She had drawn it shortly after Lord Bridgeport arrived, and her mental turmoil must have affected both fingers and judgment.
This confrontation was more upsetting than she’d admitted. Had it influenced her other work? Again she thumbed the sketches, this time critically examining each picture before sighing in relief. Only one was bad.
Removing the offending page, she returned the rest to a drawer. There was no time to make a replacement today. She already risked being late for dinner. Thus she could no longer deliver the project to Mr. Holyoke when the party visited Bodmin tomorrow.
She sighed. During their four days in residence, the company had risen earlier each day until they were following her own schedule. It robbed her of the morning hours she normally used for work. And having no time to herself was not just affecting her drawing. She needed a period of peace to maintain her sense of worth, for try as she might, she could not ignore the cuts of these arrogant aristocrats.
Mr. Hardwicke was the worst. He was pursuing her favors with an unflattering relentlessness that made her want to scratch his eyes out. He had no real interest in her, even for dalliance, but he was locked in a silent struggle with Bridgeport. Every attention by the earl elicited matching attention from Hardwicke, and worse. That very morning he had followed her into the kitchen, trapped her in the pantry when Cook stepped out, and boldly caressed her breast.
She had ordered him to leave, aided by a knife that she picked up from a table, but his insistence left her shaking. Being treated like a light-skirt was a new and terrifying experience.
Lord Means was nearly as obnoxious, though he was concentrating on Anne. She and Anne had discussed the situation the night before, deciding that if it worsened, they would return home.
Elaine had been vacillating over whether to mention the problem to Bridgeport. Given his reputation, she was not convinced that he would decry the behavior of his friends.
Elaine’s relations with the female guests were also combative. Mrs. Woodleigh and Lady Means were lashing out at anyone who might thwart their personal plans. The widow used sly innuendo and open insult to keep the country upstart in her place. She was pushing hard to bring the earl up to scratch, so her antagonism increased whenever Bridgeport spoke with Elaine, especially when their exchanges erupted in laughter as they so often did. Lady Means was not much better, throwing her niece at Bridgeport, while monopolizing Miss Thompson herself. If Elaine had not been their target, she might have been amused.
Mr. Parrish lurked in the background like a malevolent spider. After he’d revealed Elaine’s identity that first night, Anne had related new tales she had heard from her cousin. Harold certainly had not improved with age. He was determined to stir up trouble. Sometimes he repeated rumors he claimed to have heard elsewhere. Often, he commiserated with Hardwicke’s gaming losses, hinting that the earl had cheated. He fanned jealousies – with snide remarks about Bridgeport’s first betrothal; by exaggerating the closeness between the Parrish and Thompson families; through set-downs of Mrs. Woodleigh’s ambitions; and by scoffing at Miss Throckmorton’s brazen flirtation. He also drew attention to every contact between the earl and Elaine, not even having to stretch the truth, for Bridgeport lost no opportunity to seek her out.
And that was her biggest problem. Nothing would dissuade him. Though he stuck to friendship, with only the lightest flirtation, she recognized his purpose. And he knew she did. Yet he continued.
Worse, she enjoyed their exchanges. Their shared interests showed in the quotation game they continued to play. She liked matching wits with him, but his undeniable appeal threatened to undermine her determination. It wasn’t fair that so handsome a gentleman should also possess charm, wit, and a well-formed mind. She had refused to recognize his animal attraction all those years ago in London, for such thoughts had no place in a moral mind. But that deliberate blindness had kept her from preparing for it, leaving her even more susceptible now. It was another reason to go home.
Yet she could not do it. No matter what excuse she offered, leaving must be interpreted as abandoning him, for he had made it clear that he wanted and needed her at the Manor. It would echo the way she had jilted him, reviving the memories and guaranteeing that the tale would spread far beyond Cornwall. These spiteful guests would gleefully repeat it in town, again exposing him to society’s wagging tongues. After all the public embarrassments he had suffered in the interim, and after Mr. Parrish’s malicious rumor campaign, she could not subject him to further humiliation.
And so she stayed.
But she would not accompany the group into town. Carefully locking the cottage door, she turned toward Treselyan Manor. She had to redraw that illustration, and what better time to do so than a day when everyone was gone? She might even be able to start the new commission.
But she did not want to answer questions about her plans. Burgess could tell Bridgeport at departure time that she was not going.
* * * *
Bridgeport closed the library door and thankfully sank into a chair.
The house party was even more irritating than he had expected. Caroline refused to take his hints, even though he’d pointedly avoided her bed. She believed his new propriety was a prelude to proposing. How could the woman delude herself so thoroughly? Besides being little more than a courtesan, her birth was hardly top-drawer. Her father was a baronet’s younger son, and her mother was the daughter of a country squire.
He may not have cared for any of his fiancées, but all had been ladies, something Caroline should know. But he could handle her. He could even handle Maude’s hints that he return to her arms. What he feared – and what had sent him to ground in the library – was being maneuvered into compromising Miss Throckmorton. The chit was not at all what he wanted for his second wife.
What
did
he want?
He frowned, his fingers steepling against his nose. Many of his ideas had been chiseled in stone since boyhood, such as never wedding anyone who might try to control him, which barred any emotional attachment. Even friendship could leave him vulnerable to manipulation.
On the other hand, he wanted no repeat of his first marriage. His wife must be attractive, and passionate enough that he could enjoy bedding her. But intimacy was not the only reason he now considered appearance. His countess must be installed at Bridgeport Abbey. Since he spent a month there each year checking the books, he would have to look at her even after she produced an heir. That was the second flaw in his original plan. He had never thought beyond his father’s death to the duties his wife must assume.
After his parents had died, he’d abandoned all thoughts of marriage, so relieved that his mother could no longer badger him about it that he was nearly giddy. Only recently had he admitted that it was time to take on another spouse. He was already nearly twice the age of the girls who appeared on the marriage mart each Season. They were looking younger and less attractive all the time. Miss Throckmorton was an excellent example. She hardly looked older than Helen to his eyes, though to be honest, Helen seemed far older than her years.
As soon as he returned to London, he would choose a wife. She must be demure enough to spare him tantrums, serious enough to refrain from endless chatter, yet intelligent enough to sustain a reasonable conversation. She must also be biddable, respecting his position as head of the family and allowing him to make all decisions without interference. And he needed someone capable of running the house without calling in a mother or some other managing female to help. His frown deepened. His requirements sounded incompatible – demure, quiet, and biddable, yet intelligent, passionate, and competent.
In the meantime, he would remain behind when his guests visited Bodmin. Aside from Richard’s warning – the marquess had a bad feeling about the journey – Mark needed some time to himself. On the pretext of estate problems, he had managed to slip away twice but it wasn’t enough. Even in London he had not spent more than a portion of his day in company. One of the expected benefits of rustication had been the luxury of uninterrupted time to reflect and to write. If he could get rid of the house party for the day, the solitude might soothe his spirit so that he could tolerate them a while longer.
But if he announced his intentions, Caroline would find a reason to stay with him. And others might follow suit. So he could not allow anyone to guess his plans.
A moment’s thought decided how. Freddie, the estate groom, would bring word of a minor problem just as they were leaving. He would urge the others to start, for on horseback he could easily catch up to the coaches. Only Richard would know that he had no intention of joining them.
Mark finally relaxed into a smile. This was a dirty trick to play on Elaine, of course, for she would be left to entertain his guests by herself, but he needed the solitude too much to care.
* * * *
Elaine sank onto her favorite rock and smiled. She had not felt this free in weeks. In fact, it was the first time since Helen’s arrival that she could be sure of an afternoon entirely alone.
The view was perfect today, the air holding no hint of haze. Patches of purple thrift, yellow daffodils, and the ubiquitous heather complemented the bright new growth of spring leaves. Sunlight glinted from the sea, which was as smooth as she had ever seen it after a week with no storms. The sky arched in a brilliant bowl overhead, lightly dotted with tiny puffs of cloud whose
raison d’être
was to emphasize the intense blue. Far out in the channel, the faintest hint of a sail bobbed in and out of sight. A hawk lazily floated above the moor. Leaves sighed in a gentle breeze, punctuated now and then by squabbles among the gulls.
A summer sky. Should it be seen through the lacy screen of a tree’s canopy, or from a forest glade with heavier foliage around the edge? She had tried both and was satisfied with neither. Without color, they did not work. And that was the trouble, for the impact of the sky came primarily from color. Pulling the verse from her bag, she again read Thornton’s words. Perhaps—
Frowning, she picked up her sketchbook and set to work.
* * * *
Mark waited until the carriages were out of sight before slipping out of the stable. Things had gone even better than planned. When the groom had pulled him aside, Burgess had also tried to speak privately to him. He had put the butler off until the stable problem was resolved. If anyone questioned him, he could now point to two crises that had arisen. Richard had instructions to inform Elaine of the truth before they reached Bodmin so that she would have some warning.
By the time he cleared the grounds and reached the cliff path, he felt as if the weight of the world had fallen from his shoulders. It had been several months since he had been able to enjoy this long a stretch with no obligations. And it was a beautiful day. He headed for the spot that had become his favorite, the cave and lawn halfway up Lookout Peak that offered such a marvelous view over moor and sea.
Tension flowed from his body. The sound of waves gently kissing the cliffs soothed his soul. Chattering sparrows contrasted with the majesty of a distant hawk. Words danced in his mind, weaving sun, bird, and water into a vision of peace that was abruptly shattered.
“What are you doing here?” he exploded as he rounded the last outcropping. Dressed in an old kerseymere gown, her hair pulled back in a simple knot, Elaine appeared so at home in this setting that she provided the final flourish to a perfect day.
But that thought proved so disturbing that he thrust it hastily aside.
“My lord!” She had been so intent on her drawing that she had not heard his approach. “Oh, drat, now I’ve ruined it.” The muttered words barely carried to his ears.
“May I see?” he asked curiously, but he was able to catch only the briefest glimpse as she quickly slipped the sketchbook into her bag.
“It is nothing, and I ruined it when you startled me.” Her heart threatened to burst from her chest – because he had surprised and frightened her, she decided firmly. And because his appearance threatened exposure of her professional identity.
“Why are you not in Bodmin?” Mark seated himself on a nearby boulder.
“I could ask the same of you, but I needed some time to myself. I am unaccustomed to this much socializing and find it wearing.”
“Precisely my reason,” he responded smoothly.
She raised her brows. “Doing it a bit brown, aren’t you, my lord? For someone who lives much of the year in London, you can hardly claim to be tired of company after less than a week.”
“Not at all. I have a number of activities, only a few of which involve society entertainments.”
“Of course,” she agreed, but her blush revealed her thoughts.
“For shame! That is not what I meant.” His teasing leer deepened her color.
“You don’t spend your days sparring, fencing, and shooting?” she riposted in mock astonishment. “Rumor has certainly misled a great portion of the country.”
“Baggage,” he chided. “I wonder how my houseguests will fare with neither of us to point out the sights.”
“You forget that your cousin stayed in Bodmin for a fortnight. He probably knows more about the town than you do.”
“True. I have only been there once, though I recall that visit with great pleasure.” His eyes caressed her and she again flushed.
“Enough, Lord Bridgeport. I remained behind today so that I could enjoy some solitude. Are you gentleman enough to accede to so simple a wish?”
“As did I. Since you have already claimed this spot, I will take myself elsewhere. But I do love this view.”
He was looking over the channel, so she accepted his words at face value. “It is probably the most beautiful spot in the area, and a wonderful place for thinking and dreaming.”
“Do you come here to dream, Miss Thompson?” he asked softly.
“More often to think. But everyone needs to dream now and then. It keeps life from becoming stagnant, for dreams can lead one in new directions.”