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Abram glanced around at one of his oldest friends, despite him being in the employ of his family. “Would a painter have a valet?”
Rowan screwed his brows down tight. “Maybe if you were French.”
Abram chuckled. “No, I shall go it alone. Besides, these people are harmless. I’m a big lad. I can handle a few young misses and a mama. As long as her daughters use the portrait and miniatures to nab a dance partner, she will be happy.”
“Who said they were the ones I was worried about?”
“Oh, a dagger to the heart this early in the day,” Abram said, walking across the street and narrowly missing a passing carriage. He jumped backward, casting a glance over his shoulder. “Perhaps you’re right. I cannot be trusted to cross the road without a chaperone.”
“You laugh, but I’ve seen the trouble you may cause on your own.”
Abram did not return the barb. Instead, he entered the gates of Gray Manor and soundly prepared to knock.
Before his knuckles could even reach the smooth, wood surface, the oversized white door swung open. “Good day, sir,” the butler said, his livery impressive. “Please come in. Madame Gray is awaiting your arrival in the salon.”
Abram placed his card on the waiting silver tray and passed his hat to the doorman. The wooden bin with his painting supplies clinked as the butler led the way through the spacious home. A grand staircase curved its way up along the wall. The hallway was a masterpiece with gas lighting fixtures, set against sky-colored walls. Light, golden touches screamed opulence, the doorways to the various rooms they passed topped off with arched molding. He would scarcely believe there was no man of the house, though he had heard the lady of the house was a widower.
Scandal sheets rarely spared the details on members of society.
“Here we are,” the butler said, opening the door and stepping in. Abram walked past him with a nod.
“Mr. Aldridge Fain, ma’am.”
Abram nearly forgot his assumed name. But given the beauty before him, no one would have blamed him. There were more ladies than he’d anticipated. There was the matron, but there were also four young ladies, one of them with eyes that sparkled like diamonds and a face into which the gods must have poured every ounce of their talent. She was heavenly, the golden hue of her dress a complement to her warm, brown skin. Who was she?
“Thank you, Dorchester,” the eldest of the women said as she stood up in an elegant blue dress with a tail as long as train smoke. “Mr. Fain, welcome to our home. I am Mrs. Seraphine Ambrette Gray, and these are my daughters, Miss Violetta Gray”—she waved a hand, pointing at each woman—“Miss Orris, and my niece Gladys Gray, in addition to my eldest, Viscountess Fredericks and her husband, Samuel, Viscount Fredericks.”
So her name was Orris. Part of an iris, and added to perfumes, if he recalled correctly. He immediately yearned to smell her sweet fragrance.
If Abram had his way, he would paint her forever. Deep inside his chest, he felt a shift. The oddest thing, he thought as he rubbed absently at the center of his vest. “How do you do?” he said, adding a bow. “It is my pleasure to be of service to such a handsome family.”
Mrs. Gray offered him her hand, to which he placed a kiss.
“Shall we get started? Where would you like us? Or would you like some refreshments first?” Mrs. Gray spoke rapidly, the excitement in her voice palpable.
“No, ma’am. Thank you. I should like to see the room with the most natural light. I find the sun offers the most beautiful, how shall I say… luminescence to people with brown skin such as ours.” He waved his hand about in a circular motion, accentuating the point. While he was not lying, as he had found variances between indoor and natural lighting, he knew people appreciated eccentricities in artists.
“Of course,” Mrs. Gray said. Her face lit with a bright smile. She was a handsome woman, her enthusiasm evident from her hands clasped at her chest. “I believe you would find the ballroom, overlooking the gardens, would best suit your needs.” She waved an arm toward the hallway.
“Please… lead the way,” he said.
“Do call me ‘Seraphine.’ I believe we are going to be very good friends, Mr. Fain.”
With a slight tip of his head, he offered her what he hoped was a genuine smile. “And you may call me ‘Aldridge.’ I am very pleased to make your acquaintance.”
“As are we,” the viscount said, stepping forward. The man was taller and seemed intent on making Abram aware of his protectiveness over every lady in the room.
Fine by Abram. He had no intention of doing anything untoward to, rather with, any of the Gray ladies. The last thing he wanted was to sully the reputation of his assumed name when it was still so new.
“Certainly, my lord. Should you like a separate painting of you and the viscountess?” No sense in making an enemy, either. Abram knew the viscount as well from the scandal rags. He would likely want a painting to hang in Fredericks House, given he was newly wed.
“I hadn’t thought of it, actually.” He turned to see his wife, and the most remarkable thing occurred. On his face was the unmistakable soft expression of love. “Shall we, my darling?”
“I think it a fine idea,” she agreed. Her eyes appeared warm, as if she were delighted in her viscount. The viscount echoed back that fondness as he regarded her.
Abram had not expected to witness such a thing in his lifetime. He had yet to see a pair so genuinely in love. There had been rumors that a husband and wife would marry as a love match—he found that more likely among the working class, though he knew the gentry purported it to happen to them, too. But to identify the depth of a pair’s feelings for one another at a glance? The thought of his own father’s relationship with Ma had dashed any such thought of true affection. “Right. I shall arrange it once done with your mother-in-law and siblings.”
Abram turned away as the pair reached for one another, just as the viscountess was folded into an embrace. He did not want to believe in a world where his mother suffered so much, there was a love such as theirs burning so brightly.
