Page 81 of The Quiet Wife
Jemie grimaced, and Frances was inclined to agree.
“Has he secured the painting?” Jemie was referring to his painting of the Porcelain Princess that was to hang over the fireplace.
“I’m not sure. He found the owner, but I think they are negotiating on a price.”
“He could always select another. I did wonder if he might put his own portrait there. Or yours.”
Frances smiled at him. “I wondered that too, but no. He was quite categoric about not having family in here. The only thing he seems certain about is that it must be a Whistler.”
“Do you like the one he’s chosen?”
“I do.”
He narrowed his eyes. “You don’t sound convinced. Which did you want to see there?”
She hesitated, not sure what his reaction would be if she were to be truthful. She hadn’t dared venture an opinion with her husband,but Jemie was different. She knew that she could speak her mind. Knew that he wouldn’t react badly.
“What?” he said, tilting his head. “Tell me.”
She sighed. “Would you think me utterly beyond the pale, if I said I rather hoped he might put one of Mr Turner’s paintings up? He owns several.”
“You absolutewretch!I sincerely hope you haven’t suggested that to him,” Jemie gasped, his eyebrows almost in his hair.
The laughter shimmering in his eyes behind his supposed outrage encouraged her. She shook her head. “I didn’t dare.”
“Frances Leyland, I thought you were my friend.” The glint in his eyes as he narrowed them at her told her he was still jesting, and she laughed aloud.
“I am your friend. I just like Mr Turner’s paintings an awful lot.” She shrieked and danced out of reach as he made to grab her and when he caught her and wrapped his arms about her waist, twirled her around, she laughed and clung to his shoulders.
“Jemie, put me down!”
“Not until you apologise and tell meIam your favourite artist, not bloody Turner!” he shouted, laughing with her.
“I promise, I promise,” she was barely able to get the words out she was laughing so much.
He let her slide to the ground and kept hold of her. She stood in the cradle of his arms, pressed against his chest. The thing she liked about Jemie was, she didn’t have to crane her neck to look at him. He wasn’t that much taller than her. She tilted her head and looked up a little to find him observing her intently and her stomach fluttered as it often did around him.
She had to tear her gaze from those sparkling blue eyes that always bewitched her.
“Will you join us for luncheon?” she said, softly, patting his lapel rather than looking at him when it became too intense. “We’ve missed you.” She surveyed his cravat and smoothed the edge of his collar, feeling the warmth from his body seep into hers, and his familiar scent which was endlessly inviting and made her want to stay wrapped in his arms.
“I would love to come to lunch,” he murmured and moved to take hold of both her hands in his. “I’ve missed you too.”
She closed her eyes briefly but opened them again when Jemie raised both hands to his lips. He kissed the back of each hand, lingering over them. She wore no gloves, so she felt the warmth of his breath, the softness of his lips.
“Turner…” he rolled his eyes and shook his head, lips twitching.
***
Work appeared to progress well with the new house and the following days settled into a routine whereby Jemie worked in the house all morning, then called to see them at Queen’s Gate in the afternoon to continue painting Frances’ portrait. When he wasn’t painting, he took it upon himself to squire her, Lizzie, and the girls about town as Frederick was always too busy to take them anywhere. It was a most pleasant arrangement and meant that Frances was enjoying the stay in London immensely. Or she was until Frederick arrived home in a flaming temper one chilly late October evening.
He was late. They were expected at the Cordingleys for dinner, and Frances was on the brink of considering if she should send an apology to their hosts when her husband stormed into the drawing room. She and Lizzie were chatting by the fire, both dressed for dinner, when the door burst open.
“What is it?” Frances startled. “Is something wrong?”
“Damned man. Damned, damned man.”
Frances pressed her hand to her chest. “Oh no, not Mr Bibby? Has something awful happened?”
