Lady Jenny's Christmas Portrait

enough still lifes to cover every surface in Carlton House.” She aimed a glare at the hearth. “I’ve sketched Timothy in every position imaginable from every possible angle.”

Dislike for this Timothy fellow rose up, ranking nearly equal with dislike for holiday folderol—most holiday folderol. “Who is Timothy?”

Her glower shifted, taking on a hint of despair. “My blasted cat.”

He might have laughed, out of relief, but the image of her relegated to depending on the patience of a mute beast was not amusing. “Try something for me, Genevieve.”

“We need to find some toys,” she said as if she hadn’t heard him. “The boys will be here directly, and if we don’t entertain them, they’ll entertain themselves.”

Dreadful thought. “This won’t take but a moment. I want you to curse.”

Not only were her arms crossed, but she’d drawn herself up, aligned herself with some invisible, invincible posture board such as Helen of Troy might have relied upon to get all those ships launched in a single day. “I beg your pardon?”

“Curse. Call him your blasted, damned cat.”

Her brows knitted, making her look like one of Kesmore’s daughters. “I love Timothy.”

“Of course you do.” Lucky cat. “But you do not love having to rely on his good offices for your candlelit sketches.” He prowled closer. “You do not love being shuffled about from family member to family member.” Another step, so he was almost nose to nose with her. “I daresay you do not love baking.”

“I rather don’t.”

He unwrapped her arms and kept her hands in his. “Genevieve.”

“I do not enjoy baking in the least.”

He waited, certain if he were patient, she’d rise to the challenge.

The corners of her mouth quivered. “I perishing hate all the mess and heat.”

“Of course you do.”

“It’s a dashed nuisance, and one gets sticky.” A smile started, turning up her lips, lighting her eyes.

“How sticky?

“Blasted, damned sticky.”

“Say it again.”

She beamed at him. “Perishing, blasted, damned, damned sticky.”

He wrapped his arms around her. “Well done. You must curse for me more often, Genevieve. It makes your eyes dance.”

And her cursing made him happy too. As she hugged him back, it occurred to Elijah that Christmas was touted as the season for giving, though in recent years, the occasion hadn’t arisen for him to do much of that.

He’d give to her. He’d give her a safe place to curse, a place to draw as she pleased, and some kisses. If he counted his approval of the mistletoe tradition, that was two holiday sentiments in one morning.

Elijah dropped his arms and stepped back. Two sentiments signified nothing.

“You said something about toys?”

She blinked, though the smile did not entirely leave her countenance. “Toys. Yes, for the children.”

“So I might pose them with their familiar objects?”

“Why, no, Elijah. We need toys because we’re going to spend the next hour playing.”

Myriad prurient connotations danced in his head in the instant he stared down at her. He mentally nudged them aside when he should have taken a cricket bat to them. “Playing?”

“I assumed you’d take Sir Joshua’s approach to children as subjects.”

She had gold flecks in those green eyes, and Elijah didn’t know any Sir Josh— “Sir Joshua Reynolds. He played with the children he painted.”

“Of course.” She took a step back, looking self-conscious. “Not everybody ascribes to the same method, but these are very young children. I assumed you’d—”

“Of course. The children will have to be comfortable with me if I’m to spend hours taking their likeness. Toys are a given.”

He’d dreaded this aspect of the commission. Dreaded the notion of getting down on the floor and playing at jacks or Patience or some inane, juvenile pastime. The dread had faded to a mild distaste. “What do you recommend?”

She prattled on about playing cards and spinning tops, toy soldiers, and jumping ropes, while Elijah thought back through their short, unusual conversation. He did not want to spend the morning playing with children, but he’d manage that.

Something she’d said had pleased him, pleased him even more than her hesitant, polite cursing. Something she’d said rivaled even that kiss, which he took as a perfunctory nod to holiday protocol on her part, one that had turned pleasurable and sweet despite its origins in seasonal nonsense.

Something…

He lit upon it with the glee of a boy opening a holiday present, absolutely certain his heart’s desire lay under the pretty paper.

He’d called her Genevieve, and she hadn’t objected. Again, she hadn’t objected, and better still, she had called him Elijah.

* * *

Jenny had a list of questions for her mother, questions she’d never ask. One of those questions was about grief: Does one keep having babies because the little ones grow up and get too big to cuddle in one’s arms or sit in one’s lap? Does one keep having babies—a dangerous, messy, uncomfortable proposition—because it’s the only way to keep one’s heart from breaking?

And then a question Jenny had barely let herself acknowledge: How did one cope when two beloved children had died as young men and no baby, no grandchild, no anything would ever bring them back?

Her thoughts were interrupted when William came barreling toward her on his chubby legs, Kit right behind and a harried nursemaid bringing up the rear. Jenny scooped up the smaller child and held out her hand to his older brother.

“My very best boys! How glad I am to see you!”

“You saw us last night,” Kit said. “Is that the painter man?”

Mr. Harrison’s brows rose at this rudeness. “I am Elijah Harrison, and I am here to make a painting of you and your brother.”

“Can I paint too?”

“May I,” Jenny murmured.

Little William chose that moment to swat her nose. “Paint!”

Mr. Harrison marched up to her and took William from her arms. “Draw first, with pastels, which have no sharp points. And you, sir, are not to be raising your hand to the ladies.”

William made a grab for Mr. Harrison’s chin. “Down! Paint!”

“He wants to get down and paint,” Kit volunteered. “I want a scone.”

“Later. You just had your porridge,” Jenny said.

Mr. Harrison brushed a finger down William’s little nose. “You’re going to turn your nose blue, like some warrior of old with his woad, and try the same thing on your brother. I have five little brothers at home just like you. Then you’ll eat my pastels, and I’ll have to limit my landscapes to cloudy days with no pretty skies.”

William was a fickle child. He was very shy of his uncles Benjamin and Valentine, and had a shrieking, unrelenting loathing for two of the footmen. He loved his uncles Gayle and Devlin, and the cat Timothy as well— most days. He was also, the little wretch, instantly enthralled with Mr. Harrison.

“Down!”

Mr. Harrison did not turn loose of his captive. “My lady, I think it best to put that tea service up where it will not tempt small boys.”

“Of course.” Jenny put the tray with its steaming blue teapot on the corner table, among the pigments, tablets, pens, and pencils. “Did you intend to get out the pastels?”

Mr. Harrison’s expression was resigned, while on his hip, William beamed cherubically. “He really will try to