past weeks more than anything—”
“Excuse me.” Elijah had tapped Westhaven on the shoulder. “May I cut in?”
Westhaven’s smile was diabolical. “Of course. Jenny would never decline an opportunity to dance with a family friend.”
Family friend? Her blighted, interfering, perishing brother was laying it on quite thick.
Elijah bowed. “Lady Genevieve, may I have what remains of this dance?”
Two days remained. Two days and three nights. Jenny curtsied and assumed waltz position. As Elijah’s hand settled on her back, his scent wafted to her, enveloping her in his presence.
“You’re avoiding me,” he said. “You needn’t. I’ll be leaving soon, and I hope we can at least part friends.”
With her siblings, she could dissemble and maintain appearances, but with Elijah…
“I am honored you think me a friend, Elijah.” And he danced wonderfully, with the same sense of assurance and mastery that he undertook painting… and lovemaking.
“I am your friend too, Genevieve. If you cursed right now, very softly, only I would hear you.”
Cursing abruptly appealed more strongly than anything in the world—almost anything. Jenny gathered her courage on the next slow, sweeping turn, and leaned in close to her partner.
“I would like to be sharing your damned bed right now, Elijah. My family’s kindness and concern make me want to perishing scream.”
He did not falter in any regard but drew her a shade closer. “Swive, roger, bed, possess, lie with, copulate, fornicate… you can be explicit in your wishes, my lady. They’re only wishes.”
And he was warning her they’d only ever be wishes. Each word was rendered in a slightly different shade: daring, naughty, flirtatious, challenging, but none of them took her sentiment seriously.
The damned man was trying to jolly her past a sulk, for which she would not forgive him.
“You’re leaving, Elijah Harrison, and I desire you. I still want it to be you.”
He let more distance come between them as the music played on. “There are things you want more than you want me, Genevieve. Important things nobody else can give you, things you think you’ll find in Paris. I would not deny you your heart’s desire.”
He spoke so gently, Jenny felt her throat constrict. “Damn you to rubbishing hell, Elijah.”
Maybe he heard the desperation in her voice or saw the tears she blinked back, because he offered her no more flirtation or jollying. He danced with her until the music ended, then bowed and escorted her right back to her brother’s side.
In Elijah’s experience, fatigue came in two varieties. The primary colors of fatigue were an unsubtle indication that the body or mind sought rest. Ignoring this kind of tiredness came at a peril. Bad decisions, stupid pronouncements, inept paintings, ill-advised couplings, and inane arguments could all result from an unwillingness to accommodate the basic forms of fatigue.
Elijah’s argument with his father had happened late at night, around yet another bowl of holiday wassail. He and his sire had both been tired, and unfortunate words had been exchanged.
So Elijah had learned to heed the signs of simple fatigue.
The more subtle fatigue was of the spirit, and like a secondary color, it had antecedents, and usually involved a blending of bodily weariness with something more. One grew overwhelmed observing the world in all its folly, overwhelmed by want and woe on a scale too great to be productively addressed. One grew weary of being good, of being kind, honest, hopeful, and civil.
He’d tempted Jenny into swearing the previous evening in hopes of alleviating some of her weariness of heart, more fool him.
For she’d passed beyond the common hues of fatigue into something more, some unassailable state of calm, which Elijah suspected resulted from his rejecting her intimate overtures on the impromptu dance floor.
She stood not two feet away, a monument of serenity in green velvet. “The portrait is lovely, Elijah. Rothgreb and his family will treasure it.”
Jenny’s smile was sweet, a bit tired, and to all appearances genuine.
She’d left for Paris already.
“It’s a good effort. I suspect if I take on more juvenile commissions, I’ll become more confident with them. I do like it.” This portrait of Sindal’s sons was the best thing Elijah had ever painted, in fact. Its temporary frame did not do it justice.
Jenny touched old Jock’s ear, a bit of brushwork of which Elijah was particularly proud. “Will you display it at the open house?”
He resisted the urge to touch the lock of hair that wanted to curl over Jenny’s ear. “I will not. Nothing will be allowed to overshadow Their Graces’ portraits. The duchess was clear on that, as was her doting swain.”
“You mean Papa. Shall I have this one packed up then? I’m sure Rothgreb will want to display it as soon as possible.”
Did she have to be so blasted helpful? “I’m reluctant to lose sight of it.”
She quirked an eyebrow, looking much like her father. “The joy is in the creation, Elijah, not in the possession.”
Where was the polite, demure Lady Jenny who’d offered him shelter from a winter storm? Would he want her back if he could restore her? Was she any happier than this talented, determined, exhausted version of the same woman?
“There can be joy in creating
“Or to the lady who merely happened to create it.”
She wanted an argument, and he was hard put not to oblige her. “Just so. I’d rather we spent this afternoon completing Their Graces’ portraits instead of crating up finished business.”
They had only this afternoon, after all. Tomorrow was the open house, when Elijah’s ducal portraits would go on display before family and friends.
“A splendid notion,” Jenny said, reaching for her smock. She looped it around her neck and reached behind herself to tie it in back.
“Allow me.”
She turned her back to him and dipped her chin, so her nape was exposed to Elijah, a vulnerable, delectable pose, particularly when she wore a comfortable old dress and a simple painting smock. He tied a bow for her, and let his hands drop when what he wanted was to pull her close and hang the consequences.
Hang Paris.
“You’re having trouble with the duke,” he said. “Have you figured out why?”
She aimed a peevish look at him over her shoulder, and that was seductive too. “
Elijah slipped his sleeve buttons into a pocket and turned back his cuffs. “Which would be?”
Jenny studied their side-by-side paintings, her arms crossed, her expression disgruntled. “His Grace never fails to act, even when he ought to remain idle. He fires off letters, delivers speeches in the Lords, cozens the MPs, interferes wherever he must to see his ends achieved. You made that seem like leadership, or his responsibility, not busybodying.”
Elijah laid out his brushes and wished his mouth was going to start humming some seasonal tune, though he knew it wouldn’t. “You could not paint the duke as easily as you did Her Grace because he embodies the parts of yourself you are least comfortable with. Are you going to paint, or stare away the afternoon?”
Jenny turned, dropping her arms. “You think I’m like
She was fascinated, not horrified, which meant he was doomed to explain rather than defend his notions. He chose a small, fine finishing brush, took up his palette, and added a dot of green to the drapery behind the duke.
“When was the last time you had any instruction in art, Genevieve? Anyone to discuss your ideas with, anybody to trade criticisms with?”
She watched as he brought His Grace’s curtains into harmony with the same drapes in Her Grace’s portrait. “I
