Page 38 of His Mistress, His Muse, and Other Madness
Something in his voice spoke of fists and bones, of blood and blades, and she almost lied to him. But he would not seek out her former betrothed. For what reason would he do so? To punish him? Ha. Lord Theodore? Who had a soft center he hid quite well…
“Yes, he does. As far as I’m aware. We’ve exchanged not a word since that last day together. You know, now I speak of it out loud, it’s rather ironic, is it not?”
His head tilted, his jaw hard. “How so?”
“He left me to cultivate social connections, and now I must cultivate my own. We are rather alike in the end.”
“No, you’re not.” Theo stood. “Will you be well? Will knowing his acquaintances are about, may bring word of you back to him, keep you from doing the work you came to do here?”
What had she expected from him? Comfort? Ha. Men like him did not know how, no matter how soft their centers.
“Of course,” she assured him. “I will not let you down.” She should stand and press close, wink and ask for another kiss, disarm him as she always did, but she slipped away from him, showed him her back. “You do not have to worry about me.”
For several moments, he did not move, then bootsteps stomped toward the door, which opened then closed, and he left. Without even a good night.
She collapsed on the bed, too tired to undress. But sleep never came. It never could in new places where she felt most alone. When she’d first come to Lord Waneborough’s house, she’d not slept for weeks. So she’d lay in the dark and repeat the same words over and over—Simon does not matter, and she would win her house. She lost count of the number of times she’d said it, thought it, prayed it, when the sun appeared as a dark-orange glow on the horizon below an early-morning navy sky.
Boots outside her chamber door snapped her upright, but no knock came. Instead, a square of paper slipped beneath her door. The floor felt cool on the soles of her feet as she padded over to retrieve the paper, then found the window to inspect it. A note, no name on it, but clearly meant for her. Shoved under her door and all. In the dim morning light, she unfolded it.
And she laughed.
She ran her fingers over the detailed sketch—a scene fromA Midsummer Night’s Dream. Titania, the fairy queen, and Bottom in the moment she realizes he’s nothing more than a braying ass. And while it clearly depicted Titania, it also clearly resembled Cordelia. Though the illustration of Bottom looked nothing like her former lover, a name had been scrawled beneath the illustration—Mr. Bottom Oakley. The man’s teeth had been exaggerated out of all proportion, and donkey ears grew out of his hair, which had been styled fashionably but ridiculously so, a mockery of the style the man who had spoken to her about Simon yesterday had worn.
Titania’s hair was exaggerated as well, but not in a way that mocked her. It curled round the entire scene, ensnaring a small figure in the bottom corner of the page—a knight on horseback holding a lance. He’d included the small mole she had on her right temple, too. And Queen Titania spoke to someone out of frame, not drawn but hinted at. Oberon, perhaps? She said, “Has he always been an ass?”
Oberon, if she spoke to him, likely nodded yes.
Cordelia laughed again.
Had this truly come from Theo’s hand? From his imagination? It must have. It could only have come from him. But there was such a lightness to it, a levity he never showed in person, no matter how much she teased. The dark, angry strokes curved around the sketch of Bottom, but every other object on the page had been penned with a light touch, graceful, playful, light—something she’d never expected from him.
The humor of the sketch was the least of its wonders, though. Yes, it was expertly drawn, but more important than that as well, was thewhyof it, its reason for existence. He’d drawn it for her. To make her feel better, to put into the world the ideas he could not speak out loud. He’d left her room last night in silence, asking only reassurance that she would keep her end of the bargain, but then… this. She’d glimpsed his softness before, but the drawing offered proof. She should be pleased for the man, for his immortal soul. But she found herself more pleased for herself.
She hugged the drawing to her chest. Lovely little thing. And made just for her. And after the unrelieved loneliness of last night, it shone like a ray of sun right into the loneliest regions of her heart.
Ten
Plans had changed. Theo had known he’d have to play protector, and he’d known he had in some way dedicated himself to Lady Cordelia’s cause by bringing her here. But now that he knew why his father had picked her up and wrapped her up safe, now that he understood how utterly careless her betrothed and his father (despite his best intentions) had been with her, he wouldn’t,couldn’t, treat her so carelessly himself.
He must protect her until she found another to do so.
And he would win her that damn prize money.
He checked the position of the sun in the sky as he marched back toward Holloway House. Still early morning, and hopefully his investigations in the nearby village had not kept him from the party’s next challenge. He’d let the curate keep him too long at the garden gate with hints of scandalous gossip that had proven to be nothing Theo didn’t already know—the Earl of Pentshire had taken up with the dairy farmer’s daughter. Ruined her. Certainly the perfect subject for a caricature. He could envision something with cows in it. But he could do better. He’d not settle on anything yet, would sketch multiple options to see whichAckermann’spreferred.
Too bad he’d not yet found evidence of financial mismanagement, servant abuse, or baby-blanket stealing. After he’d slipped his drawing under Cordelia’s door, he’d searched every room not occupied to no avail, even Pentshire’s personal study. He’d found only perfectly kept account books that showed an estate in fine shape, particularly its dairy farm. Suspicious, that. Was Pentshire paying the farmer for…useof his daughter?
He’d find out.
But first he needed to find Cordelia and the others and see what artistic challenge faced him today. And see if Cordelia had liked his drawing. He’d not known what to say last night. Still didn’t. But when he’d lain down to sleep, he’d begun sketching in his mind instead. Then his fingers had itched, and he’d been unable to let the idea remain in his brain. As he’d put it on paper, he’d discovered what he should have said—Oakley is an arse, and you deserve better.
Did he really believe that? It appeared he did. He’d been wrong about her all this time. She was the woman his father saved instead of saving his children, yes. But she’d not controlled his actions. She’d been in need, deserted and alone. And his father had given her what he could. An odd surge of gratitude rose in him. He wasn’t used to it. He preferred to think only of the man’s ills. But he’d done somethinggood.
Theo cracked his knuckles, his steps quickening.
He was headed toward the house when he heard laughter from the gardens around the side. It was a nice day, an abundance of sun, the guests were all artists, and the house, with its old windows, was shadowy and dark. They had probably set themselves up under the open sky. Theo rounded the house and found an arbor with climbing rose vines set behind a knot garden and guests scattered about in various positions. The men stood at easels, and the woman stood or sat in front of the easels however, Theo assumed, the men had placed them.
Cordelia sat in what appeared to be a comfortable wicker chair in a small circle of guests who’d made an island for themselves amongst the rest. As they worked, she regaled them. “And then, when it became clear he would not tell me just how bad my efforts had turned out to be, I went along with it. So for two months, my watercolor instructor thought thatI thoughtI was a genius.”
