Goodness, she’d never been made giddy at the mere presence of a man before. She was acting like a wet goose. “Ren, these are my friends. Miss Darci Kilcannon, who sculpts. Miss Melike Yilmaz, who does exquisite miniatures. The High and Well-Born Natalya Dobraya, our model. And Miss Sorcha Cowley, who makes scones that will make you think you have died and gone to heaven. Oh, and I have saved the highest among us for last: HerRoyal Highness Casimira, Princess of the Kingdom of Galicia and Lodomeria. You may simply call her Princess, as we all do.”
Ren regarded her with interest. Princess stared boldly back, an approving smile curling her lips as she studied him from wig to boots.
“I have not heard of your pr-pr—” Harriette caught the slight pause as he gathered himself. “–that principality, your Highness,” he said politely.
“It is quite new,” Princess responded. “Created by the Hapsburgs in the Partition of Poland. Fond as I am of the formidable Empress Maria Theresa, my family lost a great deal of their lands and dignity when the greater powers carved up my country, and so I decided to live abroad for a time.”
Harriette spotted the letter she had left by her plate, and her insides twisted. Princess’s plight mirrored her mother’s own background, what little she knew of it. Displaced nobles were a common sight across a Europe being almost continuously reshaped by wars and alliance. Harriette had always suspected her mother had fled her homeland not because her noble name was in danger, but because she was hiding an illegitimate child.
Her aunt had never said anything more than what Harriette’s mother told her, except to insist that their family was good enough for her to be accepted in the best circles, and good enough for Harriette to receive schooling at the very selective Miss Gregoire’s Academy for Girls.
But her unknown birth was another strike against her. She was not the well-bred, mannerly type of society wife that Renwick required for his countess. She was neither an able housekeeper nor a proper hostess, and she hadn’t the smallest streak of decorum in her bones. No matter how high her mother’s rank, an illegitimate daughter would never be good enough for the Earl of Renwick. Not while Lady Renwick lived.
“Does your mother know you’re here?” she asked Ren.
She loved how that wry smile quirked up one corner of his mouth. “My mother does not direct me, Rhette. I own the roof she lives under and I pay for the servants who attend her. We had a dis-discussion about it last night, after you left.”
She knew by this that he must have had an out-and-out row with his mother, and she flattened her palm against his chest in a soothing gesture. That must have hurt him. The Ren she knew hated rows, and above all hated disappointing his parents.
“You’ve come to call?”
This smile lifted both sides of his mouth, and her lungs emptied at the beauty of him. “You asked to paint me. I consent.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Finally.
That was all Harriette said in response to his declaration—his full-scale and unhesitant capitulation to whatever she wanted, whatever she planned to do with him. Never mind he had left his mother weeping into her morning coffee when she heard him leaving to call on the Countess of Calenberg.
“You won’t like what comes of associating with such people!” she’d cried when Ren made it clear he had no intention of cutting Harriette from his life and, if she was not welcome under his own roof, he would go to hers. “You’ll regret this!”
So far Ren regretted nothing. Not the dirty water that had splashed on him by a wagon passing his horse in the street, soiling his specially designed riding boot. Not the excruciating scrutiny of the curious females in the countess’s dining parlor, who doubtless detected all his flaws and deformities. Not whatever discomfort might ensue with having Harriette examine him closely, for an extended length of time.
Alone together.
He noticed little else but the sway of her skirts as she climbed the stairs ahead of him to the first floor. But as she pushed open the door to a large drawing room that looked in no way how aformal drawing room was supposed to look, he perceived he had committed himself to torture.
He would be alone with Harriette for an indefinite length of time, and with no foreign presence to restrain him, he would have to rely on his own gentlemanly restraint to keep his hands off her. That incendiary kiss had sent him arsey varsey, as the younger Harriette would have said. That kiss was the prime reason he had barreled out the door of Renwick House determined to find her. He was a green schoolboy again, on fire with physical sensations that drowned out the voice of sense. Being near Harriette made sense. Nothing else did.
She had told him they must say goodbye, told him not to seek her out, and he had immediately disregarded her wishes. The thought made him stumble into the room.
She had also given him a kiss that had left him aching all night, the memory of her lips and her scent and her delicious warm softness finding him on the edge of dreams. How could she kiss him like that and then abandon him?
He had come to find out if he could change her mind.
He had come, in truth, hoping he could kiss her again. And again and again and again, until she melted in his arms, until she wanted him, until she chose to stay with him forever, come what may.
The thought drenched him in a sudden hot sweat.Forever.How had his mind leapt ahead to that conclusion? He was far too given to fantasy, as his tutor had impressed on him time and again. He must guard against that.
“Welcome to our studio. Well, my and Darci’s studio. Melike likes to work in the library, which is downstairs.”
She held out her arms and turned about. The long room was papered in a lovely sky-blue silk, with patterned moldings and gilt-touched carvings on a high ceiling that turned the place into a graceful cavern. Tall windows let in light that shoneon the waxed wooden floor. Instead of the customary seating arrangements, one end of the room held several clay sculptures in various stages of completion, a large block of polished marble, and a table full of tools he couldn’t identify.
The rest of the room was a painter’s haven, with large canvases lining the walls, some bare and many more painted upon, propped against others draped in fabric. One corner was arranged to look like an Oriental boudoir, with a long couch, a Turkish rug, a painted screen, and a lamp with dragon’s feet stationed near it. Next to an easel standing atop a cloth arranged on the floor was a tall stool and a long table filled with brushes, jars and bottles of a dizzying array of colors, and bowls and other assorted implements. It was a peek into Harriette’s mind and soul, and he moved toward the canvases, mesmerized.
One portrait held a finished central figure though the background was not yet complete. A mature woman stared back at him, the secrets and wisdom of her life written on her face, a gleam of mischief and sharp intelligence in her eyes.
“The Countess of Calenberg,” he said. “It is her to the life, Rhette.”
