Lady Jenny's Christmas Portrait

When would you like to begin on our project?”

She left off running her finger down the mantel above his fireplace. “Tomorrow morning. You will meet with me first, and then we’ll summon His Grace and make haste before the rest of the family arrives at week’s end, if that suits?”

She was as accomplished at issuing orders as her husband was. “That will suit perfectly.” Particularly if he was to complete two portraits in less time than many would need for one.

“I’ll wish you good day, then, Bernward. If you’ve any correspondence to send, you can leave it on the desk in the library. We do not dress for dinner except on Christmas Day and Sundays, and of course for the open house. You will attend services with us, weather permitting.”

“Of course, Your Grace.” He bowed to her in parting, feeling as if a military fanfare should have started up as she swept from the room.

She was a gracious hostess and a woman intent on securing a holiday gift for her husband, but that she was more worried about the sage hanging near his clothes or the dust on the mantel than about a compliment to her daughter’s talent made Elijah want to… pitch his stockings at her.

* * *

Elijah Harrison was a demon, a slave-driving fiend.

“You have once again neglected the shadows, Genevieve. Here”—he gestured to the folds of the curtains in her sketch—“and here. Whether they are crisp folds or soft, whether they hang exactly straight or a trifle rumpled, it all makes a difference to the image you convey.”

She was going to clobber him with her sketchbook then dance a gavotte on his elegant, talented fingers while wearing her riding boots.

“This is a sketch, Mr. Harrison. This is not the finished portrait of my mother. Your shadows are no better defined than my own.”

Dark eyebrows rose up, and he stepped away from the table where their day’s work was displayed side by side. “What do you mean?”

She pointed to the hearth beside Her Grace’s seat in his drawing. “That is a gesture, not a rendering. The light sources in any painting are of a paramount importance, and you’ve barely hinted at the dimensions of the fireplace.”

His hands went to his hips, and he seemed to grow not just taller, but larger. “I know that, Genevieve, but having painted several hundred portraits, I also know that wasting my time in pencil on an object that can be rendered accurately only with paint is dithering.”

She closed the space between them. “And your carping on my perishing, damned shadows is the same!”

That felt good. The consternation in his eyes when she used foul language felt very good indeed, almost as good as kissing him.

“We’re tired,” he said, his gaze on their sketches. “All of this will be here in the morning. We can shout at each other further then. Better still we’ll get out the paints and inspire you to more cursing. Please promise me, however, that you won’t curse in front of your parents.”

As if she could.

She was tired, tired from spending most of the day in this room with Elijah Harrison, being close enough to catch his lavender scent, to see the way he studied his sketch as if composing a sermon for its betterment, to watch how his beautiful lips firmed when he was concentrating most closely on his work.

Jenny was also tired from trying to see her parents not as the people she’d known and loved since birth, but as subjects for portraits.

Mostly, she was tired of exercising the discipline necessary to not touch him.

“I don’t want to shout at you, Elijah.” She wanted to put her arms around him and feel his arms around her. With him in his shirtsleeves and waistcoat, his cuffs turned back to reveal his wrists and forearms, she wanted very much to touch him.

He moved the sketches aside and used the table as a bench, scooting back to sit on it. “The French shout, Genevieve. They are a pugnacious, articulate people, and not without prejudices where women are concerned, for all their talk to the contrary.”

She took the place beside him. “You are telling me Paris will not be a bed of roses. I know that. Are you hungry?”

Clearly, the question surprised him. “I am. It’s late, though. Shall I escort you to your room?”

This was not an offer to accompany her to bed. This was Elijah being proper, and Jenny nearly hated him for it.

“Come with me.” She hopped off the table and grabbed him by the wrist. “Papa is always testy when he’s peckish, and I’m no different.”

She didn’t turn loose of his wrist, but towed him along through the darkened house. The cloved oranges lent the corridors a holiday fragrance, while mistletoe dangled from the rafters.

“Is there a reason you’re not having a late-night tea tray sent up to your room?” Elijah asked.

“The staff is exhausted from the preparations for all the arrivals tomorrow. The larder is full to bursting though, and nobody will miss what we help ourselves to now.”

The kitchen was in a lower corner of the house, where access to water was assured by an ancient well in the cellars, and where the pantries and gardens were close by.

“I have always liked kitchens,” Elijah said as they gained the darkened main kitchen. “They are warm in winter, and they say a lot about a family.”

“I should have pried you loose from that studio earlier.” Jenny dropped his wrist and took a candle into the cook’s pantry. She appropriated butter, bread, an apple, and a wedge of cheese.

“You can slice us some ham,” she said when she emerged with her platter. “I’m going to make chocolate.”

She expected an argument, because for the past three days, they’d mostly argued. Twice she’d caught Elijah regarding her with an expression she could not fathom, but both times, he’d dropped right back into his art.

His damnable, excellent art.

“Who were today’s letters from?” She fetched the pitcher of milk from the window box and stirred up the coals in the hearth.

“My two middle brothers. There’s an epistolary siege underway. Is this enough ham?”

“You could eat twice that amount yourself. What is the objective of the siege?”

The knife came down on the cutting board loud enough to make a “thwack!” in the shadowed kitchen. “My pride is being besieged. I made a vow I would not return to Flint Hall until I’d gained entry into the Royal Academy. My dear siblings”—Thwack!—“would have me violate that oath.”

Jenny snitched a bite of ham. “So would I.”

“Watch your fingers, Genevieve. What do you mean?”

She held up a bite of cheese, wanting him to nibble it from those fingers. He instead took it from her and held it, his posture expectant.

“How old were you when you made your infernal vow?”

He popped the cheese in his mouth and chewed slowly. “I’d gone up to university. I wasn’t a child.”

She moved away, to the hearth, where the pan of milk was beginning to steam over the coals. “The chocolate is in that tin on the counter and the grater is right beside it.”

Elijah had made hot chocolate before, apparently. He ground off an appropriate portion of chocolate and sprinkled it into the heated milk while Jenny stirred briskly. Next came a dash of salt, some spices, and a bit of sugar.

“I’ve never had it with cinnamon before,” Elijah said, setting two mugs on the table near the fire. “Why do you think I should go home this Christmas, Genevieve?”

She followed with the tray, thinking this was a meal designed to nourish more than the belly.

“You know what folly I got up to at an age when most boys go off to university. I wanted to marry Denby.”