Chapter Five

"More tea, Eleanor?"

Eleanor nodded, and her friend poured tea into a cup, followed by a spoon of honey and a sprinkle of cinnamon.

There was something different about Lavinia today—a shift in her demeanor…

Then the pattern slid into place—the dilated pupils, the bloom on her cheeks. And if that were not enough—the attention she paid her midriff as her gaze settled on her belly a heartbeat longer than expected.

Lavinia had never looked more beautiful. Eleanor glanced toward her sketchbook as the familiar sensation swelled within her—the urge to draw. She only need lean a little to the right to reach her pencil…

"I've something to tell you, Elle," Lavinia said. "I wanted—Peregrine and I wanted—you to be among the first to know. I'm—"

"Congratulations," Eleanor said. "When do you expect the happy arrival?"

Lavinia's smile disappeared. "How did you know? Has Lady Betty been gossiping again?"

Eleanor's cheeks burned with shame. "I-I'm sorry, Lavinia—it's just, you looked more…" She gesticulated in the air, in an attempt to articulate her observation.

Why could she never think of the appropriate word to use?

"Fulfilled, I suppose," she said, "though that seems an inadequate description."

Lavinia's expression softened. "Forgive me, Elle. I sometimes forget you possess an extraordinary insight."

"Hardly," Eleanor replied. "I never know the right thing to say—or even think, most times."

"When it comes to important matters, you know exactly the right thing." Lavinia gestured around the parlor, toward the tea things that a maidservant had carefully placed on the table earlier, the teapot in exactly the appropriate place. "All this—elegant traditions orchestrated to maintain the situation exactly as it has been for hundreds of years—do you think anyone of worth cares about that?"

"Almost everyone I encounter does."

"Which says more about them than you, dearest," Lavinia said. "But I didn't invite you here to discuss Society. I wanted to ask if you'd be godmother to my child."

Godmother—a position that carried responsibility for another. Not to mention the need to stand up in church and make a declaration before a crowd of people.

"I-I couldn't," Eleanor said. "What would people think?"

"As if I care what people think!" Lavinia laughed.

"But Lord Marlow—surely he'd want someone appropriate?"

"And he does—which is why we've chosen you."

"Can I think about it?"

Lavinia opened her mouth, as if to protest. Then she nodded. "Of course, darling—it must be your choice. I love you dearly, and I couldn't wish for a better person with which to entrust my child's moral welfare. But I shan't press the matter."

She gestured toward Eleanor's sketchbook. "Have you brought more sketches for me to admire? You've been glancing toward your sketchbook from the moment I sat down. Or…" Recognition glimmered in Lavinia's eyes. "You wish to draw me?"

Eleanor nodded.

"Very well, I shall oblige. Would you like me to pose for you?"

"No, just sit as you are," Eleanor replied. "I want to capture your happiness."

Her throat tightened as she uttered the word.

Happiness.

Lavinia had always surpassed Eleanor in desirability, looks, and the ability to function in Society. Her marriage had only widened the gulf between them. And with a child on the way, Lavinia was drifting into an entirely different world, in which Eleanor had no place.

Eleanor opened her sketchbook at a clean page. For a moment, she let the emotions wash over her—the fear of a blank page, and the thrill of stepping out on a fresh journey, to commit the soul of her subject to paper.

She lifted her gaze and studied her friend while her pencil moved about the page.

Lavinia was one of the few among Eleanor's acquaintance whom she could trust to look into her eyes. Their soft hazel color conveyed warmth, love, and sanctuary.

Lavinia nodded toward the sketchbook. "There's one thing I've always failed to understand about you, Elle."

Eleanor studied her friend's face, taking in the little creases around the eyes, evidence of a lack of sleep, but also crinkling into a smile to convey her contentment.

"Mmm?"

"How can you draw on a page when you're not looking at it?"

"Because I'm drawing you, not the page."

Lavinia laughed. "That's what I love about you—you're so literal!"

"I wish I wasn't," Eleanor said. "I often regret what I say as soon as I've spoken."

"Such as?"

"I asked Mother once if she were unhappy."

"Your mother looks discontented most of the time," Lavinia said.

"But this time, she looked particularly sad. It turned out she'd been refused credit at a jeweler in Hatton Garden, when she tried to purchase her birthday present from Papa."

"She purchased her own birthday gift?"

"Not in the end. Papa was there when I said she was unhappy. When he heard what happened, he refused to give her the money, saying Mother had a necklace for each day of the year and had no need for more. Mother refused to speak to Papa for two days, and she confined me to the house for a week."

"I'm sorry," Lavinia said.

"Don't be. Papa told me afterward that he relished the respite and only wished it had lasted longer. As for me—I missed two dinner parties, including Lady Baldwin's soirée. I wish I could think of an opportunity to anger Mother again, so I might be excused from attending the Duchess of Westbury's party next week." She glanced up, hope surging within her. "I don't suppose you're going?"

"We've a prior engagement, I'm afraid. But the duchess is charming—totally unlike what you might expect. You have something in common, given that her father's a merchant. You might like her."

Eleanor resumed her attention on her work, making a few more strokes with her pencil. Then she held the sketchbook at arm's length.

"May I see?" Lavinia asked.

"Of course." Eleanor handed over the sketchbook.

Lavinia's eyes widened. "How do you manage to include such detail?" She turned a page. "What's this?"

Eleanor's stomach flipped. Had Lavinia seen the latest sketch of…him?

Her friend held up the sketchbook. "You're drawing tree stumps?"

Eleanor nodded, swallowing her relief. "They're fascinating," she said. "Look at the texture of the bark—it's uneven, yet it forms a pattern. And each tree is different."

"They look the same to me."

"That's because you're not looking close enough," Eleanor said. "The bark of a birch, for example, is different to that of an oak."

"Is it?"

"It's smoother—papery, almost, with pieces that curl and peel, like the skin of an onion. But the bark of an oak is thicker, with a deep, rough texture."

"I'll take your word for it." Lavinia laughed again, placing the sketchbook on her lap. "More tea? I can ring for some."

At that moment the door opened and Lavinia's husband appeared. Eleanor's gut twisted in apprehension, as it always did in the presence of a powerful man.

"Peregrine, darling," Lavinia said, "are you checking on my state of health, or have you come to prevent me from eating all Mrs. Brown's biscuits?"

"Both, my love." He took her hand and bowed to Eleanor. "Miss Howard, a pleasure. I take it you're well?"

"Yes, thank you, Lord Marlow," Eleanor said, rising.

"Please don't stand on my account, Miss Howard," he said. "May I join you?"

Eleanor resumed her seat, opened her mouth, then hesitated and swallowed her discomfort. It would do no good to respond truthfully. The truth was, after all, a concept that Society cared little for. What ought she say—something bland and benign, perhaps?

"I-I'd have no objection, sir."

He nodded and smiled.

Thank heavens!Her response had been acceptable, though it meant she had to endure his company.

"Excellent!" he said. "I'll ring for more tea." He tugged at the bellpull beside the fireplace then sat next to Lavinia. "I hear London's been enjoying very fine weather in our absence," he said.

Lavinia rolled her eyes. "Peregrine—for heaven's sake! Eleanor's not one for aimless remarks. If you've nothing of substance to say, then keep quiet."

"I find myself admonished," he said. Then he turned toward Eleanor. "My poor wife has suffered my company these past three weeks, and has been at her wits' end. She's been craving intelligent conversation, which, though rarely experienced among London Society, can, I believe, be found in your company. But I'm afraid I've disappointed her by inflicting social inanities upon you."

Eleanor stared at him. How was she expected to respond? Was he ridiculing her?

Then he leaned forward and gave a conspiratorial wink, and she struggled to contain a smile.

"Bravo!" he said. "I find myself forgiven, and will refrain from discussing the weather with you in future. Neither will I discuss the cut of a woman's gown—or the latest fashion for lace tucks."

Lavinia tapped him smartly with her fan. "That's enough, Peregrine. I wouldn't want Eleanor to think I married a fool."

"I fear I've already presented her with irrefutable evidence," he replied. "Do forgive me, Miss Howard." He gestured toward the sketchbook. "May I see?"

"Please do."

Lavinia opened the book at the latest sketch, and Lord Marlow gazed at it. His eyes widened, and a smile curled his lips.

"Beautiful," he said. "You've a rare talent, Miss Howard. This isn't just a likeness—you've captured Lavinia's soul. Look at those lines! The boldness with which you've drawn her features—the detail around the eyes…" He closed the sketchbook and handed it to Eleanor. "I can tell that you know the difference."

"The difference?"

"Between seeing and looking."

"Oh!" Eleanor cried, unable to contain her delight. "You understand!" Then, overcome with shame at her unladylike outburst, she shrank back.

"I do, Miss Howard. It's what separates the proficient from the masterful. Any fool can draw a passable likeness after a lesson or two on proportions—but to capture the soul of the subject requires a different quality altogether."

The door opened again, and a maid scuttled in carrying a tray with a teapot and a cup. After furnishing the company with fresh tea, she curtseyed and exited the room as quietly as she came.

Marlow drained his teacup in a single gulp. "I was in sore need of that. The brandy at White's isn't getting any better."

"Brandy, at this hour!" Lavinia said.

"I know, my dear, but it would have been uncivil to refuse. And"—he winked at Eleanor again—"I needed it as respite from social niceties."

"I'm sure gentlemen have more interesting conversations in their clubs than ladies endure in their parlors," Lavinia said. She glanced toward Eleanor. "Present company excepted, of course."

"You're right, my love," Marlow said. "I was subjected to yet another tale of Whitcombe and his determination not to seek a wife."

Eleanor's stomach tightened at the mention of…him. She curled her fingers around the handle of her teacup, willing her heartbeat to subside.

"We've placed ten guineas on which of the two—Sawbridge or Whitcombe—will marry first. Thorpe's for Whitcombe, but my money's on Sawbridge."

"How foolish!" Lavinia said. "That's ten guineas you'll never see again."

"I've every chance of success, Lavinia. Not even the brightest jewels of Society can tempt Whitcombe. Lady Irma Fairchild is too dull, Lady Arabella Ponsford too much of a harpy, and while Juliette Howard is the most beautiful, she has a reputation for breaking men's hearts, having led Reid on a merry dance before casting him aside."

Eleanor's teacup slipped from her grasp and fell to the floor, shattering on impact. Hot tea splashed onto her skirts, and she leaped from her seat with a shriek.

"Peregrine!" Lavinia admonished her husband. "Look what you've done—you've discomposed my friend."

"Oh, forgive me, Miss Howard," he said. "I often speak freely to my wife, but that's no justification for making a disparaging comment about your sister. In my defense, I often forget you're sisters—you are her opposite in every way imaginable."

Meaning that she's the most beautiful creature in the world—and I'm the least.

"That's enough!" Lavinia cried. "Did you come here to insult my friend?"

Tears stung Eleanor's eyes.

"I meant it as a compliment, Miss Howard," Marlow said. "Your characters couldn't be more different."

"Perhaps you should go, before you insult my friend further," Lavinia said.

He rose and offered Eleanor his hand. She took it, and he lifted her hand to his lips.

"Forgive me, Miss Howard," he said. "I'll do better next time."

He crouched down and collected the shards of porcelain at Eleanor's feet. Then he exited the parlor.

"Would you like a fresh cup?" Lavinia asked.

Eleanor shook her head.

"It wasn't what Peregrine said about Juliette that distressed you, was it?"

Eleanor glanced up to see her friend looking directly at her.

"It's because he mentioned the Duke of Whitcombe—isn't it?"

Eleanor opened her mouth to voice her denial. Then she nodded. If she couldn't confide in Lavinia, whom could she trust? Besides—Lavinia had already seen some of her sketches of him, and knew of her affection.

No—not affection.

Obsession. That was what anyone else would say if they knew. But Lavinia was kinder than most—she understood. Or, at least, she didn't condemn.

"Whitcombe's not worth it, Eleanor dearest," Lavinia said. "He'd break your heart—that is, if he'd even notice you. And I don't mean to be cruel. He cares only for the superficial, and would be blind to your qualities. There's someone out there who'll appreciate and love you for who you are. And you'll find him. Look at Peregrine and me—I never believed we'd find happiness."

"I never doubted it," Eleanor said.

"And I don't doubt you'll find your true mate," Lavinia said. "But it won't be the Duke of Whitcombe. I doubt a heart beats inside that chest of his."

That very broad chest.

I'm convinced he has a heart.

"No, Eleanor. He doesn't. What you harbor is hope, not conviction."

Heavens!She'd spoken aloud.

"Forget about him, dearest," Lavinia said. "Your infatuation is making you miserable. Why not concentrate on your sketches of those tree trunks?"

Lavinia was right.

But Eleanor's hope could never completely be extinguished, even if she must keep it to herself.