Chapter Seven
THE PAST
April 1804
Louisa scowled at her canvas. Something about it was wrong. She wasn’t entirely sure what, but the frustration clawed under her skin, tempting her to snap her paintbrush and hurl the canvas at the wall.
With a great deal of restraint, she refrained, settling for glaring at the otherwise innocuous portrayal of a riverbank. At first glance, there was nothing overtly the matter with it, but the more she looked, the more she could see the perspective was off. The colours weren’t right. Her brushstrokes were inaccurate.
“Gah!” She tossed her paintbrush into the jar of water and wiped her fingers on the cloth around her neck. A walk, perhaps, would help her see what she could do to fix this, or maybe even—
“Miss Louisa?” There was a knock at the door. “Your mother sent me to remind you that you will be leaving for Almack’s in just over an hour.”
Louisa turned her glare to the door.
Two months ago, she had exhibited at the Royal Academy after the Hanging Committee had selected one of her works. Her father had finally recognised her talent, and she had been able to come to an arrangement. He would hire a master to teach her, but only if she attended the balls and arrangements her mother (who did not believe a young lady should do something as unseemly as paint with oils) insisted upon.
Almack’s, having recently opened its doors to theton, was one of those obligations.
She flung the smeared cloth at the floor and scowled. An hour did not leave her enough time to readdress her painting; she would have to return to it again tomorrow.
It was not as though she disliked balls. Society was a tad overwhelming, but she enjoyed dancing and attention, both of which could be found aplenty at these events. It was just that right now she had rather donothingelse but paint.
“Very well,” she called back, knowing a response was required. “I’ll be out soon.”
“Thank you, miss. I’ll be upstairs waiting for you.”
Louisa sighed, but began the tedious task of putting everything away and cleaning her brushes with turpentine. Once she was done, she made her way upstairs to be fussed over, changed at top speed, and for her hair to be meticulously curled.
Staring at her reflection in the mirror, she wondered idly whether any man would propose to her, and what she would say when she refused him. No gentleman, she was certain, would allow her painting to continue, and thus she had no intention of marrying any of them. The only thing she did have some interest in, however—being taken somewhere private and kissed—no gentleman had done. Despite being eighteen years of age, she remained firmly unkissed, and she was entirely unsure how to rectify that. Even the most hardened rakes with the worst of reputations had shown no interest in her.
Briefly, she thought of the boy in the maze. He, too (although he had not been a hardened rake) had not kissed her.
It was, frankly, a distinct disappointment.
“There,” her maid said, stepping back. “Your mother is waiting for you.”
Louisa gave her a brief smile. “Thank you, Lucy.”
Lucy nodded, wiping her hands on her skirts, and Louisa paused only to clasp a gold bracelet around her wrist before descending to where her mother was waiting at the bottom of the stairs.
Immediately, her mother scowled, the peacock feather on her turban quivering with disapproval. “Really, Louisa,” she scolded, beckoning Louisa closer with short, sharp movements that reminded her of a bird of prey. “You are barely presentable.”
“I thought this dress looked well on me.” Louisa turned, letting the taffeta rustle. “Do you not agree?”
With a harrumph, her mother guided her to the carriage and they made their way to another dull evening.
If one’s only aspiration was to engage with a gentleman for half an hour of his time, and to swoon over the fleeting touch of his hand, then she understood the appeal of such an engagement. Otherwise, it seemed a lot of energy for little reward.
Certainly no stolen kisses. The Patronesses were bound to be there, watching and judging all, and if there was any place for a little misadventure, it was not under the eagle eyes of the staidest ladies thetonhad to offer.
They arrived well before the doors closed at eleven, and Louisa allowed herself to be swept inside. The large ballroom had beenawe-inspiring at first, but she was used to the sight by now, and it did little to intimidate her. She merely swept her gaze across the assembled ladies and gentlemen, searching for a friendly face. If there was one thing she had not done over the course of her Season so far, it was make many friends amongst her peers.
Most of the time, she did not consider it a loss, but when there was no party she felt compelled to join in this large crowd, she felt a little adrift. Her mother’s arm was the only thing holding her in place, and even that was a dubious comfort. She wished she was back with her paints. Wished she was in the gardens at Bath, avoiding Miss Huxley and finally savouring what it meant to be free.
Her gaze landed on a face that was familiar yet distant. A stubborn jaw, full lips, sharp cheekbones that seemed to slash down his face. And yes, there, eyes the same shade as the winter sky.
She frowned, trying to place him.
