Page 14 of My Lord, Lady, and Gentleman

“Oh dear. Oh my. Ah…it seems Onslow is calling me back.”

“What a shame,” lied Susanna. “Good evening, my lady.”

And with that, she turned on her heel and made her way to the row of velvet-upholstered chairs. Joseph and Clayton were seated and laughing about something, but had left a space for her between them.

Both glanced up as she approached. Oddly, her husband wore a faintly guilty expression. Why would she mind them sharing a joke?

Clayton grinned as she sat down. “That was a remarkably short conversation. I thought you’d be trapped for at least an hour.”

“Lady Onslow said some disagreeable things. I’m afraid I was not a good baroness in my response.”

“Naughty Susie. What’s to be done with you,” said Joseph, shaking his head even as his lips twitched.

Gracious. What a difference a Clayton made. To think her husband used to frown at her for calling him Joseph. Now he had accepted pleasure lessons, relaxed his false English accent, called her Susie on several occasions, and tolerated her behaving pertly in public.

“I can think of a few possibilities,” she replied with a sultry smile. “What about you, Clayton?”

Her lover, for that was how she thought of him privately now, groaned. “Don’t ask me that, you little minx. Not in the middle of a bloody theater, wearing formfitting trousers.”

Joseph cleared his throat. “I must concur. But what were the disagreeable things?”

“A complaint I hear all too often from ton ladies,” said Susanna, grimacing. “How the so-called lowborn are ungrateful. Imagine daring to want a fair wage, and adequate housing, and an education for their children. But Lady Onslow also spouted some nonsense about Clayton being estranged from his family and it being his fault because they are paragons.”

To her right, the man in question went rigid. “Oh?”

Susanna tossed her head. “Indeed. I wouldn’t hear of it, though. Told her you were an artist of extraordinary talent who was painting my portrait. Not to mention amusing and generous and handsome. That I quite adore your company…”

She trailed off in embarrassment. Oh no. She had definitely said too much. And yet rather than scolding her or tensing, Joseph began stroking the back of her neck. “Quite so, my dear.”

“You said that?” said Clayton, in an unusually hoarse tone, his emerald gaze searching.

“Yes,” she replied softly. And as bold as she dared in a public place with so many eyes watching, she took his hand and squeezed it. Only to barely swallow a cry of joy when his thumb caressed her knuckles, and he smiled at her with soul-stirring tenderness.

Sweet heaven. Could it be true?

He had feelings for her in return?

A trumpet blast from the stage below startled her into dropping his hand, and Susanna quickly turned her head to the stage to watch the play begin.

Not that she would be able to concentrate when her mind was whirling and stomach churning at what this might mean for them. And her marriage. A woman couldn’t have two men. That was impossible. And while Joseph might be willing to take lessons from Clayton, the novelty would pass no matter how wickedly good their interludes were. He certainly wouldn’t accept him as her lover in future. What husband would? It was ridiculously unfair to ask that of him when she’d made vows to love and cherish him. To forsake all others.

What on earth was she to do?

Chapter 4

Everything he needed to create a portrait was at his fingertips. And yet he couldn’t make himself begin.

Clayton scowled at the large rectangle of blank canvas mocking him with its pristine whiteness. He had no excuses; a wide array of oils, his collection of paintbrushes, and all the sketches he’d done rested nearby. Even though he’d finished the sketching part of the process, Susanna and Joseph had kindly allowed him use of the still-empty music room to paint in. So he had a light, airy space. One smiling maid had brought in a tray with brandy and lemonade, another a plate of buttered bread, thinly sliced ham, an apple, and two berry tarts.

He literally had everything he needed. Yet an hour after he’d arrived, the canvas remained blank.

And he knew precisely why.

Joseph’s actions in this very room had been promising enough, but after the delightful shared meals, the wonderful evening at the theater, Susanna’s defense of him to the vile Lady Onslow, and the way she’d taken his hand in public…he needed to take charge of the situation without delay. They had to be plain with one another. No more hesitancy or unfulfilled yearning, but the truth of their hopes and wants, and a path for the future as a trio.

The time was now. Once he started painting, the fever would grip him, and he would work until his fingers cramped, his back ached, his eyes were reddened, and his neck had a semi-permanent indentation from where he tilted it to judge his lines and tones and shading, and lose the precious momentum.

Fuck, he wanted to stay. Apart from Lady Portia’s gold parlor where they held the Society meetings, no place had ever felt like home until this townhouse. Not his father’s impersonal, old-fashioned estate, the sparsely-furnished Eton dorm he’d shared with so many other boys, his cold and unwanted room at Cambridge, or the grimy bachelor lodgings in Guildford. But here, in stiff-rumped St. James’s Square of all places, he’d found real acceptance of his art and creative quirks. Passion and laughter and tender care. At last, somewhere to belong.