with the honors list, Your Grace. I’d like to be back in London to congratulate the new Academicians.”

And he did not want to be here when Jenny went on her wrongheaded, misguided, unnecessary pilgrimage to Paris. For it was a pilgrimage, though Elijah had yet to determine what transgression on Jenny’s part necessitated such a penance.

“You will not disappoint my duchess, Bernward. The portrait will be done in time for our open house on Christmas Eve.”

“As you wish, Your Grace.”

“Then be off with you. Any footman can see you to your quarters. Jenny’s about somewhere, unless her sisters have impressed her into doting on their offspring again. Ask the footmen. Put off dwelling at the family seat as long as you can, Bernward. One loses track of one’s family in these old mausoleums.”

Bernward. The title didn’t feel as awkward coming from Moreland as it might from many others. “Thank you, Your Grace. Am I to join the family at meals?”

One could wait above stairs in evening attire for a summons that never came, or one could plainly ask.

“For God’s sake, of course you will dine with us. Her Grace would never forgive me if I suffered Charlotte Beauvais Harrison’s darling boy to shiver away his meals in a garret. And you have some correspondence.”

The duke stalked over to the mantel and swiped up no less than three letters, which he shoved at Elijah. “Your womenfolk are after you, and spying on my house, no doubt. Never underestimate the espionage of females, Bernward. You will tell your sisters Morelands is gracious, snug, and majestic—regardless of drafty corridors, tipsy maids, or footmen who linger near the mistletoe.”

The tone was gruff; the wink was charming. Elijah took the letters, feeling as if the Earl of Bernward had just been welcomed into some benevolent protective society of males who must endure the holidays without cursing before the womenfolk.

“My thanks, Your Grace.”

Elijah took his leave, and had spotted no less than eight fat sprigs of mistletoe before he paused to wonder how his family had known he’d be at Morelands, when four days past Elijah himself had been convinced his next destination was Northumbria.

“So tell me, my lady, do you like it?”

Jenny looked up to see Elijah Harrison standing in the doorway of her newly christened studio. Had she not been studying his parting gift to her, she would no doubt have sensed his presence.

“You came back.” She could not help but smile as she spoke.

“One does not refuse a ducal commission. It’s said Moreland has influence in every corner of government, and his duchess in every corner of Society. Then, too, as the duke himself informed me, any number of juvenile subjects are expected here over the holidays, and I’m intrigued by that potential.”

These words constituted a credible, if wrong answer. The heat and tenderness in Elijah’s gaze as he prowled across the room gave Jenny far more cause for rejoicing. “You’ve closed the door, Mr. Harrison.”

“Elijah to you, though it seems I’m becoming Bernward to the rest of the world.” He stood very close to her, so close she could catch his sweet lavender scent. “Happy Christmas, my lady. Did you like the sketch?”

He did not kiss her, and the frustration of that was profound.

“I cannot show this sketch to anybody, Mr. Harrison. No one but my lady’s maid has seen my hair down for years.”

His eyebrows spoke volumes: he’d seen her hair down, her body naked, her face suffused with arousal. Thank God he’d sketched her in the grip of other emotions: pensiveness, a hint of humor, and something else she couldn’t name.

“You’ve caught a resemblance between me and His Grace. I can’t say I’ve noticed that before, but the likeness is genuine.”

“You have much of your father in you. Will you lend me your studio?”

He moved off, and Jenny wanted to grab him by the hand and drag him down to the carpet, there to renew his acquaintance with her unbound hair until spring.

“Who is to sit to you? I’m fond of my nieces and nephews. I assume you’ll allow me to assist again?”

He paced to the windows, which looked out over the stables and paddocks, toward Kesmore’s estate and Eve’s little manor at Lavender Corner. “My sitter is more fractious than any juvenile subject. His Grace has taken a notion to present his duchess with a portrait for the Christmas Eve open house. The light here is good.”

“I’m having a parlor stove brought up too. Her Grace will love a portrait of Himself.” Why haven’t you kissed me? Do you carry the lock of hair I gave you?

He turned and propped his backside against the windowsill, a pose Jenny’s brothers often adopted. “We never had a chance to paint together at Sidling, Genevieve. Would you enjoy that?”

Zhenevieve. “Yes. And you will critique my work.” Not better than kissing, but some consolation.

“And you will critique mine. I’ll have my equipment set up here.” He sauntered toward the door, and while that view was agreeable, his departure without even touching her was maddening.

“Elijah?”

He half turned, a listening pose as opposed to one that focused on her visually. “My lady?”

“I’m glad you’re back. Very glad.” So glad, her chest had developed a peculiar ache, and her hands had balled into fists.

“I’m glad too, Genevieve.”

He sauntered back to her, kissed her cheek, and left.

* * *

Elijah tried to read the letters sent by his remaining sisters—they’d shared paper, the better to economize—and he’d barely comprehended anything except that they missed him and hoped to see him at Christmas.

Perhaps they would, if the Academy had given him the nod by then.

And perhaps they wouldn’t.

“I should not have kissed her,” Elijah informed a cat that looked very like the one he’d seen at Kesmore’s and Sindal’s. This beast also occupied Elijah’s bed, a green-eyed feline stare tracking Elijah as he unpacked his clothes and hung them in the wardrobe. Against the green, gold, and cream appointments of the room, a black-and-white cat commanded attention.

“I could not help but kiss her. When she saw me, she just stood there, a serene smile on her face, and me, not knowing—”

Not knowing if he’d made a small mistake by coming here, or a huge mistake.

“I am here to fulfill a ducal commission.”

The cat lifted a paw and commenced to tongue-wash between its claws.

“I am here because I could not hang about London, waiting for word from the nominating committee. The other fellows would stop by, the Christmas invitations would come. I wouldn’t get any work done.” Though he was caught up on his commissions, all except for the portrait of Sindal’s boys.

The cat rose to sitting and turned its back on Elijah, then tended to its ears with particular assiduousness.

“I am here because it’s someplace my family will not casually drop by and leave hints the size of elephants that this year, I ought to join the revelry at Flint Hall.”

Though they’d stooped to letters, which was beyond hinting. The cat glanced over its shoulder at Elijah then started licking its own belly.

“I am here because Moreland’s holiday hospitality is legendary. The regent himself recommends Her Grace’s recipe for punch.”

At this, the cat started licking its privy parts. Elijah sat on the bed and put the damned beast on the floor. “Dignity, cat. At the very least set me an example of dignity.”

The cat leapt onto the bed, appropriated Elijah’s lap, and once settled in, began purring without any dignity whatsoever.

“Right. I am here because I want to spend whatever time I can around Genevieve Windham, even if it’s only a few weeks amid paint fumes and under her parents’ watchful eyes. I am here to share with her whatever support and insight I might render regarding her art before she leaves for damned France. I am here”—he brushed his nose along the top of the cat’s head—“because I could not resist the opportunity to see her, to kiss her, even once more.”

The cat appeared to consider this, then bopped Elijah’s chin.

“I am here because I am a fool.”

A knock on the door cut short these pathetic confessions. Elijah set the cat aside and opened his door to behold a mature version of Genevieve Windham.

“Your Grace.” He bowed to the duchess then stepped back, hoping he’d put his stockings and under-linen out of sight.

“Bernward, welcome. I am remiss for not being here when you arrived, but I needed a recipe from my daughter at Sidling.” She came into the room, a woman whose very posture could teach lionesses about dignity and presence. “Your mother and I made our bows together, you know.”

Though she offered him a smile that likely dazzled men half her age, she was warning him of something. His Grace’s words about the womenfolk and their espionage came back to him.

“Mother has mentioned this, as did His Grace. I enjoyed a drink with His Grace upon my arrival.”

“Timothy is welcoming you too, I see. Jenny’s cat is as particular as most of his breed. I hope you aren’t given to sneezing around cats?”

“He’s a friendly sort, and I like cats, generally.”

“Gracious, Bernward. You aren’t seeing to your own clothing, I hope?” She considered the open wardrobe and his traveling bag, where—thank ye gods—no stockings or linen were in evidence.

“My things are damp from the weather, Your Grace, and the sooner they’re hung up, the less objectionable my attire will be at dinner.”

Her inspection landed on him. “You have your mother’s pragmatism, though I’ll send along a footman posthaste. Tell me, Bernward, do you paint quickly?”