and Charles, Colin, the children. The dogs. You. Michael." Most of all, Michael. Seeing Kenneth's quizzical glance, she added quickly, "I'd pay you, of course."
His brows rose. "Really, Catherine, you know better than that."
She stared into her sherry glass. "I'm sorry. I suppose that sounded rather insulting, as if you were a tradesman."
The lines around his eyes crinkled. "Actually, it was a compliment—it would be my first professional drawing commission, except that I can't accept it."
"Of course not. I'm sorry, I shouldn't have asked."
He cut off her apology with a quick gesture. "I didn't say I wouldn't make the sketches. In fact, I already have a number that would do, but you must take them as a gift."
When she tried to thank him, he said, "No thanks are necessary. You and Anne have the gift of taking an assortment of misfit pieces and creating a home from them." He gazed out at the nearly dark sky. "It's been a long time since I've had a home. A very long time."
His wistfulness made her lay her hand over his, a gesture that was as easy with him as it was complicated with Michael. "When you do the sketches, don't forget the self-portrait."
"If I try to do one, the paper might spontaneously disintegrate," he said dryly.
"As Molly would say, you're
so
silly."
They both laughed. Removing her hand, she went on, "Are you going to the Duchess of Richmond's ball next week? It's supposed to be the grandest entertainment of the spring."
He gave an elaborate shudder. "No, thank heaven, I'm not important enough to rate an invitation. I'll be at the duke's ball on the twenty-first, though. Since he's commemorating the Battle of Vitoria, he'll expect his officers to be there."
She smiled teasingly. "I shall expect a dance with you."
"Absolutely
not
. I am quite willing to give you my drawings or my life, but dancing is quite another matter."
They laughed again. Turning from the window, she saw Michael standing in the doorway. When he saw her looking at him, he entered the room, his expression impenetrable. She ached to go to him and take his hands. Instead, she put on her Saint Catherine face and went to pour another sherry.
It was easier to be a saint than a woman.
That evening Kenneth went through his drawings, selecting ones he thought Catherine would like. He was surprised at how many he had done. Only one or two more would be needed. He set aside several for Anne as well. There was one of the Mowbry family together in the garden that was really quite good.
Idly he took his pencil and began sketching the lovers Tristram and Iseult. Tristram, the mighty warrior, and Iseult, the healer princess who was wed to Tristram's uncle. It had ended tragically, of course; it wouldn't be much of a legend if they'd settled into a cottage and she'd had nine children and he'd turned into a red-faced hunting squire.
He did not realize what he was doing until the picture was done. Then he saw that the tormented warrior wore Michael's face, and the dark-haired princess in his arms had the haunted sweetness of Catherine Melbourne.
He gave a soft whistle. So that was how the wind was blowing. It wasn't the first time his drawings had revealed something he had not consciously recognized. Damnation, hadn't Michael suffered enough? Or Catherine, for that matter, paying endlessly for the foolish marriage made when she was sixteen.
Having learned to his bitter cost that happiness was fleeting, he would throw morality to the winds and seize what joy he could if he were in love. He would like to believe Michael and Catherine were doing exactly that, but they were both too damned noble. They were probably concealing their feelings from each other, perhaps even from themselves.
He tossed the drawing into the fireplace and held a candle to the edge until the paper flared. As he watched the picture crumble into ash, he hoped they would get their reward in heaven, for it wasn't likely to happen on earth.
The day before the Duchess of
His brows rose. "Really, Catherine, you know better than that."
She stared into her sherry glass. "I'm sorry. I suppose that sounded rather insulting, as if you were a tradesman."
The lines around his eyes crinkled. "Actually, it was a compliment—it would be my first professional drawing commission, except that I can't accept it."
"Of course not. I'm sorry, I shouldn't have asked."
He cut off her apology with a quick gesture. "I didn't say I wouldn't make the sketches. In fact, I already have a number that would do, but you must take them as a gift."
When she tried to thank him, he said, "No thanks are necessary. You and Anne have the gift of taking an assortment of misfit pieces and creating a home from them." He gazed out at the nearly dark sky. "It's been a long time since I've had a home. A very long time."
His wistfulness made her lay her hand over his, a gesture that was as easy with him as it was complicated with Michael. "When you do the sketches, don't forget the self-portrait."
"If I try to do one, the paper might spontaneously disintegrate," he said dryly.
"As Molly would say, you're
so
silly."
They both laughed. Removing her hand, she went on, "Are you going to the Duchess of Richmond's ball next week? It's supposed to be the grandest entertainment of the spring."
He gave an elaborate shudder. "No, thank heaven, I'm not important enough to rate an invitation. I'll be at the duke's ball on the twenty-first, though. Since he's commemorating the Battle of Vitoria, he'll expect his officers to be there."
She smiled teasingly. "I shall expect a dance with you."
"Absolutely
not
. I am quite willing to give you my drawings or my life, but dancing is quite another matter."
They laughed again. Turning from the window, she saw Michael standing in the doorway. When he saw her looking at him, he entered the room, his expression impenetrable. She ached to go to him and take his hands. Instead, she put on her Saint Catherine face and went to pour another sherry.
It was easier to be a saint than a woman.
That evening Kenneth went through his drawings, selecting ones he thought Catherine would like. He was surprised at how many he had done. Only one or two more would be needed. He set aside several for Anne as well. There was one of the Mowbry family together in the garden that was really quite good.
Idly he took his pencil and began sketching the lovers Tristram and Iseult. Tristram, the mighty warrior, and Iseult, the healer princess who was wed to Tristram's uncle. It had ended tragically, of course; it wouldn't be much of a legend if they'd settled into a cottage and she'd had nine children and he'd turned into a red-faced hunting squire.
He did not realize what he was doing until the picture was done. Then he saw that the tormented warrior wore Michael's face, and the dark-haired princess in his arms had the haunted sweetness of Catherine Melbourne.
He gave a soft whistle. So that was how the wind was blowing. It wasn't the first time his drawings had revealed something he had not consciously recognized. Damnation, hadn't Michael suffered enough? Or Catherine, for that matter, paying endlessly for the foolish marriage made when she was sixteen.
Having learned to his bitter cost that happiness was fleeting, he would throw morality to the winds and seize what joy he could if he were in love. He would like to believe Michael and Catherine were doing exactly that, but they were both too damned noble. They were probably concealing their feelings from each other, perhaps even from themselves.
He tossed the drawing into the fireplace and held a candle to the edge until the paper flared. As he watched the picture crumble into ash, he hoped they would get their reward in heaven, for it wasn't likely to happen on earth.
The day before the Duchess of
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