Debt of Honor (19 page)

It couldn’t be a coincidence. While she watched Percy struggle to regain his composure, Ethel’s happy grin morphed into a gargoyle’s sneer.

Unable to turn away from the door that closed behind Percy, Letitia felt her hair for the ribbon and pulled it off her head.

“I’m afraid I cannot accept your gift, Ethel,” she said, dropping the shiny silk onto Ethel’s hand, still outstretched toward where Percy had stood next to her.

“Why not?” Ethel blinked, and her gaze moved from the door to the ribbon. She seemed genuinely surprised. “You’re not afraid of Percy, are you?”

“You cannot think I shall enjoy it when he dislikes it so much.”

“Oh, men.” Ethel pursed her lips dismissively, but she focused with calculation on Letitia’s face. “Most of them lack refinement in taste. I declare, he will come to his senses. It suits you so well! Besides, you are too brave to cower and give in to a man’s whimsy where he should have no say in your choices at all.”

Letitia swallowed a surge of disgust. The bait would not procure the bite Ethel hoped for.

“Why did you bring me this ribbon, Ethel?”

Ethel shrugged with a hint of uneasiness. “Because it
is
perfect for your hair. I was so happy when I found it. Why did he have to ruin everything?”

Letitia’s heart began to pound. Ethel had just said she’d had the ribbon for some time.

“Perhaps it reminded him of someone?” she suggested.

Ethel shrugged again, her face crumpling into a grimace. “Anyone could have bought a ribbon like this one in London. The moment I found it yesterday, with my mother’s combs, I knew it was perfect for you, and it is, even more so with your hair so short. And now Percy has spoiled everything. How was I to predict he would take objection to some ribbon?”

Only it wasn’t “some” ribbon. Of that Letitia was sure.

“You misunderstand me,” she replied as calmly as she could, given the whirlwind in her head. “I am not afraid of my husband. It is not his whimsy but my choice to wear what will please
both
of us. I’m sorry for your disappointment, Ethel. Forgive me, and thank you for trying to please me.”

“Oh, of course I do understand you. Do not worry.” Ethel’s mouth turned up in a bleak attempt at a smile, yet there was a flash of petulance in her eyes before she lowered them. “I hope Percy shall have a good explanation why he so disliked my gift.”

Letitia was glad to be spared the need to parry that comment by the entrance of the footman with the refreshments they were waiting for. A drive to the village and back in the same carriage with Ethel had gained all the appeal of standing in a pillory for the rest of the day.

Percy’s reaction was impossible to dismiss or forget. His crestfallen expression haunted Letitia for the rest of the day.

“I felt so embarrassed, Josie, and so powerless,” she said when the two of them were walking in the garden before dinner.

Josepha shook her head. “Surely, he doesn’t blame you.”

“Yet the awkwardness of it!” Letitia sighed, pulling the shawl over her shoulders. “There was something about that ribbon that made him cringe. Oh, Josie, do you think that…he might still love her?”

“Do
you
think so?” Josepha rejoined. “Don’t let Lady Marsden come between you and your husband. She has no regard for anyone but herself.”

Letitia sighed again. “I know, Josie. Do not suppose me blinded by her avowals of friendship.”

“In such case, I shall leave you to undo the damage she inflicted,” Josepha said with an unexpected hint of cheerfulness.

Letitia followed her gaze. Two male figures had just emerged from the side alley.

“Oh, Petre is here again,” Letitia grumbled.

“I am sure their separation can be arranged,” Josepha said lightly.

“Josie, what are you about?” Letitia hissed, momentarily setting aside her own worries. “Don’t you think I haven’t noticed how Mr. Petre looks at you like a cat at a bowl of cream? If he so much as besmirches a hem of your dress, I—”

“You do not need to worry. I believe I can deal with Mr. Petre very well myself.”

“He is too often crossing your path these days.”

“He is crossing it as much as I wish him to.”

“Josie, be careful. I shall certainly speak to Percy about curbing this suspicious tendency.”

Josepha huffed. “I hope you shall not. I can manage very well.”

“I would never forgive myself if any harm came to you.”

“Mr. Petre is not like that toad you once deluded yourself to be in love with.”

Letitia stopped as suddenly as if she’d walked into a wall. “Did Walter try to accost you, Josie? For God’s sake, why didn’t you tell me then?”

Josepha squeezed her hand. “There never was anything to tell you. Do not worry about me. Worry about your husband. He needs you.”

That much seemed to be true. Percy’s somber gaze, when he and the steward approached, rose fleetingly to the top of her head.

“Good evening, Lady Letitia.” Petre bowed. “Miss Fourier.”

Percy inclined his head toward Josepha as if he’d just noticed her. For some reason, this seemed to make Josie quite happy. She curtsied, then directed a blinding smile at the steward.

“I wonder, Mr. Petre,” she purred, “whether you are still willing to show me the new shrub cuttings you mentioned the other day? I am very curious to see for myself how they are doing.”

“It will be a great pleasure, Miss Fourier.” Petre grinned back, seeming to Letitia indeed like a cat awarded a bowl of cream. Then he gazed at Percy. “I believe we’ve finished for today, have we not?”

Percy still focused on her hair. “Yes, of course. You’re free to go on with your plans, Petre,” he mumbled hastily.

Petre didn’t need to be told twice.

“Miss Fourier.” He offered Josie his arm. She placed her hand on his sleeve and sent Letitia an encouraging glance over her shoulder while the steward led her away.

They did make a nice couple, Letitia admitted somewhat grudgingly.

But this thought flew out of her head as soon as she turned to Percy. His countenance was as composed as ever. She did not expect anything less. Only the darkness of his gaze betrayed his thoughts. There was no helping a sharp stub of disappointment that the unguarded warmth with which he had greeted her this morning was now gone.

“I gave the ribbon back to Ethel,” she said softly.

Percy blinked, grunted and linked his hands behind his back.

“I owe you an apology,” he said gravely. “Forgive me. I should not have behaved the way I did this afternoon.”

Letitia shook her head. “Do not apologize.”

“You must have wondered at my reaction,” he continued as if he hadn’t heard her. A moment of silence followed while he seemed uncertain how to proceed before adding, “Sarah wore the same ribbon on the day she died.”

Letitia’s legs almost sank under her. Did Ethel know that?

“I am so sorry,” she choked out.

“You have nothing to be sorry about.”

But this reassurance did not lessen her growing fear that the glimpse of happiness he had given her might remain just that—a glimpse. The somber man she now faced was not the playful, wonderful Percy who’d awakened her this morning.

“Nonetheless, I
am
sorry about what happened,” she repeated. “I know you cannot forget Sarah. How could you?”

He took in a sharp breath. “What I cannot forget has nothing to do with you, Lettie,” he said almost irritably. “None of that belongs in our marriage. Please?”

Perhaps it was the pleading in his tone that gave her a sudden jolt of hope. Without thinking, she rose on her toes and kissed him lightly.

“I thought we both left the past behind us last night,” she said, and managed a smile before his arms crushed her against him and his mouth prevented any further conversation.

Lettie’s words dissolved the weight that had settled in Percy’s chest and stooped his shoulders since the encounter in the drawing room. Freed from that constraint, his heart slammed with relief and joy. In fact, with much more than that. There was only one word to describe the feeling it tolled. He loved her.

The realization settled over him comfortably. He kissed her thoroughly, filling his mind and his senses with the eagerness with which she reciprocated his kiss, and reveled in the possessiveness of her embrace. The world centered once again on the woman in his arms, who was showing him with every fiber of her soft, warm body how much she wanted him.

Greedy for her, for all her mouth promised, he almost moaned in protest when Lettie broke the kiss to catch a breath. But she didn’t move away, only rested her head on his chest. Percy kept his arms possessively around her. She was a precious gift he had never expected to receive.

“I missed this all day,” he murmured into her hair.

“So did I,” she replied, tightening her arms around his waist.

He kissed her hair, allowing relief and happiness to flow through his veins. Lettie was perfect.

He shut out the feeble echo of a thought that this happiness could not last.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Percy stretched on the sofa, recrossed his legs and read the introduction to yet another article in the
Annals of Agriculture
. No more bookkeeping in the evenings since he had two stewards now. Petre could keep the Wycombe Oaks books himself. The first of the architects chosen to inspect the castle would come within a month. Meanwhile, Sir Percival Hanbury would enjoy the late summer. That included enjoying the company of his wife.

Lettie sat on the opposite sofa, her feet tucked under her and the inseparable notebook and pencil in hand. Percy was quite sure she was covering its pages with sketches of him, but said nothing because watching her on the sly gave him at least as much pleasure as she seemed to be deriving from her activity.

God, but she was a lovely picture to behold. He was head over heels in love.

He felt the familiar tightening in his groin and wondered if he dared talk her into something more wicked than the bedroom upstairs. Not that he had any reason to complain about the upstairs. They had not spent a single night separately since her first visit almost a month ago, and, each time, he was awed by her beautiful body becoming marvelously boneless under his hands and his mouth, by her eagerness to learn more how to please him and by his own insatiate need for her.

He only hoped that he was able to give
her
as much as she offered him.

Nothing had been said between them, but this unexpected love was palpable in every touch and gaze, in the light brush of fingertips over their bodies, in the gentle exploration of tongues seeking to drive each other mad, in the joining that filled all his senses with unspoken tenderness, in the togetherness of ecstasy, in the closeness of its aftermath. He let his love for Lettie flow freely in those moments, not trying to constrict his feelings inside himself. Maybe it was only his wishful imagination that he sensed the same in her. Either way, what was the use for words? He had said them before so many times, but in the end, they had been nothing more than powerless sounds.

Besides, words would not make this sudden happiness last. He would be deluding himself if he tried to believe otherwise, to deny the frailty of this love that swept him off his feet unawares. Because what he would have to tell her would not be the words he wanted to say.

His heart skipped a beat. Hope, faint like a thread of a spiderweb out in the wind, that Lettie might not mind after all lifted some of the oppressive darkness in his heart. He would not lament now. Not today. Not yet.

Percy cocked his head to one side, drinking in her youthful beauty, when she suddenly scowled. “Oh no. Go back to how you held your head a moment ago.”

Ah, so he had been right. He obediently did as she asked and froze in that position until she finally relaxed and put the pencil down. Easing back on his sofa, he moved his head side to side.

“Are you drawing me, madam?” he asked. “What sort of waste of paper is that?”

“Pretended modesty does not suit you, sir,” she replied. “I have an idea or two of what to do with that wasted paper.”

“I hope you are not planning to turn me into some suffering saint or pagan deity.”

“I shall not tell you.” She sent him a quick playful glance. “You will see when I am ready to show you. Besides, either subject would require a serious state of undress. And—since you broached the issue—that leads me to a question. Will you model for me?”

“What?”

“I want to draw you naked.”

“Good God, Lettie, don’t you see enough of me every night?”

“No. And, no, it is not enough for… Oh, you are confusing me,” she complained when he began to laugh. “Very well, let me explain. Men spend countless hours studying human models, both male and female. Why should not women follow the same principle if they are not to paint misshapen bodies? I have yet to understand why doing so would offend and degrade female sensibility. Should one conclude, then, that men do not have any sensibility at all? Or perhaps that they all are born hypocrites? I have not found anything offensive in looking at you. To the contrary, you are fascinating to me.”

“Why, I hope your interest in me is not purely scientific.” He grinned, feeling the dark weight slide off his chest.

“No, but you are just too beautiful to… Oh, stop funning. Will you do it, Percy, please?”

“I am very shy…”

“Somehow,” she said, furrowing her brow, “your shyness escaped my notice.”

“But the very idea of finding my own naked likeness exposed to the critique of our capricious society wherever you shall exhibit your work is extremely terrifying.” He sighed, trying to keep a straight face while enjoying himself enormously.

His ploy didn’t work.

“Do not fret so much,” she rejoined. “I cannot imagine any lady of the
ton
complaining at such a sight. You might even become vain with pride over your new popularity.”

“I might sooner feel very stupid trying to maintain some unnatural pose in which you will be pleased to immortalize me.”

“I will not torment you. Please?”

“Since you appear to be willing to compromise, I find myself without argument with which to put some sense into your head. So how do you propose to go about it?”

Her happy smile said everything.

At first, only amused by Lettie’s enthusiasm, Percy was somewhat surprised to realize that he derived no less pleasure from her drawing sessions than she did. She was true to her word and never demanded any pose that could not be maintained for a few minutes without a strain on his muscles. He liked to watch her at work, those quick, sharp movements of her head and decisive movements of her hand.

If anything, her drawings made him even more curious about her talent. They were quite exquisite, even if he said so himself. After seeing Mrs. Baillie’s portrait, it shouldn’t have surprised him. Most of them were devoted to various parts of his torso, arms and legs, as she was clearly trying to capture the play of his muscles. Only a couple showed his entire silhouette. He wondered what she planned to do with them.

His curiosity was eventually satisfied. A week later, they spent most of the morning at Wycombe Oaks, followed by a now-customary picnic under the oak tree. Taking advantage of the late summer weather, they strolled farther down the meadow, to the edge of the woods.

There was another old oak tree there. Percy leaned with his back against the huge trunk that probably had been already sizeable when his ancestors built the castle. Lettie did not protest when his arms closed around her middle. He stole a quick kiss somewhere behind her ear once her back was snug against him.

Lettie murmured her contentment, sighed and put her head on his shoulder.

Percy took immediate advantage of the situation. His lips began a slow and thorough exploration of her face, all the way down to her jaw and over her exposed throat.

“No sketchbook?” he asked once he satisfied himself that not a spot remained untouched. “Shall I get your knapsack?”

“No,” she murmured, burrowing her head deeper into his coat.

“Did I exhaust your energy posing for six evenings in a row?”

“Hmm, no,” she mumbled, but she did sound tired. “I have enough sketches for now, and the trouble is how to use them in the painting I am working on without creating complete chaos.”

“I have no doubt you will succeed,” he said, kissing her forehead.

“Why, thank you, but you might be of a different opinion if you saw my lack of progress.”

Then she suddenly straightened her relaxed spine and turned to him.

“Would you like to see it?” she asked.

“Your lack of progress? I would be honored.” He grinned. “But if I understood you correctly, you do not like to share that with any audience. There is no need to make exceptions for me, Lettie.”

“But I want to,” she said. “I…I wanted to annoy you when I said that no one was ever allowed to see my work before it was finished. And you even put a lock on the orangery door. Well, I suppose I owe you a confession.” She sighed.

“Do you?”

“I never painted anything as large as my current work before. There was no good space for it at Fratton, besides my old nursery that was too dark to be of any use. I always wanted a large and sunny room, yet I never expected you’d let me use your magnificent orangery. Do you regret altering it for me?”

“No,” he said. “Do you?”

“Not at all,” she replied, laughing. “Will you do me the honor of visiting your own orangery, then? You can find out what I did with it and what it is that I do in there. After all, I invaded your privacy in the library.”

“I am not complaining,” he said, kissing her forehead again. “Indeed, I very much enjoy the invasion. It will be delightful to reciprocate.”

He did so later the same day.

The rebirth the orangery had undergone in less than three months astonished him, despite the expectation of change.

The trees in the large tubs remained and, freed from the excess of smaller plants, added a sense of comfort to the open space. The wall joining the orangery to the house almost disappeared under canvases in various stages of preparation. A long bench at the other end of the room sported a multitude of jars, various objects of unknown purpose—to him, at least—and several scattered sketches. A couple of settees and tea tables Sarah had once banished to the attic formed the nucleus of a sitting room. The settees had new covers, he noticed.

Not one twinge of regret assailed him at the dismantling of the Indian jungle Sarah had cultivated with such devotion. He had rarely entered it, especially in the latter years of their marriage. The overcrowded stillness of the plants and hot, moist air had always felt more like a mournful shrine than a pleasure garden. It wouldn’t have surprised him if a boa or a python had uncoiled from some branch just in front of his face while Sarah, her slightly narrowed gaze betraying her displeasure at his intrusion, hurriedly put away her notebook or the letters she might be reading on that overdecorated table he had ordered for her directly from Bombay.

The orangery seemed much more inviting now than it had ever been before. The lower branches on the trees had been removed, and Percy breathed in the scent of linseed oil mingling with the fresh air coming in through the open French doors. With the sunlight diffused by the sailcloth sheets stretched under the glass roof, the breeze kept the open space cool, despite the summer heat.

The large canvas set up on an easel near the center of the room drew his attention. Lettie had not exaggerated. It was about five-by-eight feet in size, in his estimation.

He stepped closer to it. On it, groups of people mingled in the foreground, some of them barely silhouettes in one or two background colors, others quite well defined. He could identify a young maid about to enter a side door of a building, smiling shyly at a youth handing her a ribbon. A barely sketched coachman rolled down the steps of a coach. An inn, then? Two gray gentlemen on horseback spoke to an earth-tone lady leaning out the window of a small carriage. Nearby, a lonely figure knelt by one of the tombstones in a churchyard. Behind all this appeared fields with a group of laborers.

But one corner of the canvas remained empty.

“This is Endymion,” Lettie said behind his back.

Percy raised a brow. “Endymion?”

“He is not in the painting yet.” She moved closer. “You see, I want to show him as someone who’s deprived of his life for a goddess’s selfish pleasure. Everything passes him by while he sleeps in isolation on the edge of the woods behind the fields.” She pointed to the empty upper left corner. “I don’t want to paint him in a traditional manner, as a beautiful young boy with a shepherd’s staff and a few sheep grazing around. He should be one of the villagers.”

She walked to the bench and pulled a sketch from a small pile.

In it, a male figure stretched unceremoniously on the ground, with a wooden flute lying abandoned in the grass, a basket with bread and cheese being inspected by a cautious fox, and not a sheep nearby. The figure’s head was turned away from the viewer; only the cascade of heavy locks partially covering the face and the fine proportions of his body indicated that he was indeed worthy of a goddess’s attention. The old, tattered breeches covered shapely legs, and a simple shirt, unbuttoned, revealed a muscular torso. Percy remembered posing in a similar attitude a couple of days earlier.

“Hmm.” He cleared his throat, taken aback by her unusual vision and his surroundings. “Had I ever harbored any doubts about giving you the orangery, all this”—he gestured around—“would banish them in an instant. As for the lack of progress itself”—he grinned—“it appears to be doing remarkably well, in my opinion. Do you have any plans for Endymion’s future once it is finished?”

She shook her head.

“Then we must find a proper place for it in this house.”

“You do not even know if you will like it,” she protested, but he knew the idea pleased her.

“Oh, I am certain I will,” Percy assured her. “I already admire your interpretation.”

The sound of someone clearing their throat made them both turn toward the door.

“I beg your pardon, madam, sir.” Slater stood there with a salver in his hand. “Mrs. Vernon is here. Mr. Wilkinson and Lady Marsden are here as well. And a messenger brought this letter from Mr. Welch for you, sir. He says it is very urgent and awaits your reply.”