“And if you haven’t?” Raph demanded.
“Oh, she will!” Their mother clasped her hands together and her eyes drifted into a dreamy future only she could see.
“If I do not fall in love, I will not marry.” It was a lie. She would marry by the house party’s end. She now saw no other way out of this mess. But she’d marry for the family’s best interest, even if it meant marrying Marcus Pellham. His books did well. He was nearly as popular as Ann Radcliffe or Sir Walter Scott, even though she could now think of him only as a second-rate novelist, thanks to Tobias. And Pellham was good looking. Not as shiveringly handsome as Tobias, of course, but kissing him would be no hardship, surely.
“Maggie.” Her brother’s voice threatened another, longer argument. “It is not practical. It is not right. I wish you to find love if that’s what you wish, but there is less than a week left until our guests go home. It is unlikely your heart will be won in that time.”
Their mother sniffed. “I’ve somehow raised a son who does not believe in love at first sight.”
Raph clenched his jaw, rolled his shoulders, and closed his eyes. On a deep inhale and exhale, he visibly relaxed his muscles and opened his eyes. “No. I do not. And that is not a bad thing. Maggie, this is an impractical plan.”
Maggie gripped his wrist and arched a brow at him. “It’s a sound plan,” she said steadily, refusing to lose eye contact. “I’ll simply do my utmost to fall in love this week.” She would not look away until she saw understanding in his eyes.
Ah, there it was—his lids lowered minutely then shot up with his brows. He understood her. “Fine,” he grumbled, “as long as your reputation retains some of its shine in the end, all is well.” He turned and marched away from them. “Good day, Mother, Maggie.”
When he’d left, their mother pulled Maggie down to the settee and wrapped her in a hug. “It’s glorious to fall in love. You’ll see. If fact, I suspect you’re already halfway there.”
Maggie was halfway to something, but it certainly wasn’t love.
* * *
Maggie reentered the drawing room in an annoyed huff. She was certainly not halfway or even a quarter way in love with Tobias Blake. He was too silly for her purposes.
Yet she could not help but look for him across the room. She found him still in deep conversation with the silhouette artist, Miss Scarlett. The woman had forged her husband’s name on legal documents, but Maggie didn’t want to hold it over her head. Miss Scarlett smiled like she was about to laugh and laughed in loud guffaws. Maggie liked her immensely.
She liked Tobias, too. Against the unusual sobriety of black-and-white evening clothes, his sharp profile and slightly stubbled cheek cut deep swaths of longing through her belly. She itched to reach out and drag her finger across his jaw. He looked magnificent. Regal. Dangerous.
She may not be a bit in love with the man, but she was completely in lust with him. And he sparked her curiosity like no other. When he was not in sight, she wondered where he was, what he was doing, what ridiculous thing he was saying, and when he was in the room, as he was now, she could not look away.
Why was he dressed entirely in sober black and white? Not a frivolous color in sight! It was enough to make Maggie fear for his health, or perhaps his failing eyesight.
He turned, caught her eye, and winked.
Miss Scarlett, whose own profile was as perfect as one of the silhouettes she expertly drew and cut, waggled her fingers at Maggie, waving her over to join them.
Maggie smiled and shook her head then turned away from Tobias and Miss Scarlett. She wanted the quiet of her bedroom and the comfort of her bed. She wanted to stretch her pencil across her sketchbook and let her mind wander. Such aimless drawing would calm her turbulent emotions. And, if she could manage it, she needed to complete the draft of her first letter to the Mathematical Baron.
“I heard, Lockham, that you recently removed one of your paintings from a London gallery.” Marcus Pellham’s voice floated to her from nearby.
Maggie stopped her progress and searched for the speaker. Marcus’s question intrigued her. She’d not heard this piece of gossip. Mr. Lockham loved attention and praise. Why in heaven’s name would he remove a painting from where it was most likely to receive both? Marcus and Lockham stood close by on her right. She swung away from them and turned to the wall, pretending to study the tapestry.
“A pity, that,” Lockham said. “I did not like to, but the curators of the gallery are horribly misguided in their aims and practices.”
“Oh?”
“They decided to open their doors once a week to, well,anyone.”
Maggie’s pulse accelerated. Her hands fisted at her sides. What did he mean byanyone?
“You mean women?” the other person asked.
“If it were women that would be fine. We see among us even now many a member of the fairer sex competent enough to appreciate art to its fullest. But laborers? Sex workers? Orphans?Anyone?” He snorted. “What’s the use? I want my work to be seen, and they surely will not truly see it.”
Maggie swung around, every muscle in her body tight. She should stay in the shadows, collect this information and put it silently into her notebook. She didn’t want to. “You think those men and women do not need art as we do?”
Lockham and his companion jumped.
“Lady Maggie,” Lockham said, “I did not see you there.”
