Page 43 of Desperately Seeking Seduction

“People change as they age.”

“Yes, I suppose that could be the cause.” He squinted into the distance but there was no longer any sign of Edwin. He’d finally slouched off with George and could already be drinking in the saloon. “He used to run everywhere.”

“I highly doubt young Edwin Aston has run a day in life, given his ever-expanding girth,” Algernon said with a laugh, clearly amused.

“No. No. He really did run everywhere. I could hardly keep up with him.”

“He has changed a great deal then since you first knew him,” Algernon suggested gently. “People do.”

“His face is also a different shape,” Stratford said, puzzled the most about that. If Aston did not claim the man was his son, Stratford would never think them related. Edwin was not the boy he’d played with once. “Wider. And he was smarter than me.”

“That’s not that hard,” Jasper teased.

“Stratford, I’m beginning to really doubt your memory,” Algernon complained as the palace loomed closer. “Edwin is ignorant and as boastful as our cousin. If we had a sister, he’s the last man I’d ever want to court her. In fact, I would actually forbid any association with him if not for the senior Aston’s debt to be paid.”

“I could prove it,” he said slowly, a thought occurring to him. “I painted Edwin.”

“When?”

“When I was younger. Crawford reminded me. After the visit with Father, I was inspired to try to paint portraits and chose him as my first subject.”

“So, Edwin is to blame for the countless hours we spent immobile while you painted us,” Algernon complained, tossing a smile in Stratford’s direction.

“It couldn’t have been too bad if you asked me to paint you again,” Stratford noted sourly.

“Well, I didn’t mind because I could read while you did it,” Nash offered. “Jasper, though, had to be bribed to remain still for more than five minutes. No patience at all.”

All his brothers had complained about sitting for their own portraits. Sometimes he could paint people fairly well from memory, but having a living, breathing body in front of him was always better.

He thought he had done well in Edwin’s absence. He’d been rather proud of his efforts, and had more or less given up on landscapes in favor of people from that moment on.

“Do you still have it? The painting of Edwin Aston as a boy?”

Stratford shrugged. “I might. I haven’t seen it for a while, actually. It’s probably up in the attic with the others if it’s anywhere.”

“Bring it to me. Perhaps it can have a use as a peace offering with the elder Aston,” Ravenswood suggested. “Today will be a difficult day. Find that painting. When we get a look at it, Nash and I will decide if it could be enough to turn the negotiations with Aston in our favor. I fully intend to repay him, but I’d prefer not to beggar us all at once.”

Stratford groaned even as he accepted his new mission to search the attics. He’d hoped to return to his chambers and, if Winston was there, kiss her soundly again.

There was something intoxicating about conducting a secret affair with a woman dressing as a male servant. He was starting to think she might just be worth creating a scandal with, too. He’d never actually had so much fun rolling around, tussling with a woman. She was unique in the way she made him feel. Protective and mischievous. And he wanted to talk to her even more when she suggested he shut his mouth and kiss her.

But talking was his favorite thing to do, and it delayed them reaching the peak of pleasure too soon. Frustrating his fake valet had also become a newfound delight.

He excused himself from his brothers as soon as they were close to the palace and headed directly up to the attics, eager to find the painting so he could return to Win.

The attics were usually a gloomy place at any time of day or night, and he shivered in the musty, cold atmosphere. The deeper he went, the more he detected the faint scent of oil paint in the air.

His old paintings were all neatly arranged against one wall with sheets thrown over each stack, to protect them from the encroaching dust and any light that might fade them. He removed the dust covers one by one as he looked for the oldest stack of completed paintings, hoping the one he sought was among them. If memory served, at the time he was painting this portrait, he had been using smaller square canvases rather than the wider landscapes he’d favored until then.

He flicked through the piles, hoping each one would be the right one.

Finally, nearly last, he found the painting he’d been looking for right at the very back.

He lifted out the square canvas and took it to a shuttered window where the light was better to see it by. It was not his best work, but he felt it was true. A reminder of the boy who he’d tried to befriend long ago.

But it bore no resemblance to Edwin Aston as he appeared now.

He squinted at it in the poor light again and then shook his head. No resemblance whatsoever to the Edwin Aston he’d watched drinking just that morning with Cousin George. The Edwin downstairs towered over his own father, but that was not unusual between generations.