“Men cannot bear children,” he said.
“Perhaps not,” Louisa said, “but they certainly assist in producing them. You could argue, in fact, that there would not be any children at all if it were not for the work of men.”
The man’s cold grey eyes rested on her for a second, a flicker of interest in their depths. “An interesting perspective, Miss . . .?”
“Miss Louisa Picard,” she said, extending a hand. “And you are?”
“Mr Knight.”
“Well then, Mr Knight. I feel obliged to point out that I have not offered an interesting perspective, but a fact of nature. Do you dispute that men are necessary in the conceiving of children?”
“This is hardly a proper conversation to be having with a stranger,” Henry said in her ear.
Of course he would think so, deeply uncomfortable with the discussion of intimacy as he was. She looked up into his face and saw not just discomfort but genuine concern.
“How enlightening,” Mr Knight said gravely. “And do you consider yourself an expert on the matter?”
“I think anyone with an approximate understanding of human biology would be enough of an expert to state that fact unequivocally,” Henry said, one hand still on her arm. His fingers were tight, and she wondered at his hold until she saw the calculating look in Mr Knight’s eyes.
“Ah,” Mr Knight said, looking at Henry. “I do not believe we’ve met, sir.”
“Lord Eynsham,” Henry said shortly. “Forgive me, but we should really be going. Good day.”
A young lady bounded up to Mr Knight, rosy cheeks aglow and grey eyes dancing with unrestrained mirth. “I told you, Vincent, coming here is not to discuss the merit of art, but to have fun. Do excuse my brother,” she said to them. The first thing that Louisa noticed about her was the freedom of her expression, so different from the carefully blank faces of the ladies in theton. Her fingers itched to paint her.
“There is nothing to excuse,” she said at once. “He was merely discussing the merits of female domesticity.”
The girl glanced at the painting for a moment, but it was clear she saw nothing to capture her attention. “Yes, it is droll, I suppose, to think domesticity is a painting and a dog,” she said, and dismissed it altogether. “Come, Vincent. I must have you meet my friend. Pray excuse us for leaving so rudely, and forgive my brother for his tactlessness.”
Mr Knight’s calculating expression dissolved into a genuine smile at his sister’s urging, and he tipped his hat to them as he left, dragged away to another party. A somewhat boisterous one, and exceedingly merry.
Henry looked down at her seriously, then back at her controversial painting. “Perhaps, for your standing in Society, you should reconsider telling people your name when you are standing in front of a divisive painting.”
Something sank inside her. “So you disapprove?”
“Of the sentiment?” He glanced at her, and she saw the corner of a small smile. “Not in the slightest. But I would not call myself usual among men. Another gentleman may not feel the same way, and if it comes out that you are the artist, things may become difficult for you.”
Usually, a woman could not be both a lady and an artist; she had to choose one or the other.
“If I want to claim this as my own,” she said, the feeling of uncertainty rising in her chest, a black tide that threatened to swallow her pride. “Would you still want to marry me?”
He took her hand, thumb swiping over her glove. “Louisa, my love.” His voice was warm, but his eyes were solemn, dark-ringed and drawing her to him like a fly to honey. “Nothing could stop me from wanting to marry you.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
PRESENT DAY
April 1815
Henry did not have to wait long for Miss Winton to appear, a candle in one hand and a murmur to someone on the other side of the door. No doubt Caroline, keeping watch for any signs of someone coming to interrupt them.
A kindness that oddly touched him.
Miss Winton’s gaze was on his as she advanced. “I hope this is not an assignation,” she said in her usual blunt way. “That is not the relationship I have any desire for.”
“I know.” He dropped into a chair. “Believe me, it is not what I would wish either. I merely wanted to speak to you away from your mother.”
Her unsettlingly direct gaze on his face, she placed the candle down. “I see.”
