Darcy glared at Richard, a frustratingly ineffective reaction when his eye was swollen shut. Had his knuckles not been so tender, he would have punched his cousin. “You will write to Bingley immediately?—”
“No. I have given you five months to make reparation your way, and she is as miserable today?perhaps more so?than she was the day Wickham broke her heart. I am ashamed I have not acted before now.”
“We are at an impasse, then, for I refuse to leave town.”
“Which is why I accepted Bingley’s invitation for you. I knew you would never do it.”
“You do not agree with my methods, and I vehemently disapprove of yours.”
“You forget why Uncle George named me as her guardian along with you. He knew I would treat Georgie like my own sister, that I could more easily seek the counsel of my mother for these moments?—”
“You did not tell Aunt Helen?—”
Richard shook his head. “She knows nothing about Wickham, but she is observant. She is the one who suggested that a change of scenery might improve Georgie’s spirits.”
“I hate you.”
Richard grinned and pointed at Darcy’s eye. “You will need to put a steak on that.” He looked away, adding, “Georgiana is packing as we speak and will be ready to leave at first light on the morrow.”
Tomorrow?!When he wasthis closeto recovering her painting? This was too much. “How could you use Georgiana against me like this?”
“Leave the men you hired to find the painting. Give your attention to Georgie.”
“Blast it, Richard! It was here only yesterday! If I give up my search now, I may never find it. You know what it means to her. Curse your presumption!”
“Curse me all you want, but you will thank me one day.”
Not in a million years.Irate and fit to erupt, Darcy slammed his fist against the roof. If Richard wanted to keep his toes, he had better move them quickly. “To Darcy House!”
CHAPTER 3
Elizabeth Bennet stepped away from the easel to better appreciate the colors on the canvas through the east-facing windows of her father’s long-abandoned hunting lodge. Orange was a bold choice for her clouds, but if nature could get away with it as it had in last night’s sunset, then why should she not include the vivid color in her painting?
She dipped the bristles into the paint on her palette. “A dab of orange here, and a dab there,” she said, turning to her companion, who looked up at her with unadulterated adoration. “What do you think, Remy?”
Rembrandt wagged his tail happily, his tongue lolling out of his mouth. He was her most loyal devotee. Heronlydevotee. He barked and nudged her free hand with his wet nose. She ruffled his curly brown fur. Remy was a big oaf with more heart than intelligence, but he was her favorite art adviser, alwaysapproving. He darted to the door and looked back at her eagerly. Remy was also an excellent timekeeper.
“Already?” she asked begrudgingly. It felt like she had mixed her paints only five minutes ago. Reaching for the turpentine, she began cleaning her brushes near an open window. It was November-cold, but the smell was potent, and she could not risk it clinging to her.
After checking her hands to ensure that they were free of paint, she removed her apron and placed the easel against the wall, away from the light. Stacked against the wall were two other finished paintings. With a hard-earned sense of accomplishment, she looked at the trio of completed canvases leaning against the shaded walls. Her technique had improved with each landscape. Rolling hills, vivid skies, ribbons of streams… Her heart tugged at the familiar longing and her fingers twitched.
Landscapes were lovely, but her dream was to paint people. What she would give to paint the light in an eye, the curve of a lip, the unguarded expressions that revealed a person’s true character.
With a sigh, she picked up her sketchbook and flipped it open. Her father’s eyes glinted at her over the top of the spectacles perched partway down his nose. It was the look he gave Elizabeth when something caught his humor, which happened often. It made her smile.
On the next page, her mother, framed in decadent lace and holding a glass of ratafia, narrowed her gaze at someone off the page, most certainly an eligible gentleman she intended for one of her five unmarrieddaughters. As far as her mother was concerned, marriage was the solution to all their woes, both real and imagined.
Elizabeth’s eldest sister, Jane, personified kindness with her soft features. She was more light than shadow. Simply looking at her picture filled Elizabeth with calm.
Elizabeth was the second-born, and then came Mary. Mary might possess plainer features, but they transformed into a sparkling beauty when she smiled. Unfortunately, the self-righteous views of others easily influenced her, and those harsh opinions too often showed in her thin mouth and squinted eyes.
Kitty and Lydia took up the next page. Elizabeth had sketched their expressions as they giggled with their heads close together. Individually, each was as astute as any other young lady of her age, but combining their intelligence resulted in a deficit that did neither of them credit. Kitty was older and capable of sense, but she looked to Lydia, who was bolder and too selfish for reason. Lydia’s chin tilted up at a defiant angle, her bold gaze reflecting absolute confidence in her ability to get whatever she pleased.
Last was Elizabeth’s self-portrait. Except for the eyes?of which Elizabeth was admittedly proud?her face was dreadful. Her nose was too thin, her mouth too wide, her jaw too firm, her hair too wild. She did not have Jane’s symmetry. Still, it was a true rendering, like looking in a charcoal-shaded mirror.
Elizabeth had worked diligently to improve herartistic skill and took great satisfaction in her ability to reflect the subjects’ personalities?an attribute unnecessary for the landscapes she created.
Portraits earned much more money…
