Beatrice turned her chin back to the fire, the line of her jaw mutinous.
“Theodosia’s affection for me was pure infatuation.Notlove. I have five sisters and recognized the signs. But I have a great deal of admiration for her as an artist. As a gift to Haven, she painted the drawing room at Greenbriar.” At her questioning look, he said, “Haven’s country estate. The walls now mimic the night sky, complete with constellations. Nestled in one corner is a young boy, Haven, and his father, studying the stars.” The painting spoke volumes about Theodosia’s love for Haven, apparent in every brushstroke.
That artistry invoked a great deal of envy in Ellis. Not because of any excess of feeling for Theodosia, or jealousy that he couldn’t paint with such talent, but because Ellis wondered if he would ever be worthy of such love. He couldn’t imagine Lady Anabeth even embroidering him a handkerchief.
“Sounds impressive. I can’t paint either.” Beatrice sipped at her brandy, her tone wistful. “Or sketch.”
Ellis glanced at her, gaze running along the delicate line of her profile, surprised at the admission. “All I have left is carving wood. A skill I picked up from my father, who also wasn’t possessed of any talent.” He pointed to the buttons on his coat. “See the bird.”
Beatrice sat up a little in her chair and peered at the buttons of his coat. “I have always been curious.”
“I knew you were discreetly ogling me.”
“Never.” She rolled her eyes and made a sound of disgust before sitting back.
“My father set out to create a raven.”
Beatrice took in the buttons once more and snorted in derision. “A raven.”
“But this looks more like some sort of waterfowl, doesn’t it? Perhaps an egret. Or a stork. The legs are clearly wrong for a raven. The design decorates everything belonging to the earldom. Buttons. Tablecloths. The silver. My mother even has a cameo with this bird.”
“To what end?” Beatrice finally tilted her head to him, the brandy making her eyes sparkle in the firelight.
Ellis wanted to kiss her again. As much as he was aroused by barbed, scathing Beatrice, he also liked this softer version of her. The longing for her knocked about his heart.
Stop that.
“My grandsire expressed joy at the design, asking if it was an egret. And my own sire, perhaps embarrassed to admit he’d been trying for a raven, agreed. Grandfather was pleased, because unbeknownst to my father, he adored egrets. And before you ask, I’ve no idea why. Once he saw the design, Grandfather wanted the bird oneverything. Now my family is stuck with this symbol for eternity. The product of two generations, both lacking in creativity.”
Beatrice nibbled thoughtfully at her bottom lip, drawing his gaze. Incredibly erotic of her, though Ellis didn’t think that her intent. He considered just going down on his hands and knees before her. Lifting her skirts. Pressing his mouth to—
“But you like to create, do you not?” she asked, interrupting his lustful thoughts. “You shouldn’t stop doing so merely because you aren’t Donatello or Michelangelo.”
Another sigh came from his heart. Most young ladies couldn’t name one sculptor of the Renaissance, let alone two. Or find Charles Darwin fascinating enough to read the book he’d published of his travels.
Arousal, sharp and nearly painful in its intensity, shot between his legs. His riding breeches tightened uncomfortably.
“You should see what I make from a block of wood, Your Grace. A squirrel looks more like a confused dog. A wren looks...well, like an egret. I’ve already scoured the woods around Chiddon for the perfect chunks of oak, pine, and the like. Anything I can use to make a hideous rabbit or fox.”
“Hideous or not, it brings you pleasure, does it not?” Her head tilted just slightly as she took another sip of her brandy. “I—have never been artistic. My talents lie more in—”
“Decoration? Restoration? Dare I say it, construction? Hardly what I would have expected, Your Grace. A duchess doesn’t often toil at such things.”
Beatrice’s lovely mouth parted, and Ellis thought again of kissing her. She didn’t answer immediately, as if she were trying to decide if he mocked her. “I enjoy putting things to rights, I suppose.” She looked about to say more, but the clock above the mantel chimed, stopping her.
“I survived an entire hour, Your Grace.” Ellis stood without preamble, giving one last glance at the stack of books. When he’d first entered the parlor, he’d expected London papers, all open to the gossip columns. Or tomes on fashion. It occurred to Ellis he might not really know Beatrice at all.
“So, you did,” Beatrice murmured, oddly subdued. Her hand absently went to the thick mass of hair pulled over her right shoulder. “I’m sure you can see yourself out.”
Ellis resisted the urge to fold her smaller body into his, pull Beatrice in his lap and hold her until the sudden sadness lingering about her faded.
Instead, he merely bowed. “Good day, Your Grace.”
11
Beatrice stepped out of her room, hoping a cup of tea, a bit of toast, and a brisk walk to the church for services would set her to rights. She’d tossed and turned in bed last night, unable to settle after sharing a brandy with Blythe. Other than Melinda, Blythe was the only person to have ever paid a call upon her since coming to Chiddon. Observing social niceties reminded Beatrice far too much of London. Castlemare.
A carriage bobbing at the edges of a riverbank.
