Lady Jenny's Christmas Portrait by Grace Burrowes Page B

gifts, then surely a small token shouldn’t be beyond me?”
    Balderdash. Anna, Countess of Westhaven, was likely already hinting about a little sister for her pair of boys.
    “Each year, it becomes more difficult to find something original, something unique. The challenge is to think of a gift your mother hasn’t even admitted to herself she longs for.”
    Though she longed to have her family gathered together for the holidays. His Grace could be stone-blind and still see that.
    “So you’ll tarry in Town until inspiration strikes?”
    “If I must.” And because Westhaven would be Moreland someday, His Grace went on in the most casual of tones. “I don’t think Jenny minds keeping Sophie company while your mother and I are in Town, particularly not when Harrison also bides at Sidling, doing portraits of the little ones.”
    Westhaven brought his horse to a halt at a fork in the bridle path. “Harrison? Elijah Harrison? The painter?”
    His Grace’s bay came to a halt as well. “Harrison is Flint’s oldest boy, though he’s likely close to your age by now. Fancies himself a portraitist, and when old Rothgreb was grumbling about children growing up too soon, I might have mentioned Harrison to him.”
    “Elijah Harrison served as Kesmore’s second at last year’s duel,” Westhaven said. He stroked a hand over his horse’s crest. Westhaven had inherited shrewdness from both sire and dam lines, so His Grace said no more but let his son ponder the puzzle pieces. “Seemed a decent sort. There’s been no gossip about the duel, in any case.”
    “I wouldn’t know anything about that, just as I have no idea what I’ll get your mother for Christmas, though I’m scouring the shops until something comes to mind. I trust you’ll pass along any worthy ideas?”
    “Of course.” Westhaven looked like he might have a question brewing in his handsome head.
    His Grace lifted a hand in parting accordingly. “My regards to your family, Westhaven, and I’ll look forward to seeing you out at Morelands ere long.”
    Westhaven saluted with his riding crop and trotted off in the direction of that wife and family, while His Grace considered whether and how best to explain this latest parental gambit to his dear wife. Perhaps she’d have some idea how long two artists might be thrust into each other’s company before the creative passions took over.
    ***
    Reading Reynolds’s Discourses was getting Elijah nowhere. The grand old style of portraiture—an approach that flattered subjects, carefully posed them, and surrounded them with heroic symbols of great deeds—was fading.
    Children had no heroic deeds, in any case. They had sticky fingers, silky curls, and a particular scent, of soap and innocence, that Elijah had forgotten.
    The door to Elijah’s sitting room creaked open. His first thought was that a footman, presuming the occupant to be abed, had come to douse the lights and bank the fire.
    His second thought… evaporated from his mind when he saw Genevieve Windham standing inside his door in her nightgown and robe, a sketchbook clutched in her hand.
    “I want to do you in oils,” she said, advancing into the room. “I will content myself with some sketches first. I trust you can remain awake for another hour.”
    “Awake will not be a problem.” Sane, however, became questionable. “Genevieve, you cannot remain in my rooms with me unchaperoned when the rest of the house is abed.”
    She flipped a fat golden braid over her shoulder. “I was unchaperoned with you at breakfast; I was unchaperoned with you in your studio before the boys arrived. I was unchaperoned with you in the library when the children went for their nap after luncheon. How did you expect to pose for me, Mr. Harrison, if not privately?”
    “You are— we are —not properly clothed.”
    Her gaze ran over him assessingly, as dispassionately as if this Mr. Harrison fellow were some minor foreign diplomat with little English.
    “Had I been