Page 56 of Miss Devoted
Dreams he could not share with her, but could encourage her to pursue.
“How can you tell I’m troubled?” she asked.
“Your eyes, your gait.”
She stopped on the walkway and glowered at him. “My gait? Explain yourself.”
“As you crossed the green to meet us, your stride was half Henderson, half Mrs. Fremont. Unsettled, betwixt and between. Does that reflect your mood?” It certainly reflected Michael’s. As happy as he was to finally oblige Bea’s constant importuning, as lovely as the day was, and as wonderful as a shared outing with Psyche should be… he was nonetheless plagued by worries.
“My mood is…” Psyche watched while Bea extracted a miniature tea cup from the hamper. “I should be painting. The days are getting longer, the invitations starting, and I itch to paint. What I need is a commission.”
“I had an idea.” Michael had considered this idea from every angle and saw no reason not to put it before the most talented artist he knew. “Jeanette Dorning was married to the late Marquess of Tavistock, and he left behind a son.”
“The current marquess,” Psyche said, once again regarding Bea, who was setting a complete little tea service before her doll. “The matchmakers pine for the day young Lord Tavistock ceases kicking his heels in France.”
“His young, handsome lordship is planning on a return to London in a few weeks, and I’ve asked Mrs. Dorning to suggest you to him as a portraitist. He’s a good-looking devil, ready to start voting his seat, and full of radical Continental notions. He’d make an interesting subject.”
Michael braced himself for an outburst—Psyche was nothing if not independent—but instead, she turned her face away so the brim of her straw hat obscured her features.
“Thank you.”
He could divine nothing from those two words. “Have I overstepped?”
“No.”
Which told him less than nothing. A quiet little sniff punctuated the honking of the nearby geese and Bea’s prattling to her doll.
“Psyche?”
“I want to hug you,” she said, still apparently admiring the trees just starting to leaf out. “I want to wrap my arms around you and hold you tightly and shout my thanks. Nobody has ever, ever taken my art seriously, and then you… A young, handsome marquess, fresh from years away in France. Oh, Michael…”
She fumbled in her reticule and withdrew a handkerchief, then dabbed at her cheeks.
“It might come to nothing,” Michael said, still worried that he’d blundered somehow. “Lord Tavistock has trouble sitting still for any occasion, but he doesn’t put on airs, and he’s devoted to Jeanette. If she asks him for a portrait, he’ll find a way to accommodate her.”
“She will ask him because you brought her the idea,” Psyche said. “Your family would do anything for you. Thank you, Michael.” She patted his arm, and he was assailed by the same impulse—to hold her close, to shout for joy,to rejoice.
“Papa, I’m hungry and so is Miss Feathers.”
“I am hungry as well,” Psyche said, addressing her words to Bea. “But I have not been introduced to Miss Feathers. Perhaps you’d oblige, Miss Delancey?”
Bea got into the spirit of the silliness, and for Michael, a small dream came true. He was indulging in an outing with his daughter on a fine day—a touch chilly, but sunny—and the lady he adored was enjoying the outing with them.
As Psyche opened her sketchbook and embarked on a likeness of Miss Feathers seated against the hamper, a little sadness stole through Michael’s joy. Tavistock would sit for his portrait and relish having his first lordly likeness done by a woman.
He’d throw the weight of his titled consequence in Psyche’s direction, and she’d have more commissions than the Regent had walking sticks. At some point, with that much work and that much renown, even a discreet affair would become too great a risk.
“You’re quiet,” Psyche said when the sandwiches had been devoured, and Bea had borrowed Psyche’s sketch pad to attempt a drawing of Miss Feathers on a nearby bench.
“A bit tired, very glad to be free of the office.” He longed to lay his head in her lap and close his eyes, but that would not do.
“You aren’t as tired as you were earlier in the year. Do you miss Berthold’s classes?”
“They will resume in a few weeks, when all the fribbles are on hand. I’m enjoying the break, to be truthful, though I’ve run into Lord Dermot several times since the course concluded.”
Psyche began repacking the hamper, passing Michael the last half sandwich. “Run into him where?”
“When I’m on this side of the river, once when I’d paid a call on Mrs. Oldbach. I don’t think he saw which address I’d just quit, but he clearly didn’t expect to find me lurking on the fringes of Mayfair.”
