around his neck, and almost as if they were married, they dressed each other for the chill beyond the door. “You’ll show the nominating committee the sketch of the boys’ portrait?”
“Of course.” He did not tell her he might come back for a few more sittings, because French dragoons couldn’t have marched him back at gunpoint. Until she left for Paris, he’d be wise not to set foot anywhere in Kent. “You won’t lose the direction for my man of business?”
She stroked an ungloved hand over his scarf. “I promise, Elijah. Good-bye.” Without warning, she went up on her toes and kissed him. “Safe journeys, and Elijah?”
Somewhere nearby, a sprig of mistletoe hung—or should be hanging. Elijah kissed her back. “What?”
“Go home. Reconcile with your family. I’m leaving my family behind, but I’ll also take them with me in a sense, if they’ll allow it. You can’t racket around forever, pretending you’re an orphan when you’re a titled lord with a family you love, and who loves you.”
This was not what he’d expected from her in parting. He escorted her from the house, lest he be tempted to kiss her again. “Is that advice my Christmas token from you?”
“No.” She fumbled about beneath her cloak and produced a small packet wrapped in red paper and tied with a green bow. “This is.”
“Thank you.” Whatever it was, it was small enough that Elijah could tuck it into his pocket. “I have something for you as well. You must open it in private.”
He led her to his horse, opened the leather tube he used for keeping sketches safe in transport, and passed her a small paper rolled up with a red ribbon. “In private, Genevieve. Happy Christmas.”
Mistletoe bedamned, waiting groom bedamned, and whatever eyes were watching their parting from the house be double damned, he wrapped his arms around her and kissed her full on the mouth.
“I wish things could be different, Genevieve Windham. I wish it with my whole heart.”
She rubbed her cheek against his scarf as if drawing in his scent one last time. “I double damned, perishing wish they could too, Elijah Harrison.”
He stepped back, relieved to see she was smiling, because then he could smile too. The groom was busily studying the snowy driveway, which was fortunate, because those smiles—and the pain they held—said worlds about what might have been, what should have been, and what would never be.
Louisa, Countess of Kesmore, paused to admire her son, who gurgled up at his mother happily. “I believe this child will have his father’s nose.”
Jenny looked away from the mutual admiration society that was mother and son, to yet another gray winter day beyond the window—the third such day she’d spent under her sister’s roof. This time.
“Joseph has a lovely nose. A nose suited to his character.” The child, however, had his mother’s nose. Any fool could see that.
Louisa tucked the infant against her shoulder. “One forgets you study things like noses. Was it so awful at Morelands?”
Yes, it had been. More awful than usual, which Jenny blamed on Elijah Harrison, Lord Bernward, painter of portraits and stealer of hearts.
“Just the usual: Her Grace could not decide which suite should be assigned to which family, though we went through the same exercise last year and nobody complained regarding their quarters. She couldn’t decide whether to assign the children a separate breakfast parlor, make up a children’s parlor in the nursery wing, or have everybody share the usual breakfast parlor closest to the kitchens.” Jenny rose to pace Louisa’s private sitting room, lest she start shouting. “Mama thought perhaps the open house should start earlier, then decided that no, the family should have an hour or so to gather before the guests arrive. And then the menus…”
The duchess could spend days dithering over menus, when she knew down to the smallest grandchild what each individual’s preferences were.
Louisa sat the child in her lap, holding his tiny hands in hers. “When was the last time you painted something, Jenny?”
“I haven’t been one place long enough to set up my easel.” And she’d been drafting chatty, curious notes to her aunt Arabella, who’d often traveled to Paris early in her marriage.
Louisa’s mouth quirked, suggesting Jenny’s usual talent for dissembling wasn’t going to meet with success. “I thought you’d cobbled together a studio of sorts in the east wing at Morelands, near the nursery suite.”
This was why Jenny had sent a desperate request to her sister, begging an invitation to visit, why she’d fled—
“Her Grace decided paint fumes would be harmful to the children and instructed the footmen to pack up my ‘artistic whatnot’ until after the holidays.”
Louisa paused in the entertainment of the chubby little fellow on her lap. “Unpack your whatnot. Tell Her Grace that, of the seventy-three private rooms at Morelands, you need one for your art. That’s not too much to ask, Sister mine.”
Louisa would have asked. She would have done so at a family meal, debated with her own mother until she’d gotten the room of her choice, and then had it set up exactly to her liking before sunset on the same day.
“I did ask. She said she’d think about which room she could spare for my little hobby, and, Sister, I wanted to perishing shriek at her.” Bloody, perishing, damned shriek, at her own mother.
“Don’t we all, occasionally?”
Jenny had paced half the length of the parlor before Louisa’s words registered. “You want to shriek at
“This is the selfsame Her Grace who gave me
“I’m sorry.” And this was exactly the kind of sibling support Jenny was going to miss terribly when she moved to Paris. “I hadn’t realized she’d done that. What was she trying to accomplish?”
“Take this baby, please. One cannot drink tea and hold Kesmore’s heir, lest one’s clothing comes to grief.”
Jenny obediently took custody of her nephew, a stout, cheerful infant who would be crawling ere long—which she would not be on English soil to see.
“Her Grace sent the tutor packing because I had exceeded his abilities, I’m guessing, but he was still somebody with whom I could discuss my translations, and that was…”
“Important to you. This child has gotten heavier since I was here barely a week ago.”
“They do that, rather like men get handsomer when you fall in love with them. I received a note from Her Grace this morning, Jenny.”
Louisa’s voice had lost its typical brisk, pragmatic inflection. Jenny cuddled the child closer and braced herself accordingly. “And?”
“Your parole is at an end. She must have you back before next week’s guests arrive, but don’t worry.” Louisa patted Jenny’s hand. “When I take you home, I’ll make sure your studio is reestablished, and not in some priest’s hole or butler’s pantry, either.”
“A butler’s pantry might do, Louisa, if it were entirely mine and had at least one decent window.”
Louisa set down her teacup and scooped her firstborn away from Jenny. “That’s the problem with you, Genevieve. You are too nice. You ought to have a fit of the sulks, grumble to Papa, and pick at your food until Her Grace realizes she’s blundered—Papa is very obliging about these things when he thinks he’s being clever. Mama is proud, but she does love us.”
Louisa understood cause and effect the way Jenny understood images and light, and yet the idea of sulking, grumbling, and dissembling in this fashion was… exhausting. “If you’re to return me to my dungeon, I’d best gather my things.”
Louisa rose with the child on her hip. “Yes, you had. Joseph had a note from Mr. Harrison.”
Jenny rose too, hoping the weakness in her knees was momentary. “I trust he fares well?”
“He’s considering some commissions in Northumbria. Said he’s taken an interest in juvenile portraits, of all things, and that the Academy’s nominating committee was very encouraging when they saw his sketches of Sophie’s boys. What do you suppose Papa has gotten Her Grace for Christmas this year?”
“I haven’t the least notion what His Grace has gotten for Mama. Northumbria is lovely this time of year, and
