Page 44 of His Mistress, His Muse, and Other Madness
Hell.
No. Not a worry. Neither of them believed in such a state.
Not waiting for her eyes to open, he drew her arm through his and led her back to the group. He collected his charcoals before leaving her with the Castles. He wanted her someplace safe when he hunted down Mr. Bradley.
Eleven
Why did Mr. Bradley stare at her as if she’d just belched loudly enough to knock the room from the house? A touch of disgust there she could not ignore. Was he still upset about Simon? He seemed to have quieted his gossiping tongue since the first day of the party, but she’d had to endure his silent looks since then, and on two nights of fitful—at best—sleep.
She should have retired after dinner when Theo had, but the prospect of another sleepless night staring at the ceiling had sent her running for the parlor with the other women, sent her bouncing into a chair near the window of the crowded room because that was infinitely safer than not sleeping in a room so close to his. Each night she’d stared at the ceiling, some wicked voice inside her had whispered that she did not have to be alone, that a man slept just beyond the thin wall, and that if she asked for his help, he’d likely give it. Because he was the secret Sir George, slayer of dragons; not a saint, but still a knight of stout heart and fierce courage.
But she knew the wicked whispers’ motivations—the kiss in the bower beneath the wisteria. It had been too much and too little at the same time, had made her crave more. Though what use was more? She’d learned the hard way that pleasure was a delight, but it meant nothing in the end. Men gave their bodies without promises, and a woman such as her, with no clear future in sight, needed promises more than pleasure.
Best to avoid her bedchamber as long as possible.
Even if it meant she must suffer Bradley’s uncomfortable stares. Could he not focus, instead, on the woman draped across his lap? Or the cards he played with three other fellows?
“Do you know,” Mrs. Castle said, settling into a chair beside her, “Mr. Castle and I discussed Lord Theodore’s school last night, and we are both terribly excited. We do not have much, but we would like to donate enough for a yearly scholarship for one child. I know that does not help Lord Theo fund a new building, but it takes a bit of the worry off, yes?”
Cordelia blinked her attention away from Bradley and pressed her hands to her heart. “Oh, how wonderful. Yes, that is more than enough. You are so very generous.”
“I’m sure Lord Armquist and Pentshire will help as they can, too.”
“Lord Pentshire has already pledged an amount to go for a scholarship as well.” Lovely to find so many who admired her scheme, but none of it helpful for her pressing needs. They seemed to want the honor of having a scholarship named for them, and as the house, the school itself, would take its name from the late Lord Waneborough, their donations could not bring them notoriety in that way. “I was just about to speak with the viscount, Lord Ellsby.” She nodded toward the man sitting in the corner, his muse near to hand, both of them reading. “Do you mind if I abandon you here?”
Mrs. Castle waved her away. “Do as you need. And good luck! Though if you ask me, Lord Theodore should be the one soliciting donations, since it’s his school.” She sniffed.
“Yes, well,” Cordelia said as she stood, “I am terribly excited about it.”
“I suspect you are his muse in this, too.”
She opened her mouth but found nothing to say so forced her silent lips into a smile. “Just so.”
Lord Ellsby did not look up as she approached, though his muse did. A little blonde woman with spectacles perched on her nose. She blinked, and the glass magnified her large brown eyes.
“Ellsby, that woman’s here.”
“I see,” Ellsby said, his nose still deep in paper and ink.
“Lord Ellsby, I just wanted to tell you how lovely your paintings of Mrs. Pruitt are.”
“Thank you,” Lord Ellsby said, but the words were cold. He did not mean them.
But Cordelia would persevere. “And Mrs. Pruitt, I am in awe of your ability to sit still for so long. It quite astounds me. I’m so very fidgety—”
“It’s no accomplishment,” Mrs. Pruitt said. “I am an artist’s model. I must sit still.” She rolled her eyes up to look at Cordelia. “And so must you learn to do or find yourself out on the streets.”
“Out of Lord Theodore’s bed,” Lord Ellsby muttered, “but not on the streets. She has that house.”
“Ah. Yes.” Mrs. Pruitt returned her attention to her book. “If only all of us were so lucky.”
Bradley’s gossip, no doubt, had poisoned them against her, but they did not know her yet. Surely she could win them over. She sat in a nearby chair and folded her hands in her lap. “The house you speak of is truly only mine until it is made into a school.” Mrs. Pruitt’s eyes flashed to her, a hint of curiosity there. “An art school for those less fortunate. For anyone, truly, but our mission is—”
“Our?” the viscount asked.
“Lord Theodore’s actually.” Blast. She must train her tongue better. But she was so very tired, she could not get her tongue to do anything particularly articulate. “It is his school. I am merely an enthusiastic supporter.” What an injustice that he could champion a school and she could not, that her association with him might make her an inappropriate headmistress for a school while his with her did not harm him at all.
It did not matter that the associations were pretend only. Theo should draw a caricature aboutthat.
