Chapter Seven

THE PAST

April 1804

Louisa scowled at her canvas. Something about it was wrong. She wasn't entirely sure what, but the frustration clawed under her skin, tempting her to snap her paintbrush and hurl the canvas at the wall.

With a great deal of restraint, she refrained, settling for glaring at the otherwise innocuous portrayal of a riverbank. At first glance, there was nothing overtly the matter with it, but the more she looked, the more she could see the perspective was off. The colours weren't right. Her brushstrokes were inaccurate.

"Gah!" She tossed her paintbrush into the jar of water and wiped her fingers on the cloth around her neck. A walk, perhaps, would help her see what she could do to fix this, or maybe even—

"Miss Louisa?" There was a knock at the door. "Your mother sent me to remind you that you will be leaving for Almack's in just over an hour."

Louisa turned her glare to the door.

Two months ago, she had exhibited at the Royal Academy after the Hanging Committee had selected one of her works. Her father had finally recognised her talent, and she had been able to come to an arrangement. He would hire a master to teach her, but only if she attended the balls and arrangements her mother (who did not believe a young lady should do something as unseemly as paint with oils) insisted upon.

Almack's, having recently opened its doors to the ton , was one of those obligations.

She flung the smeared cloth at the floor and scowled. An hour did not leave her enough time to readdress her painting; she would have to return to it again tomorrow.

It was not as though she disliked balls. Society was a tad overwhelming, but she enjoyed dancing and attention, both of which could be found aplenty at these events. It was just that right now she had rather do nothing else but paint.

"Very well," she called back, knowing a response was required. "I'll be out soon."

"Thank you, miss. I'll be upstairs waiting for you."

Louisa sighed, but began the tedious task of putting everything away and cleaning her brushes with turpentine. Once she was done, she made her way upstairs to be fussed over, changed at top speed, and for her hair to be meticulously curled.

Staring at her reflection in the mirror, she wondered idly whether any man would propose to her, and what she would say when she refused him. No gentleman, she was certain, would allow her painting to continue, and thus she had no intention of marrying any of them. The only thing she did have some interest in, however—being taken somewhere private and kissed —no gentleman had done. Despite being eighteen years of age, she remained firmly unkissed, and she was entirely unsure how to rectify that. Even the most hardened rakes with the worst of reputations had shown no interest in her.

Briefly, she thought of the boy in the maze. He, too (although he had not been a hardened rake) had not kissed her.

It was, frankly, a distinct disappointment.

"There," her maid said, stepping back. "Your mother is waiting for you."

Louisa gave her a brief smile. "Thank you, Lucy."

Lucy nodded, wiping her hands on her skirts, and Louisa paused only to clasp a gold bracelet around her wrist before descending to where her mother was waiting at the bottom of the stairs.

Immediately, her mother scowled, the peacock feather on her turban quivering with disapproval. "Really, Louisa," she scolded, beckoning Louisa closer with short, sharp movements that reminded her of a bird of prey. "You are barely presentable."

"I thought this dress looked well on me." Louisa turned, letting the taffeta rustle. "Do you not agree?"

With a harrumph, her mother guided her to the carriage and they made their way to another dull evening.

If one's only aspiration was to engage with a gentleman for half an hour of his time, and to swoon over the fleeting touch of his hand, then she understood the appeal of such an engagement. Otherwise, it seemed a lot of energy for little reward.

Certainly no stolen kisses. The Patronesses were bound to be there, watching and judging all, and if there was any place for a little misadventure, it was not under the eagle eyes of the staidest ladies the ton had to offer.

They arrived well before the doors closed at eleven, and Louisa allowed herself to be swept inside. The large ballroom had been awe-inspiring at first, but she was used to the sight by now, and it did little to intimidate her. She merely swept her gaze across the assembled ladies and gentlemen, searching for a friendly face. If there was one thing she had not done over the course of her Season so far, it was make many friends amongst her peers.

Most of the time, she did not consider it a loss, but when there was no party she felt compelled to join in this large crowd, she felt a little adrift. Her mother's arm was the only thing holding her in place, and even that was a dubious comfort. She wished she was back with her paints. Wished she was in the gardens at Bath, avoiding Miss Huxley and finally savouring what it meant to be free.

Her gaze landed on a face that was familiar yet distant. A stubborn jaw, full lips, sharp cheekbones that seemed to slash down his face. And yes, there, eyes the same shade as the winter sky.

She frowned, trying to place him.

"He's handsome," she said to her mother, nodding at the young man. "Who is he?"

"Who?" Her mother squinted, then sighed, her lip curling. "Oh, that one. Yes, he may be handsome, but he's little more than a boy, and his father is one of the most reckless gentlemen you could meet. I wouldn't be surprised if he were set to inherit very little." She sent Louisa a stern look. "I would not like you to dance with him, Louisa. Do you understand me?"

Her memory finally slotted into place. The boy from the maze.

Oh, she had every intention of dancing with him.

"You should approach her," George Comerford said, nodding to the lady Henry had been pointedly trying to ignore all evening. "Ask her to dance."

Henry sent his friend a scornful look. "As though you would in my position."

Comerford cleared his throat, tucking his hands behind his back. The primary reason they were friends at Oxford was because they were avid students. Comerford, out of a love for studying, and Henry because he knew it to be his duty. They also shared a degree of distaste for the usual activities young men partook in. Comerford, because it disturbed his studies, and Henry because he had spent his life avoiding vice and he disliked it being thrust before his face.

They were not wholly the same; Comerford had entertained several ladies and had even visited a brothel once or twice. But they had never discussed it, and it was doubtful they ever would.

"You noticed her the moment she walked through the doors," Comerford said.

"I notice every lady."

"But you don't watch their progress around the ballroom like a wolf in search of his next meal."

Henry shot Comerford an annoyed glance. "I'm doing no such thing."

"You are." Comerford leant forwards. "Do you know who she is?"

Henry had not confided in his friend about the lady he'd met in Bath. "I believe we met once," he said eventually.

"Ah. And you liked her."

"I did not."

Comerford raised an entirely deserving sceptical eyebrow, because Henry had liked her. He hadn't intended to, hadn't even thought at the time he had, especially, until he had gone home with thoughts of her dominating his every moment. Her smile, her laughter, the utter shamelessness of her antics. She was lovely and unlike any young lady he'd ever met before.

And now here she was, proving that she did indeed know how to behave like a lady, graceful as a swan. Beautiful in her white gown.

He preferred the way she had been in the maze, flushed and breathless, brimming with mischief.

"Just go and talk to her," Comerford said.

Henry glared at him. "I should have known coming to London with you was a mistake."

"You're the one who wanted to speak to your father," Comerford said serenely. "You could have returned to the country to be with your sisters."

Henry hadn't wanted to do that, either. He was a fish out of water: no longer a child, and unwilling to be treated as one; not yet a man in the eyes of the ton. "Anything would be preferable to this tedium."

"Try the card tables."

Henry scowled in their direction. If his father was here, that would be his place of choice. "No thank you."

"Then I have nothing else to suggest, my friend."

Henry sighed, scanning the room. He should not have come. They should not have had Almack's vouchers for the Season at all, especially considering their precarious financial position, but neither of his parents would listen to reason. As far as they were concerned, he was too young, too inexperienced, too incapable of seeing the world for how it truly was.

Frustration burned through him, and for one of the first times in his life, he wished the watery lemonade was something stronger.

"I can see why you like her," Comerford said, watching the Bath lady's progress with avid interest. "She's lovely."

"I've told you, I don't like her."

"Truly?"

"Truly."

"Hmm." Comerford clucked his tongue. "She's coming this way."

"What?" Henry turned so fast his neck cricked, and his friend laughed.

"You see? I was right."

Henry scowled. "She's a complication."

"And you are old before your time," Comerford said. "Live a little, if only for tonight. This is perhaps the safest place to do so."

"Even if we were not in one of the most respectable establishments in London, I would hardly be in danger of dragging her into a secluded room," Henry said dryly, even if what he recalled of the girl suggested she would not be wholly against the idea.

The thought ought to disgust him.

"She's coming this way," Comerford said, gaze behind him.

Henry snorted. "You can hardly deceive me with that twice."

"Gentlemen," a disarmingly musical voice said. "Would you object terribly to introducing yourselves? Once we are officially introduced, my mother can have no reason to disapprove."

Henry turned slowly, willing his expression to remain stern. She was a complication and a temptation, and there was absolutely no reason for him to like her.

In the light of the ballroom, she was pretty in an entirely unholy way, as though she had been crafted to be his very downfall. Wicked hazel eyes that brimmed with mischief, full lips with a soft cupid's bow, soft curls that hung around her heart-shaped face. And below, a dress that hugged her curves to an almost indecent degree, displaying her figure to magnificent advantage.

A hot, entirely unprecedented emotion surged through him, and for a moment he was incapable of speech, fighting this newfound urge to press closer to her.

She tilted that pretty, pointed chin as she looked at him, and the corner of her luscious mouth curved into a slow, lopsided smile. "Do you know, I believe we have met before."

There was no reason for her to remember him; he had surely not turned her life upside down the way that one encounter had turned him inside out. Yet she was regarding him as though she did indeed know who he was.

"This," Comerford said, stepping forward and clapping Henry on the back, "is Lord Eynsham, my lady."

"Lord Eynsham," she repeated, and Henry felt as though another crucial part of him had been delivered into her dubious care. "How charming. I am Miss Louisa Picard. And you, sir?"

"Mr George Comerford," he said promptly, giving an elegant bow. "Son of a viscount."

Louisa's smile widened, and she fluttered her eyelashes at him. "A rich viscount?"

"Rich enough, I think."

"Ah, then my mother can have no objections to me conversing with you."

It transpired that watching her engage in a flirtation at close quarters was much more excruciating than knowing she was flirting from a distance.

"You," she said, swinging her gaze back to Henry, "my mother does not approve of."

"No?" He raised both eyebrows. "Though I am the son of an earl?"

"An impoverished earl," she stressed. "My mother has grand plans for me. Which is why you would make an excellent candidate for a dance partner if you would be so good as to ask me."

The unexpected request jolted through him, but he did his best to hold his ground. "You are not tempted by the son of a rich viscount?"

She shot Comerford a sidelong glance and leaned in a little closer. "Perhaps I could be."

Henry knew fine well that he should let it be and allow events to play out as they would. Which was, naturally, why he took her arm and led her out to where couples were assembling. "Must you always be so forward?" he demanded, irritated at himself for commanding her to dance with him; irritated at her for having wanted him to.

Her fingers curled around his, and he hated how much he enjoyed that, too.

"Do you disapprove?" she asked, not sounding at all sorry. Before he knew what was happening, she was opposite him in the country dances, her eyes sparkling like the woodland forests he had so loved as a boy.

She was enchanting.

He was utterly enchanted.

"Yes," he said, trying to find his sternness. "Of course I do. You are a—a minx."

She laughed, and he had the impression he had delighted her. "No one has ever called me that before."

"Just give it time," he muttered.

She laughed again, and he did his best not to feel any kind of victory. "You gave me your name, Henry Beaumont. Not your title, but your name. That leads me to think you don't dislike me too much."

Looking directly at her face was too much like staring into the sun, so he fixed his gaze over her shoulder. A matronly woman was glaring at them; no doubt she was Miss Picard's mother. "Why did you force me to dance with you?"

"I did not force you."

"And yet here we are."

"Only because you had rather I not dance with your friend," she said smugly. "You did not even ask me before manhandling me across to the dance floor."

Heat rose up his neck, mostly because she was correct, and he was a little horrified at himself for having done it. "If you had resisted in any way, I would have stopped."

"I know." A tiny genuine smile touched her mouth. "You are far too proper for that."

"You make a lot of assumptions."

"Well, I know that you have not danced once since I arrived. You are the son of an earl with no thoughts of immediate marriage, yet you have not retired to the card rooms." She wrinkled her nose at him a little as she smiled. "And you were shocked at finding me alone in the pleasure gardens."

"Is that so surprising?"

"Perhaps not." Her eyes twinkled up at him, and the next time they came together, she lowered her voice and said, "Though I was disappointed you did not kiss me."

He almost jerked back from her. The pressure of her fingers against his felt as though they were skin to skin without the barrier of gloves. The way her lips curled suggested she knew many of the things he was thinking.

"Do you often ask the gentlemen you dance with to kiss you?"

"Only the handsome ones." She laughed again. "There, I see I have shocked you again."

"And how often has that tactic succeeded?"

"Shocking you? Every time. Asking gentlemen to kiss me?" She pursed her lips, and he did his best not to look at them. "A lady never tells."

He doubted many would refuse her if the surroundings were right. In Almack's, under the watchful eyes of the Patronesses, was not a place where a gentleman could get away with something improper.

"Will you be in London for long, Lord Eynsham?" she asked when the dance next brought them together. "I should like to dance with you more."

"Why? So you can proposition me again?"

Her lovely face tilted up to his. "Will you accept?"

"No."

"Pity." She sighed, then shot a glance at him. "Never mind. I will dance with you anyway, in Bath if nowhere else. Be sure to be there again in the summer, Lord Eynsham."

"Why?" he asked, wondering if he was going mad and their entire conversation was some kind of punishment, a torment of his will he was utterly unprepared to face. "So you can pique your mother?"

"That is certainly a benefit," she said, and laughed. "But it is not my primary purpose."

"Then what is? I will not kiss you, Miss Picard."

"No? I suppose we shall see." The dance came to an end and she sank slowly into a curtsy. "Until we meet again, Lord Eynsham."