Page 7 of Romancing the Artist

“Oh. Yes.” Grace sighed and leaned a little against the arm of the couch. “As I was saying, there is nothing wrong with Miss Kimball. She will make someone a perfectly adequate wife someday. But I cannot imagine that you would be happy together. I watched you grow up, Edward. You are so much like our sister Hope, eyes so often on the horizon and what might be over its edge.” Her tone became wistful when she spoke of her twin. “I may not know who to match you with, but I know for certain it would not be Miss Kimball.”

“Father thinks I need someone practical to anchor me to home and hearth,” he muttered, trying to keep resentment from his voice.

“A ridiculous notion. We ought to have learned our lesson on that matter by observing Hope and Alejandro’s union. Hope’s spirit hasn’t at all been tamed, or anchored if you prefer.” She waved the last of her biscuit at him. “If anything, Alejandro is more like the sails of her ship than an anchor. He provides direction and guidance to her free-spirited nature. He empowers her, allowing her to harness her wildness and navigate life's currents with purpose and excitement. And that is the same sort of person you need, Edward.” She took a decisive final bite of the biscuit, punctuating her speech with a satisfied smile as she chewed.

“And I should be the one to decide when I find that person.”

“Precisely. Such a process should not be rushed or decided by the whims of others,” Grace declared.

He almost laughed in his relief. “Will you tell our parents your opinion? Perhaps it would help them reevaluate their own.”

“I doubt it.” Grace took a sharp bite of her biscuit, and her eyes glazed over as she chewed. “Our father is stubborn. Our mother is single-focused. I cannot think either of them would hear my differing opinion without pointing out that it is, in fact, merely an opinion. Have you told them, outright, that you believe the two of you are poorly suited?”

“I have.” He let his gaze settle on a painting on the wall opposite him, one sent by Hope as a gift from Spain. The painting depicted an old Spanish windmill, with a man on a horse gazing at it from a distant hill, dressed like a knight. He wanted to go there. He wanted to see Spanish meadows and Grecian temples, climb French mountains, and explore German castles. While he was still young enough to enjoy such things.

Grace’s voice interrupted his musings. “Our parents will not change their minds until they see a clear reason for it.”

Edward’s mind caught that thought and turned it over. “They need proof that it is a bad idea.”

“Precisely. If your appeals for reason have fallen on deaf ears, they need to see with their own eyes that it is not a good match. Or…” The single word trailed away, and Grace hurried to take another bite of her biscuit rather than finish her thought aloud.

Edward raised his eyebrows. “Or?”

Color returned to Grace’s cheeks. “Nothing. It was an unhelpful idea.”

“You may as well say it aloud.” Edward tried to hide his smile as he watched his sister, a vicar’s wife, squirm in her seat as though caught speaking during a sermon.

“If someone else caught your interest,” she said at last, wincing somewhat, “our parents would stop encouraging you toward Mariah.”

“Someone else?” Edward groaned and dropped his face into his hands. “Grace. I have no wish to marry at all, at present. And even if I did, you know all the eligible women of the neighborhood as well as I do. Better, even.”

“Yes.” She sighed and took another bite of her treat. “I cannot imagine you with any of them, really.”

All he could do was hope for his parents to come to their senses. Or for Mariah Kimball to tell her parents that her affections were already engaged elsewhere. Seeing how miserable he was in Miss Kimball’s presence might help. Maybe the answer was to spend more time with the woman rather than less, but only in his parents’ view. Showing them at every opportunity how ill-suited Mariah Kimball would be as his wife. How unprepared he was to marry anyone, in fact.

His mind whirled with ideas, but his confidence remained low as he disregarded one half-formed plan after another. Nothing suited his circumstances. He muttered to himself, “If Hope were here, she would suggest something outrageous.”

Grace studied her brother intently, her gaze sharp and discerning, as she delicately brushed away the remnants of gingerbread from her fingertips. There was a flicker of concern in her eyes. "Edward," she cautioned, her voice tinged with a mix of amusement and worry. "I implore you, do not let your impulsive nature lead you to do something rash."

Edward's features instantly transformed into a mask of feigned innocence, his brows raising in a mock display of surprise. "Me? Rash?" he laced his words with a mischievous undertone. "Never."

“You have a look about you that reminds me far too much of Hope.”

Edward was not one to let an opportunity slip through his fingers. If there was a way to extricate himself from his current predicament, he was determined to seize it.

She frowned at him and opened her mouth, perhaps to question him or admonish him, but Edward never found out which. Above them, a babyish voice called out for “Mama,” and Grace looked to the ceiling with a sigh.

“Naptime is over.”

Chapter 3

The carriage that brought Caroline to Inglewood Castle would take her father home again. He’d hired it for the occasion rather than send her along with a mail coach or drive their little gig the distance from Dunwich to Woodbridge. The journey of twenty-nine miles on narrow country roads had never felt so long to Caroline, even if it brought them to the edge of Inglewood’s Estate mid-afternoon.

They passed beneath the branches of the silver birch trees that lined the main path, and Caroline moved to the edge of her seat, holding her breath. Her papa had grown quiet over the last half hour, but she’d hardly noticed. Now that they were so near, a temptation to leap from the carriage and run the rest of the way up the lane nearly moved her to act. Surely, she could move faster than the horses at this point!

“Steady on, Cara,” Papa said, as though sensing her words. He laid his hand over hers, where she gripped the edge of her seat with tight fingers. “We are nearly there, and you will have all summer with the countess. You needn’t rush things.”

Of course he was right. But her smile remained tight, and her worries continued to race like a horse on a track through her mind, round and round, over and over. What if she had grown worse since the last time Lady Inglewood had viewed her work? What if there was no way to improve? What if Jill Martin was right when she said Caroline’s head was turned the wrong way round? What if she shouldn’t be any kind of artist at all? What if the only thing waiting for her was marriage to a farmer?