He looked down at her hand, which lingered on his arm a touch longer than was proper, then into her face. She gazed back at him, careful to keep her expression worshipful.
He shifted back in his seat, as if he wished to get away from her. “Yes. Clever. Thank you, Lady Eleanor.”
After a moment, Eleanor removed her hand and ducked back under her hat, but not before she got a glimpse of his face. Oh, dear—he did look annoyed, as if nothing irritated him more than a scatterbrained woman.
What a shame, for she felt an alarming case of scattered brains coming on. Like seeds on the wind, they’d scatter all over London.
Chapter Six
Whoever had said ignorance was bliss was an infamous liar.
Eleanor cocked her head to the left, then to the right, but it was no use. Try as she might, she couldn’t think of one insipid comment to make about the painting. After three days of pretending to be a half-wit, her brain had at last rebelled. It refused to produce a single inane observation.
Ignorance, as it happened, was dreadfully hard work.
Camden West studied her, waiting for her to say something about Benjamin West’s paintingCupidStung by a Bee.
But she had nothing to say. Her fountain of foolishness had run dry.
Blast it.She’d been looking forward to the Royal Academy’s exhibit. She’d planned to view the selection of paintings and drawings at her leisure, but now her visit was spoiled by Camden West, who’d insisted on escorting her here today.
Three days. Three endless days, during which time he’d called on her three times, taken her on three afternoon drives in Hyde Park during the fashionable hour, escorted her to Lady Davenport’s musical evening, and monopolized her dance card at Lord and Lady Henslow’s masque ball. All of London was gossiping about them, and her mother had given her a speculative look at breakfast this morning.
Three days, and he’d not yet tired of his pursuit. She couldn’t account for it. She’d been so staggeringly silly she could hardly standherselfanymore. Since their arrival at the Royal Academy she’d confused a Raeburn portrait with one of Mr. Wilkie’s landscapes, and referred to Mr. Beechey’s portrait of the Duke of Cambridge as “lopsided.”
Camden West hadn’t so much as twitched an eye.
“Well? What do you think of the painting, Lady Eleanor?”
Ellie bit her lip with annoyance. How condescending he sounded! No doubt he was smirking at her, his full, handsome lips lifted at the corners.
She stole a glance at him out of the corner of her eye.Infuriating man. Hewassmirking. Oh, how she’d love to put him in his place. She longed to say that though she preferred Reynolds’ work to West’s, she thought West’s portrayal of Venus, with her cold, detached profile, was a fine example of the Neo-classical school.
“The poor child,” she said instead. “He’s rather pretty, isn’t he? Whatever is the matter with him?”
“He’s been stung by a bee. If you look here, my lady,” he pointed to the brass plaque displayed underneath the painting, “you’ll see the work is titledCupid Stung by a Bee.”
Eleanor hadn’t thought it possible for him to becomemorecondescending, but she hadn’t given him enough credit. She gritted her teeth to bite back a sharp retort, and squinted at the plaque. “Ah, so it does. But I don’t see a bee in this painting. Where do you suppose the bee is?”
He made a noise that sounded like a hastily smothered snort.
“I believe we’re meant to imagine the bee has come and gone already. See how Venus is holding Cupid’s hand? It looks as if she’s inspecting the sting.”
“Venus?” Eleanor moved so close to the painting her nose nearly brushed the canvas. “Where?”
Mr. West cleared his throat. “Cupid’s mother, Lady Eleanor. Venus. Perhaps if you back up a bit you’ll gain a better understanding of the composition in its entirety.”
“Who, the half-dressed lady reclining on the couch?” Eleanor sniffed. “She looks like a scold.”
He appeared not to know what to say to this, and Eleanor felt a surge of hope. Surely speechlessness was a good sign? “Mr. Thompson’s Eurydice is in questionable taste,” she said, determined to press her advantage. “Her pose is vulgar, and I don’t think the infernal regions an appropriate subject for ladies. Don’t you agree, Mr. West?”
Mr. West did not appear to agree. In fact, if she could judge from the irritated flush on his cheeks, he wished someone would dragherto the infernal regions, right along with Eurydice.
Ah, wonderful—a crack in his façade. “As for William Westall’s view of Richmond—”
“Denny! Over here!”
Eleanor didn’t recognize the high-pitched voice, or the name Denny, and she wouldn’t have paid the shout any mind at all, except Mr. West’s gaze jerked from her face over her shoulder and fixed there with such an odd expression, such a surprising combination of exasperation and affection, Eleanor turned at once to locate the source of the voice.
