Page 5 of Seductive Reprise
“I say, what’s your name? Or can you not speak? Is that why Ipsley dragged us all here, to see what the mute village girl could paint?”
Fury coursed through her veins. No one spoke to her like this—not even the butcher’s son, rotten bully that he was. Why, this boy spoke so glibly, even of theearl! Her head shot up, anger replacing the uncertainty on her face. She opened her mouth, ready to dress him down when she halted, her words caught in her throat.
He was only slightly older than her, perhaps sixteen or so. But it wasn’t his age that stopped her; rather, it was his appearance.
He was nothing like she’d expected. He was dreadfully handsome, and she wondered how she had missed him before while surveying the room. Although his bearing was removed and indifferent, much like that of the other guests, his appearance unequivocally set him apart. For while everyone else was wan and washed out (especially the earl with his thinning red hair, Rose admitted uncharitably), this boy was golden and glowing: a perfect aquiline nose and rich, dark eyes, a thick, noble brow, and smooth, gorgeous olive skin. It was as if she’d flung back the curtains in the dead of winter only to be met with the warmth of a noonday sun in a cloudless sky.
A small smirk teased at the corner of his broad lips, as if he knew full well she’d favorably appraised his appearance. Rose frowned. She would not be cowed by a pretty face, and she drew herself up as tall as she could, which put the two of them at eye level. She’d always been a bit of a Long Meg.
“My name is Rose Verdier. And I am not here to paint.” She turned and stared straight ahead. Brushing off her skirts, she added, “I will be sketching.” She left it at that, hoping her haughty attitude might say everything her words themselves could not.
“Oh, you’re a renowned artist then?” His tone rose, almost as if teasing her.
She looked back toward him, irate at the smile on his face and the glint of humor in his brown eyes. She bit at her lower lip, wondering just what about her presence amused him so. Was it that she was a girl, and a bit slatternly at that? That she was common? Or was it all of those?
“So art is only for the rich, then, and beauty only for the nobility?” Rose’s cheeks warmed, speaking of beauty even as she knew her hair must look a fright, with her skirts certainly nowhere near as neat as they’d been before she’d left home.
He raised an eyebrow and regarded her with interest. “Do you really think your skill is the reason for your presence?” His eyes drifted over to the Earl of Ipsley, a tall and skinny middle-aged man with the remains of his bright red hair scraped over his balding dome.
Rose laughed despite herself. “Goodness. Why does it bother you so, that I might possess some skill with a pencil?” She added dismissively, “Whoeveryouare.”
The boy studied her, seemingly working something out. “You’re truly ignorant of the whole matter, aren’t you? And I’m Palgrave. Joseph Palgrave.”
“Ignorant?” Her anger fell away at his earnest expression, despite his cryptic words. She felt a strange pull toward him, which confused her even more.
For the longest moment, his intelligent eyes searched her face. And then he shook his head. “It’s no matter. Pay it no heed.”
The flush returned to her cheeks. Who was this boy, and how did he belong here? It puzzled her. Almost as much as her desire for him to remain by her side, for she realized that all the terror she’d felt from being thrust into this setting had fled the moment he’d set her hackles up. She shyly tucked an escaped lock of hair behind her ear.
“Have you ever visited Icknield Court before?” he asked, with a gesture to their surroundings. Rose shook her head.
“Ah. I would have assumed…” A dark look clouded his face as he looked over her shoulder in the earl’s direction. But then his eyes returned to her, full of warmth and something else she could not mark.
But she trusted it.
“I thought, since you’re…” he hesitated as he searched for the right word, “established not far from here, you might have come on a festival day or for some other such occasion.”
“No,” she said, “though it’s awfully grand.” She worried that her admission might stall the conversation. The observation was true enough, though she desperately wished she had something more sophisticated to offer. She’d always felt worldly enough, catching snippets of travelers’ conversations over the years as she wiped down tables and washed up in The Bit and Bridle; it was her way of getting a tantalizing taste of what the world beyond Worcestershire offered. But none of that compared to whatever this Joseph Palgrave must know, with his fine clothes and finer relations, whoever they might be.
He sniffed and immediately justified her worry. “It may be grand enough for some, though it’s nothing compared to a ducal estate,” he said with a smug smile.
Rose blinked, instantly disliking him once more. It stung, as for a few brief, albeit confusing moments, she’d begun to consider him a friend.
He glanced away with a look of unease, apparently realizing he had misstepped. When he looked back to Rose, his expression was boyishly earnest. “Would you care for any refreshment, Miss Verdier?”
Rose imagined herself clumsily spilling punch on her new white lawn or dropping crumbs atop the lovely designs of the carpet she’d been so absorbed in. “No, no thank you. I’m quite alright.”
The gentle din of light conversation filled the silence between them as they stood, awkwardly avoiding one another’s eyes. Rose drew in a deep breath, catching the faintest hint of perfume from the massive floral display on the half-moon-shaped table flanking the wall beside her.
Just when it seemed as though their short-lived alliance had sunk, he spoke again, a note of hopefulness in his words. “I hear they have a Holbein.”
“I’m sorry?”
“The Driffields—they have a Hans Holbein. A small piece; one of their ancestors. I thought perhaps you might care to see it?”
Rose opened her mouth, then quickly shut it before he noticed the unsightly gap in her front teeth. She’d never heard of this Hans fellow, but she surmised he must be a painter of some note. Rather than speak to her ignorance, she instead spoke of the impropriety of such a thing. “Oh—I don’t think so. I was instructed to remain here.”
The housekeeper had received her at the servants’ entrance that morning. After a quick cup of tea downstairs, she’d then ushered her up to this room. The rigid looking lady had been all smiles to her as she sat at the long table, even offering her some biscuits. Rose did not wish to repay her kindness by rudely traipsing through the house unbidden.
