world—London?
And why did he even care? He would give his eyeteeth right now for a glass of his finest brandy. Hell, he would give them for fine wine, or even swill. His head ached again. A pox on all females who wanted to be treated as gentlemen.
E sme was certain she would sleep like the dead after so many eventful hours. It was not to be. She tossed and turned, dreaming fitfully of a shadowed figure on a ship, swinging about a mast and hitting his head. And of her not being able to reach him in time before he was dragged to the side of the ship only to slip over the railing and be swallowed by the sea. And then Lionel was in her arms and making love to her as he had always done, so slowly, so kindly, so lovingly, and so often drunkenly. But then his dazed eyes changed from brown to piercing sky blue and she pulled away only to find she was in the Duke of Norwich’s arms and he was taking her with such force while terror colored his face.
The next morning she dragged her weary bones from the twisted sheets and gratefully accepted the ministrations of the inn’s maid. She knew exactly what she was going to do today to restore her balance.
She nearly skipped out the front entrance of the Horse & Hound, bypassing the dining room and any chance of seeing the duke who had dogged her dreams.
Esme set her easel high atop a sea cliff, facing the chalk-white crags jutting into the sea in the distance. She set her watercolor paints on top of a stump and splashed water from her large flask into a cup. She carefully unfolded her spectacles and perched them on the end of her nose.
She sat motionless before the beauty of the scene in front of her and studied the play of sunlight on the water and the texture of the rocky ledges. It was not Italy, to be sure, but it was a delight to have new scenery to paint.
This was always how she had maintained her calm when the murky waters of sadness had threatened to overcome her in the past. Oh, no one had ever known when she had felt that way. No, that was not true. Lionel had known even when she had tried to hide it. And he had felt so guilty and made so many promises, always with a wincing grin, as he tried to cover the aftereffects in the morning.
She dabbed her largest brush in the water and washed a pale hue of sky over the parchment. There was not a single cloud.
Two hours later she swirled her smallest brush in the muddied water, tapped it gently, and carefully applied a hue of brown, gray and green shades to the bristles for the minutest touches to the greenery on top of the cliffs. Esme jarred her hand at the worst possible moment when she caught a glimpse out of the corner of her eye of someone walking toward her.
“Oh pish,” she exhaled, when she saw that she had ruined the painting. She quickly dabbed at the brush stroke with a cloth.
It was he. The one who had plagued her thoughts all morning. She took him straight on.
“Good morning, Montagu.” She reordered her brushes in the tall jar.
He completed the last few steps to her side. “And good day to you, March.”
It pleased her that he used the name she had requested. She looked down only to find her apron was smeared a thousand shades of brown, the result of so many hours before an easel. She felt the sting of a blush rise from her bodice. She knew she didn’t look her best, but she refused to care. It was hot under the sun.
“May I see?” he asked.
“No, it’s ruined.”
“Hmmm,” he said in that infuriating tone people use when they would instantly disagree without even examining the issue.
She sighed and moved a little for him to see her work.
For long moments he studied her painting, until the silence became so loud, she felt the need to end it. She opened her mouth but he stopped her by raising his hand in the air.
“You are a great artist.”
“It’s my dream,” she replied. “But not something that I can truly call myself.”
“So you insist I call you March for no good reason and
And why did he even care? He would give his eyeteeth right now for a glass of his finest brandy. Hell, he would give them for fine wine, or even swill. His head ached again. A pox on all females who wanted to be treated as gentlemen.
E sme was certain she would sleep like the dead after so many eventful hours. It was not to be. She tossed and turned, dreaming fitfully of a shadowed figure on a ship, swinging about a mast and hitting his head. And of her not being able to reach him in time before he was dragged to the side of the ship only to slip over the railing and be swallowed by the sea. And then Lionel was in her arms and making love to her as he had always done, so slowly, so kindly, so lovingly, and so often drunkenly. But then his dazed eyes changed from brown to piercing sky blue and she pulled away only to find she was in the Duke of Norwich’s arms and he was taking her with such force while terror colored his face.
The next morning she dragged her weary bones from the twisted sheets and gratefully accepted the ministrations of the inn’s maid. She knew exactly what she was going to do today to restore her balance.
She nearly skipped out the front entrance of the Horse & Hound, bypassing the dining room and any chance of seeing the duke who had dogged her dreams.
Esme set her easel high atop a sea cliff, facing the chalk-white crags jutting into the sea in the distance. She set her watercolor paints on top of a stump and splashed water from her large flask into a cup. She carefully unfolded her spectacles and perched them on the end of her nose.
She sat motionless before the beauty of the scene in front of her and studied the play of sunlight on the water and the texture of the rocky ledges. It was not Italy, to be sure, but it was a delight to have new scenery to paint.
This was always how she had maintained her calm when the murky waters of sadness had threatened to overcome her in the past. Oh, no one had ever known when she had felt that way. No, that was not true. Lionel had known even when she had tried to hide it. And he had felt so guilty and made so many promises, always with a wincing grin, as he tried to cover the aftereffects in the morning.
She dabbed her largest brush in the water and washed a pale hue of sky over the parchment. There was not a single cloud.
Two hours later she swirled her smallest brush in the muddied water, tapped it gently, and carefully applied a hue of brown, gray and green shades to the bristles for the minutest touches to the greenery on top of the cliffs. Esme jarred her hand at the worst possible moment when she caught a glimpse out of the corner of her eye of someone walking toward her.
“Oh pish,” she exhaled, when she saw that she had ruined the painting. She quickly dabbed at the brush stroke with a cloth.
It was he. The one who had plagued her thoughts all morning. She took him straight on.
“Good morning, Montagu.” She reordered her brushes in the tall jar.
He completed the last few steps to her side. “And good day to you, March.”
It pleased her that he used the name she had requested. She looked down only to find her apron was smeared a thousand shades of brown, the result of so many hours before an easel. She felt the sting of a blush rise from her bodice. She knew she didn’t look her best, but she refused to care. It was hot under the sun.
“May I see?” he asked.
“No, it’s ruined.”
“Hmmm,” he said in that infuriating tone people use when they would instantly disagree without even examining the issue.
She sighed and moved a little for him to see her work.
For long moments he studied her painting, until the silence became so loud, she felt the need to end it. She opened her mouth but he stopped her by raising his hand in the air.
“You are a great artist.”
“It’s my dream,” she replied. “But not something that I can truly call myself.”
“So you insist I call you March for no good reason and
Similar Books
