Page 5 of One Dangerous Desire
Chapter Two
THE PORTFOLIO LAYheavy in May Sedgwick’s lap. Which was, practically speaking, impossible. The dark leather folder carried a handful of papers inside. Seven rectangles of thick-bond paper covered in lightly penciled lines and splashes of watercolor paint—May’s ideas for the redecoration of the Duke of Ashworth’s London residence.
She bit her lower lip and tapped two fingers against the top of the folio. Slow taps, then quicker, to match the tempo of four violinists playing a lively Mozart quartet from the corner of the Hotel Metropole’s well-appointed dining room. In her eagerness to show Emily her designs, she’d arrived early for their afternoon tea. Now she found the twenty extra minutes left her far too much time for reflection. And threads of doubt.
Ladylike accomplishments had been drilled in from youth, and she’d been taught to conquer a drawing room by the age of sixteen. With an infallible sense for fashion that favored her petite figure, May knew how to choose the best coiffures for her wavy black hair and tilt her thick-lashed blue eyes just so to punctuate polite conversation.
But showing Em her sketches had nothing to do with training or comportment. She rarely shared her art with anyone. Despite a talent for drawing, her parents had encouraged her to dabble rather than waste hours dirtying her fingers with pencils and paint.
Perhaps I’ve made too much of a fuss.In business matters, her department-store-owner father always advised “go grand or don’t bother.” The previous night she’d taken his philosophy to heart, staying up until midnight to put finishing touches on her sketches. She’d struggled to capture the vibrant colors in her head with watercolors, the only painting medium she’d mastered.
Covering one hand with the other, she forced herself to stop tapping, then took a sip of water from a glittering crystal goblet. The faceted glass sparkled like diamonds, its design matching the small vase of flowers near the center of the table. May reached out to rearrange the blooms. They were too neat, too symmetrical. With a bit of variety, a leaf arching out to the right of the violets and one plump rose dipping over the left edge, the bouquet became unique. Memorable.
She glanced around to make sure no one saw her boldly rearranging the decor. If Em were here, she’d undoubtedly giggle and urge her to fix the other tables’ bouquets as well.
After over a year in London, Emily was the only true friend May had made. She’d attended more balls, dinners, country house parties, and intimate soirees than she could count. Still, English noblewomen tended to snub her because of her American upbringing. Apparently earning one’s wealth through trade, as her father had, didn’t sit well with aristocratic ladies. Her viscountess grandmother didn’t signify with them either. Her mother had married an American, and that mattered more than any English blood in her veins. Even other “dollar princesses”—Americans who’d taken up residence in London to snag a duke, marquess, or earl, as she had—treated her with chilly disdain. They viewed her as a competitor in the hardscrabble marriage mart rather than a sympathetic fellow countrywoman.
Finding her own aristocratic husband was proving difficult. Or, if her father was to be believed,shewas proving difficult. Today she’d declined another invitation from the Earl of Devenham to take luncheon with him and his sister, opting to spend time with Emily and art. How could she resist?
Despite being raised to seek a titled husband, and a youth spent watching her mother scrabble for social standing, May had radical notions. Marriage had to be more than a business transaction, as cold and practical as her father’s money-making stratagems. Papa called her stubborn when he was in good spirits and impossible when he wasn’t. After a year in London, she still couldn’t bring herself to marry a man who desired her for her father’s fortune, rather than any qualities of her own.
“Forgive me for being late, my dear,” Emily called out as she rushed toward the table, plucking her gloves off as she approached. Despite her refined upbringing, Em exuded a fresh, unpolished charm. She was tall enough to make any gown look magnificent, but her ruffles were always askew and her light brown hair forever escaping from under her hat.
“I’m early. You’re not late. Please don’t apologize.” May stood and lifted a hand to greet her friend, reaching the other down to keep her portfolio from falling to the floor.
“Oh my goodness, is that what I think it is? Let me see!” Em reached for the folio as she brushed a kiss on May’s cheek.
As soon as the case slipped from her hands, a rabble of butterflies took flight in May’s belly.
“Oh . . . ” Em tugged sheaves of paper out as she sat and spread them in a swash of color across the tabletop, reaching to resettle the little vase of flowers out of the way. “Oh my . . . ”
The pauses were the worst. In each sharp little inhale and drawn-out silence, a tickling at May’s neck made her want to pull at her gown’s high collar. Tightness in her shoulders prevented her from settling against her chair.
A waiter strode up to their table. “Lady Emily, how fine it is to see you each Tuesday. Shall we have tea brought over now?”
“Thank you, yes, Dunston.” Em was scrupulously polite with everyone, yet she barely spared the young man a glance. Her eyes were busy roving over every detail of May’s painted designs.
“Perhaps I’ve been a bit too audacious.” May took a deep breath and tried not to ruin the cluster of delicate lace on the front of her skirt by crushing it between her fingers.
“Tell me about this one.” Em pulled a particular watercolor out of the group and placed her finger in the center. “The colors are extraordinary.”
“I thought red should dominate in that room.” May swallowed a lump in her throat, breathed deep, and plunged ahead. “You did say your father has a fondness for Chinese pottery and tapestries. Though I’ve never been admitted to the inner sanctum of his library, I assume he keeps many of his favorite pieces there. You said he uses it as an office to conduct his business affairs too. Red is a color of good fortune in China. It has a vibrancy and power to it. Why not represent that in the walls and drapery?”
Em sat back in her chair and crossed her arms.
May’s throat burned, and heat spread to her cheeks. She barely resisted blurting the radical notions she’d been harboring for months.
“It’s brilliant.” Em leaned in again, her fingers tracing elements in the nearest sketch. “No, I take that back.Theyare brilliant.” She turned her honey brown gaze on May. “You’re terribly talented. You do know that, don’t you?”
“Oh . . . ” This lump in her throat wasn’t one of anxiety but joy. The fluttering in her belly was less worry than her body humming with delight. No one knew art and design had gone from her hobby to a passion. Papa tolerated her impulse to beautify spaces and once had allowed her to arrange a window display for Sedgwick’s while they lived in New York, but he’d never praised her artistic efforts. And he dismissed any notion of turning her interest into a profitable business. Strange, that, seeing as she’d spent years watching him build his own fortune as a successful man of commerce.
She finally managed a “Thank you, Em.”
“Nonsense. We’ll have you to thank when we transform Ashworth House with these stunning colors. Good-bye, dove gray. Hello, scarlet red.”
Tea arrived, and two waiters worked to cover the table with delicately cut sandwiches, scones, jams, and dishes of clotted cream. Emily scooped up the drawings, stacked the pages in her lap, and continued to leaf through them as a teacup and plate were arranged in front of her.
Hope. That’s what surged up in May as she let Emily’s praise for her work sink in. Counting her time in London a failure, her father had recently insisted they return to New York. But she had no desire to go back. Painful memories colored her feelings for the city. She’d come to love London, despite moments of loneliness. Painting and sketching had given her an outlet for her energies, and if she truly could make a go of designing spaces for others, she might just grasp what she’d sought for years. Purpose.
