Page 2 of To Love a Beast

An hour later, he sat in the March family parlor sipping tea, nibbling cakes, and wondering what in the world he'd gotten himself into. Lillian March kept shooting him glances he couldn't interpret, and every time she opened her mouth, her mother jumped in to steer the conversation. He felt a little sorry for the younger lady. He knew a bit of what it was like to have a parent intent on directing her child's life the way she thought it should go. Usually a charismatic smile, a little flattery, and a solicitous comment or two allowed him to win his way into a mother's good graces, but Paulette March remained unmoved by his charm. She had an agenda, of that he had no doubt, but she hid it well.

As lovely as The Enchantress was, Everett wasn't sure he could stomach having a mother-in-law as controlling as his own mama. One overbearing woman in his life was quite enough. The few times he'd encountered Lillian March, she'd seemed like a sweet-natured, quiet young lady, if a bit vapid. Her lovely voice made up for her lack of intelligence and spirit, and, if he were honest, he rather liked the idea of having a woman he could easily mold to his will. Her mother was a far different story. There'd be no bending that woman to any man's will. Were he to marry Lillian and a time arose when she had to choose between following her husband's wishes or her mother's, Everett would lay odds on Mrs. March winning that contest every time. A dismal prospect. Best he scratch Miss Lillian's name off his list of bridal candidates.

"Can I pour you another cup of tea, Mr. Griffin?" Mrs. March reached for the white ceramic pot on the tea cart the butler had wheeled in twenty minutes earlier.

Everett leaned away from her, placing a poetic hand upon his chest. "What sustenance need I when surrounded by such beauty?"

He smiled first at Mrs. March, then pivoted to include Lillian. The young woman's eyes glowed with strange light, almost as if they tried to speak on her behalf, though he had no idea what they might be saying. Experience had trained him to distinguish flirtatious glances from shy delight, peevishness from teasing indignation, and wanton invitation from a more innocent interest. The gleam in Miss Lillian's eyes checked none of those boxes, yet it definitely felt impassioned. Almost . . . zealous. An uneasy feeling snaked up the back of his neck, but then the lady blinked and her gaze returned to its rather vacant norm.

Telling himself he'd imagined the odd look, Everett turned back to his hostess. "My mother mentioned that you would enjoy having a sketch done of your lovely daughter. I admit that my fingers itch with the need to set aside this cup and pick up my graphite pencils."

Mrs. March tittered softly, his charm finally finding its way through her armor. "Such a gallant young man." She leaned back from the tea cart and gestured to the art case he'd brought with him. "By all means. Please begin."

Everett set his napkin aside and claimed his oversized sketchbook along with his favorite pencil from the case. He'd considered using charcoal or black chalk, being fond of the deep shading he could achieve with those mediums, but graphite provided the best opportunity for finer detailing and kept one's hands from being covered in black smudges. A decided advantage when surrounded by women and furnishings adorned in fine fabrics.

Mrs. March collected a silver-backed hand mirror from the end table and handed it to her daughter so Lillian could check her hair. Next, Mrs. March turned her attention to ensuring her daughter's dress draped just so. Lillian seemed rather enamored of her reflection, peering into the glass for several moments before her mother snatched the mirror from her hands and returned it to the table. A spark of rebellion flared in Lillian's eyes, but she made no verbal objection. Hoping to clear some of the tension from the air, Everett clapped his hands and smiled when the two ladies glanced his way.

"Never have I had a more beautiful model." One could always count on flattery to unruffle a woman's feathers. It didn't let him down, for both women preened at his praise.

Finally, pencil met paper and personal agendas, manipulative mamas, and concerns about mysterious glances drifted from Everett's mind. His focus sharpened as he concentrated on curves and angles, light and dark, movement and flow. The scratch of pencil on paper filled the quiet room, drawing him deeper into his art. His hand moved over the page in long sweeps followed by shorter, more refined strokes.

Lillian March's face came to life on the paper, the curls of her hair framing her brow while the slope of her shoulders and lines of her bodice grounded the vision like a vase supporting a bouquet. He added some shading to highlight the gentle rounding of her jaw then turned the pencil to its point to shape a delicate nose. Next came the mouth, her lips narrow but well formed, softened in a slight pout he strove to capture. Absorbed in his work, he nearly jumped when Mrs. March broke the silence.

"Lillian, dear. Stop fidgeting with your hands."

The lips he'd been studying so intently pursed in an unattractive scrunch. Lines formed across her brow as well. This would never do.

Glancing around for inspiration, Everett spotted a single rose in a slender vase on the tea cart. He set aside his pencil and sketchbook, stood, and plucked the flower from the vase. After dabbing the stem with a napkin to remove any excess water that might drip upon her dress, he pivoted toward his model and bent in a chivalrous bow.

"May I offer you this rose, my lady?"

Miss March blinked up at him, the lines of frustration erasing from her face. "A rose?"

"A fair flower for a fair beauty." And holding it would give her something to do with her hands while he finished his sketch.

That unsettling look returned to her eyes, making Everett's nape itch, but she reached out and took the stem from him.

"Thank you," she said. "I accept."

He nodded to her then returned to his seat, eager to finish the sketch and take his leave. Concerned more for speed than perfection now, Everett hurried through the last details of her face, leaving her disturbing eyes for last. When he could avoid them no longer, he focused on shape and position, doing his best to ignore the orbs glittering in a way that had him recollecting the rumors of her ancestor's madness.

Movement at the edge of his vision drew Everett's gaze from his sketch. A maid entered the parlor and bobbed a quick curtsy.

"Sorry to disturb, ma'am, but a squirrel got into the kitchen and is running amok. Cook is screeching and threatening to quit. I've never seen her so upset, ma'am. I fear she might suffer an apoplexy."

"Good heavens." Mrs. March scurried toward the door, then stopped and glanced back at her daughter. "I can't leave . . . I . . ."

"I'll stay with Miss Lillian, ma'am." The young maid hurried forward. "Cook needs you."

Mrs. March frowned but eventually nodded. "Do not leave her side, Elsie."

"Yes, ma'am."

Having claimed the maid's promise, Mrs. March turned and fled the room.

Everett lowered his sketchbook. "Perhaps I should take my leave as well. It seems a crisis is afoot."

"Absolutely not." As if her mother's departure had loosed the chains that had heretofore confined her will, Lillian shifted on the sofa cushion, her body vibrating with palpable energy. "Mama has things well in hand. I insist you finish my portrait."