“Do you intend to marry Miss Winton?”
He hesitated, but there was little point avoiding the truth. “No.”
“Then you should tell her. When do you leave for London?”
“How do you know I intend to leave?”
“Because if I were you, darling, I would not want to stay.”
Well, she was hardly wrong there. “I think I’ve played my part here. I leave tomorrow morning.”
Caroline gave a luxurious stretch, and although her luscious curves held no appeal for Henry, he could see why Comerford was so captivated. “Very well,” she said in a low, throaty voice. “Out of pity for you and love of my friend, I will bring Miss Winton here so you may speak with her. That’s your intent, is it not?”
Resignation settled over him. “Yes.”
“You may thank me later. Is there anything else I can help you with?”
Asking her to persuade Louisa to accept his suit was out of the question; he doubted she would be so inclined. She was another widow with no clear intention of marrying again. No doubt she had already taken him in dislike.
“No,” he said. “Except . . . You must know, Lady—Caroline, that my regard for Louisa is not monetary. Years ago, when I refused her, it was as much for her sake as mine. My family commitments, my lack of ability to provide for her—she knows this.”
Caroline tilted her head. “And yet you come back into her life, make it plain you must marry, and at the first possible moment, you offer her marriage.” She clucked her tongue. “I wash my hands of the two of you.” She rose, brushing down her dress. “Wait here. I’ll bring Miss Winton to you. And, Eynsham, if you don’t mind me saying, you should tell Louisa you love her. Maybe it will achieve nothing. But perhaps . . .” She raised a plump shoulder. “Good luck.”
He was distinctly certain he would need it.
Chapter Twenty-Three
THE PAST
April 1805
Louisa waited on the pavement outside the Royal Academy, praying it didn’t rain as her footman maintained a sour silence behind her. According to her mother, she was meeting her friend Beatrice Lacey. Instead, she was waiting for Henry to escort her through the Royal Academy. The footman, Peter, knew as much, but he was also stepping out with Lucy, Louisa’s maid, and he knew to keep in her good books, he would have to keep the true nature of this visit a secret.
A cool wind blew the scent of rain with it, and as a few drops splattered her face, she spied Henry striding towards her. Perhaps she was biased, but she thought he was probably the most handsome man in all of London. The deep navy of his waistcoat only highlighted the stern beauty of his face, softenedby a mouth that could have made angels weep. Crisp, cool, and very much in control. As always.
He smiled when he saw her, and the tension she had been unaware of holding melted. “Miss Picard,” he said, and she held out her hand to him. Eyes on hers, he bent and kissed her fingertips. A shiver ran through her.
She nodded at the doors of the exhibition. “I hope you’re prepared.”
“You make it sound as though we will be facing something more fearsome than mere art.” He tucked her hand into his arm, and she picked up her skirts as they walked through the archways into the New Somerset House where the exhibition was currently being held.
The Summer Exhibition was usually held for a month, and this was the second year running that she’d had a piece accepted. As they walked through the large, open rooms, paintings displayed on all sides, she released a sigh of relief. Being here made her feel at ease all over again, as though she had come home.
“Am I supposed to know which is yours?” he murmured in her ear.
“Not yet. Wait.” She came to one. “What do you think of this?”
He stared at the large landscape, capturing distant workers shirtless under the hot sun. A river wound in the foreground, and in the distance there were hills.
“Is this yours?” he asked, looking at the workers.
She laughed. “No. See here how the perspective is wrong? The angle of the river against the men here?”
“I see,” he said, although his tone was doubtful. “So you don’t think it’s good?”
“The brushwork is excellent,” she allowed. “And the colours are vivid, if not always accurate. It makes for a striking picture.”
“But you don’t like it?”
