Mistletoe Menage (3 page)

“I…uh…I…should be interested to
know what you would suggest, Mr. Harper.” She delivered the words that Lady
Jane had told her to, though not with as much finesse as her friend would have
done. Over refreshments last evening at
Almack’s
,
Jane had prepared Anne for this morning’s visit. Anne didn’t know if she could
actually accept this artist’s attentions in the manner that Jane had described,
but the thought of the pleasures it could reveal to her did excite her. And
intrigue her. And she found that she wanted to go through with this, in spite
of her nerves.
In spite of her naivety.
For would this not be the opportunity she had dreamed of?
It
was an opportunity too good to miss, one that would not destroy her reputation,
because the young artist was said to be the very soul of discretion. His
talents were only discussed in certain circles because some of the ladies
wished it to be known that he had
painted
them. He had, according to Jane, never spoken to anyone of what happened behind
closed doors.

Mr. Harper smiled, revealing
small, square, pearly white teeth. He really could be an angel fallen to earth
with his flaxen hair and iridescent eyes.

“I certainly have a few
suggestions.” He lifted his hands and framed Anne between them before moving
his fingers in a manner that Anne could only read as evocative. It was as if he
caressed her curves without actually laying a finger on her flesh. She seized a
shuddering breath as her nipples tightened and a tingling began beneath her
skirts.

“When would you be available to
carry out the portrait, Mr. Harper?” Anne forced the words out, trying to
appear calm and in control.

“If it suits you, I will need to
do some initial sketches then I will require you to sit for some longer
periods. How long will you remain in London?”

A cloud of disappointment
appeared on Anne’s horizon. She had aimed to leave London just next week in
order to prepare her Kent home for the winter. If she followed her plans, it
would mean missing out on Mr. Harper’s company. But she couldn’t lie about her
plans or change them at this late date. She did not like to make life harder
for her servants by being an inconsistent mistress and to remain in London just
for a portrait would surely make her appear most desperate for the gentleman’s
attentions, would it not?

“I meant to leave just next week,
Mr. Harper.”

“Excellent!” he announced and
Anne frowned at his response.

“Is it?” she queried.

“Indeed it is, Mrs. Blackburn. My
patron will be returned to the country then—he has been away to settle some
affairs in France—and he has a country residence in Kent. The timing will be
ideal as I had intended on returning then too. Maybe I could even travel with
you?”

Anne pressed her lips together
and squeezed her fan with both hands. The gentleman was certainly forward yet
she found his confidence refreshing and exciting. When so many in
society
rarely said exactly what they meant, it seemed that
she had happened upon a person who might actually be inclined toward honesty.
And then, there were the other things she had been led to believe about him
that stirred her interest even more.

She had been dreading the long,
cold months and seemingly endless lonely nights more than ever this year. It
was true that she was able to occupy herself with balls, dinner parties, and
card games, but when she returned home at the end of each evening, her heart
sank. Now, however, it seemed that the autumn and winter might actually hold
some promise of excitement after all.
As long as Mr. Harper
was around, of course.

****

Anne’s plans did not work out
quite the way she had hoped. The following afternoon, she received a letter
from Mr. Harper to inform her of his deepest regret. He would be unable to
accompany her to Kent as he had planned. Apparently, circumstances beyond his
control meant that he was unable to leave London until sometime in November.

Anne slumped in her fireside
chair and let the letter fall onto the grate. The anticipation that had held
her buoyant for the past two days suddenly dissipated and she was overcome with
a sense of dread. Would this be all that there really was to life then? Losing
her husband had been extremely difficult. It happened
to
many, she knew that. But it had been a struggle to move on, to continue to
live. Yet she had done it, and although she had stayed in half-mourning longer
than was necessary, she had returned gradually into society and even resumed
her attendance at some social venues.

Lady Jane had helped her, of
course. She owed Jane a lot for her support and understanding. Jane had
outlived three husbands herself, the last one a baron, and she had assured Anne
that although the hurt of loss did not diminish,
it
was
something you learned to live with. She had encouraged Anne back into society
and helped her to place one foot in front of the other. Anne was no stranger to
grief, but the loss of her husband had been difficult because he was her only
surviving family. And he had been so kind.
Poor Alfred.

But her feelings for him had been
a shadow of the thrilling desire and longing that she had felt for her first
love—the man she’d been forced to deny as she accepted Alfred’s hand in
marriage.
And all because she was seen by some as Edward’s
social inferior because her father’s fortune was made through the wine trade.

I will not dwell on this now.

The pain was still too deep to
wade through. Like thick, cloying mud, it threatened to suck her down and drown
her whenever she allowed such matters to arise and plague her thoughts. Edward
was from another time and she had not seen him since the day he had left her in
London in order to return to his ancestral home.
 
He had left intending to ask his father’s
permission to marry her. She pressed a fist into her mouth and swallowed hard
against the pain. He had not returned to her, and in a way she had been glad,
for she had not wanted to see his face when he discovered her wed to another.

But that was nearly six years
ago. Now, she was a widow. And now there was Mr. Harper. His bright eyes, his
golden locks, and his handsome visage had stirred her. She could almost compare
the experience of meeting him to being woken up after a long winter’s sleep by
the first rays of summer sunshine. She had not felt alive, truly alert, for so
long, yet this man had been like warm, sweet, fragranced water on her cold,
numb flesh.

And she longed to see more of
him.

Yet she feared that his delay in
returning to Kent must be an excuse. Why would such a man wish to travel with
her, to paint her portrait when there were so many young, flirtatious
debutantes clamoring for his time and attention? It was likely that another
maid or even matron had caused his plans to change and Anne could not blame him
at all.

A gentle knock at the door forced
her to gather her thoughts and compose herself. “Yes?”

The butler peered into the room.
“Lady Faulkner is here, ma’am.”

“Send her in.” Anne quickly pinched
her cheeks to bring color to them and sat upright. It would not do to show her
friend how disappointed she was feeling. She cared for Jane and hated to worry
her.

Jane bustled into the room in a
bright green velvet riding habit with a short military-style jacket and
matching peaked hat upon her powdered light-brown hair. Anne was filled with
admiration for her friend who appeared far younger than her years, so vibrant
and full of life.

“Anne, dear!”
Jane waved at her as Anne made to rise. “Pray stay seated. I apologize for
arriving unannounced but I just had to see you.”

“You’ve been out riding?”

Jane laughed as she flopped onto
the sofa. “Yes, but do not worry your pretty head, Anne. My man is outside.
Even I am not daring enough to ride unaccompanied.”

Anne smiled, forgetting for a
moment about the note that lay just inches away from her
slippered
foot. “Was the ride exhilarating then? You seem in such high spirits.”

Jane slapped her thigh and leaned
forward, resting her hands on her legs in a most unladylike manner.

“It was indeed. We took the
horses along Rotten Row and saw the funniest thing, Anne. You will never
believe it.”

Anne smoothed out her navy satin
skirts and crossed her ankles. It was not the first time that Jane had arrived
unannounced to tell her about some spectacle she had witnessed. Jane was a
kindly woman but she did enjoy gossip. Anne suspected that it had something to
do with her incredibly social nature.

“Pray tell me then, Lady Jane,
for I cannot wait.” Anne smiled as she offered her friend the encouragement she
needed.

“The Prince of
Wales.”
Jane pressed her lips together and Anne stared at her, knitting
her brows together in confusion.

“He was out riding?”

“Yes, dear.
But not alone.”

“Not alone?”

Jane shook her head. “No, Anne.
He was accompanied by three young ladies.”

“Three?”

Jane nodded. “And all three
smiled at
Prinny
as if he were the funniest and most
delightful young man they had ever seen—at least in 1816 anyway. I have no
doubt that next year, nay even next month, their attention will fall on another
and
he
will then be the handsomest
man around.”

Anne shook her head. The Prince
was no longer young or handsome but he was renowned for his womanizing. And for
the light skirts who unashamedly threw themselves into his path, desperate for
a token of his affection or for the power of being the royal mistress.

“Well, it gave an old woman
something to chuckle about, Anne. However, I can see now that you are rather
pale. What troubles you?”

“Nothing, Lady
Jane.
I am quite well.” Anne gritted her teeth. Jane would see through
her words without fail.

“No. You are…unwell, or…sad. That’s
it! You are sad, dear. Whatever has happened?”

Anne rang the bell for tea,
then
she proceeded to tell Jane all about how she had felt
upon first seeing Mr. Harper, and how she’d been excited at the prospect of him
accompanying her to Kent. As she spoke the words, sitting in the familiar small
dark parlor of the London townhouse, her sentiments seemed ridiculous to her
own ears. How could a grown woman be so disappointed about such a matter? What
had she expected? Mr. Harper was a handsome young man with all of London
society falling at his feet. Had she really been so foolish as to hope to bask
in his light, even if just for a month or so?

“Oh, Anne.
I feel responsible. I encouraged you to desire this gentleman’s company. I
wanted you to enjoy some attention while you are still young and beautiful, and
I do care so deeply for you. I am surprised at Mr. Harper’s change of plans. He
seemed most eager to make your acquaintance and he made himself available the
very next day to visit with you. I do believe that this matter must be more
complicated than it appears.”

Anne sipped her tea and nodded as
she listened to Jane, hoping that her friend was correct about the artist. Maybe
he had been delayed by genuine reasons.

Maybe.
Alternatively…
No sense dwelling on that, is
there? You are no sweet young maid. Your time for passion has gone—if it ever
really arrived.

“So what will you do, Anne?” Jane
patted her mouth with a white cotton handkerchief.

“I will return to Kent as planned
and prepare my lands for the winter. I will see out Christmas there then return
to London again in the spring.
The same routine.
The same as always.”

“At least there is comfort in
routine, dear.
Always a silver lining in every cloud.”

“Yes.” Anne smiled at Jane but
her thoughts drifted to the silver-grey eyes of the artist. To see those eyes
once more, to spend a while gazing into them, would indeed be an experience she
wished to enjoy.

“Well, let me describe
Prinny’s
amours to you, dear, for you will be astonished at
their attire. And on Rotten Row in the afternoon, too!”

As Jane launched into a detailed
description of the ladies accompanying the Prince of Wales, Anne sank into her
seat and tried to listen. Jane had a vivid memory and an eye for detail, and
her stories always cheered Anne immensely. But as she listened to this one, she
found herself drifting every so often as images of a golden-haired Adonis
filled her head with his shapely thighs, broad shoulders, and full, sensual
mouth. Posing for his sketches would have been an experience indeed, one in
which she would have been glad to divest herself of some of her own attire.

Such improper
thoughts for a woman, yet so enticing.
So liberating.
So unlike the woman she had become. So much like the woman she could only hope
to become.

Chapter Three

Anne returned to her country home
where she spent several busy weeks overseeing repairs on the house, checking up
on local tenants, and visiting neighbors she had known for years. Life in the
country could be just as much a social whirl as that in London. It seemed that
once the ton vacated the city, they resumed their rounds of parties, luncheons,
and card games with renewed vigor, only in a more rural setting. Whenever the
weather was fine, she was invited to ride out and
hunt,
and the evenings were filled with eating and drinking and dancing.