Page 31 of Portrait of a Lady
“You don’t even have to speak to me, god damn you,” he growled. “But I’d heard Elinor has come close to her time. You might at least let me know if my new nephew or niece has been born.”
A muscle in Marcus’s jaw ticked, but for a moment that was the only sign that he was anything more than a statue, some heavy, motionless thing standing before them. But then, he finally turned his head to meet Hugh’s gaze and ever so slightly inclined his head.
Hugh scowled. “Boy or girl? Oh, don’t bother wrestling with whether or not to actually tell me aloud, I know how difficult it is for you to make a move without Father here to pull the strings. Still, you might...I don’t know, blink once for a boy and twice for a girl. Would that soothe your conscience over not even telling me you were expecting again?”
Evelyn shifted from foot to foot, growing uncomfortable as the brothers began to draw stares and whispers from those walking past. They’d been recognized, and she felt certain that by tomorrow morning drawing rooms would be filled with stories of the confrontation between the eldest Radcliffe and the youngest.
Marcus clenched his jaw, looking as if he wished to strike Hugh, one hand even balling into a fist at his side. But, he refrained, simply holding Hugh’s stare and offering two slow blinks.
A girl. Hugh now had a new niece added to the ranks of family he had been barred from. Sorrow for him slumped her shoulders as she realized he might never lay eyes upon the babe.
As if released from some sort of trance, Marcus finally moved, shouldering his way past them, bumping Hugh as he did so. Hugh swiveled to watch his brother retreat, his long legs carrying him deeper into the crowd swelling outside the theater.
“Take care not to fall down off that high horse of yours!” Hugh bellowed at his brother’s back.
Marcus kept moving, not even looking back to indicate whether he’d heard Hugh. Evelyn glanced up at her companion, who shook with anger, his face set like stone, a vein throbbing in his temple. She wanted to take his hand as she had in the theater, lean in and kiss his jaw, smooth the furrows in his brow with her fingertips. She wanted to find some way to banish the pain that lingered just beneath the rage, the rejection that had clearly hurt more than he wanted to let on.
“Come,” he murmured, gently tugging her along.
She followed his lead, remaining silent as he searched for a hackney coach among the vehicles coming and going on the street. Before long, he’d handed her up into a conveyance, settling himself on the squabs across from her without a word. They made the journey to her house in complete silence, the tension radiating from Hugh in waves and stifling the air around them. Evelyn clenched her hands together in her lap and searched her mind for the right words to say. Yet, nothing she could think of would suffice. What was she to say to him—I’m so sorry your family has cast you from among them like an unwanted dog? Even reassuring him that he’d done nothing wrong did not feel quite right at the moment. So, she simply surrendered to the silence, hoping that by the time they arrived home he would have recovered from the encounter.
However, he seemed no better once they stood before her front door, the street lamps casting a yellow glow over them. Evelyn searched his face, though now he wouldn’t even look at her, his mind seeming somewhere far off as he stared into the night, unmoving.
Clearing her throat, she took a step closer to him, wringing her hands. “Will...will you come in with me?”
He finally gazed at her, his expression softening slightly as he cupped her cheek. “Forgive me, Evie, but I’m afraid I wouldn’t be very good company tonight. It is no fault of yours.”
No, but she couldn’t help the sinking feeling in her middle. She realized that their arrangement gave her all the power here, that all she need do was make it clear what she wanted and insist he accompany her inside. And no matter how wretched he was feeling just now, Evelyn knew he would comply. He’d do it if she told him exactly why she wished for him to come upstairs with her.
But then, she had no wish to treat him like a whore, no matter how much money she was paying to keep him at her beck and call. He’d come to mean more to her than a way to get rid of her virginity. She liked him in a way that went beyond lust, and she cared about him a great deal more than she’d realized before now. She wanted him towantto be with her, and if he was not in the mood just now, she couldn’t bring herself to demand it of him.
“I understand,” she whispered. “Good night, Hugh.”
She stood on tiptoe to accept his kiss on her cheek, then turned to go inside as Joseph swung open the front door.
“Good night, Evie,” he replied, just before the door clicked shut behind her.
“Ah, Hugh, there you are!”
Hugh glanced up from the tiles beneath his feet to find that he’d nearly run down Mr. Crosby and the man walking beside him. He’d been unsettled all morning, just barely making it through his study of Greek statues. While the other students had diligently examined the sculptures from all angles and set about capturing the marble forms in their sketchbooks, Hugh’s mind hadn’t been up to the task. He’d made a poor attempt at it, filling his pages with half-finished renderings of Hercules wrestling with Lichas, Artemis holding a stag by his antlers, and Pluto seducing an unwilling Proserpina. The study of motionless sculptures which still portrayed lightness and movement had always been one of Hugh’s favorite classes, yet he could not bring himself to feel that spark of inspiration or creativity, not after the events of last night.
“Mr. Crosby,” he murmured, adjusting his hold on the satchel hanging at his side. “Good to see you this morning.”
His mentor wrinkled his brow, seeming to notice that something was amiss with him. But he made no mention of it, gesturing instead to his companion.
“If you have a moment, there’s someone I’d like you to meet. This is Mr. Noel Russell.”
Hugh’s curiosity piqued as he took in the somber man in stark black attire, a hat held under one arm. His dark hair had begun to gray at the temples, and a pair of round spectacles sat balanced on a sharp, prominent nose, a pair of cool blue eyes assessing him from behind glass lenses.
“The architect?” he asked, taking the other man’s proffered hand. “It is an honor to meet you, Mr. Russell.”
The man had made quite a name for himself in the last decade as one of the foremost architects of England, undertaking several public works on top of renovating many of the nobility’s grandest country homes. The man also taught at the Academy’s school of architecture, though Hugh’s studies had never brought him in contact with the man.
“The honor is mine, Mr. Radcliffe. Crosby has been singing the praises of his favorite student for a while now, so I supposed it was high time to meet you.”
Crosby beamed, clapping Hugh’s shoulder with one hand. “Mark my words, Russell, this young man will be hailed as London’s most accomplished portraitist in a decade or less.”
Hugh’s face heated under Crosby’s praise, but the other man’s words stoked his hopes. After being reminded, yet again, that his choices had led to him being effectively barred from being part of his own family, he needed a reason to continue his current course.
