It’s Marriage Or Ruin

She would ask her aunt if that were true. She could imagine Beatrice’s laughter.

For now, she wanted to observe Marcus.

She preferred Marcus as a subject. She preferred him to speak with. She preferred him far above Mr Westbrook. But Westbrook was the safer of the two. He thought her name Amelia and she had no desire to correct him.

Marcus watched her as his brother twirled Emilie around the room warmed by all the people moving about. Their second encounter of the night, but neither one a waltz.

Nathaniel appeared entranced with Emilie, but then Nathaniel was taken with every woman he spoke to. It did him well.

The violins stopped and the musicians raised their bows with a flourish. The talk surrounding Marcus faded into nothingness while he watched his brother and Emilie. Never before had he been jealous of his younger brother, but Nate was looking at Emilie so.

Marcus had no reason to be envious. None at all. In fact, he’d felt guilt for being the eldest and the one who would inherit the title.

He enjoyed verbally jousting with his brother. He loved Nate. Loved him, but if his brother did not stop making eyes at Emilie, Marcus would take him aside after the evening ended and throttle him.

Emilie was not another conquest. She was a country girl and not used to the soirées and light talk his brother excelled at.

Both Nathaniel and Emilie went their separate ways without hesitation. Marcus exhaled. Perhaps they were both wiser than he.

He went to his mother’s portrait now that the guests were beginning to leave and stared at it. It was a fine painting, but no different from any of the many others in the family gallery, except it was of his mother.

‘Lord Grayson.’ Instantly he recognised Emilie’s voice. He turned to her and saw that her mother was behind her.

‘It is an amazing picture,’ Emilie said.

‘True.’ In those seconds he meant it. His mother liked the painting. Everyone said it portrayed her well. And anything that could bring such raptness to Emilie fascinated him.

‘You do appreciate some art?’ she asked.

‘Occasionally.’ When it appeared before him as Emilie did.

‘Most everyone does, even if they don’t know it. Usually if they don’t like paintings or sculpture, it is because they haven’t seen the right work. Something that stirs them.’

He took in the tendrils of her hair that trickled from her bun. He didn’t have to have a portrait painted of Emilie for her to remain in his mind. ‘I agree.’ His voice barely reached his ears.

Emilie was about to leave when she stopped and looked for her mother. Her mother stared at her as if Emilie had said something rude. Confusion filled her. She’d spoken nicely with Marcus.

Surely it was not so terrible to have a conversation with a rake.

Emilie gave Marcus a peek from under her lashes, surprised that he still watched her. He almost smiled, turned and went on his way.

Her mother’s lips tightened and her fingers clasped Emilie’s arm. ‘Come along, Emilie Marie. The carriage is waiting.’

Her mother marched ahead.

The carriage ride would not be a smooth one and she had been on her best behaviour. Well, except for fetching her mother so many lemonades. And eavesdropping, but she’d not been detected. And the moments in the garden.

Emilie hid her sigh. She was not tailored for society.

They reached the carriage and her mother didn’t speak. Emilie was certain it wasn’t a good thing that her mother was so quiet.

Settling on to the squabs, Emilie prepared for a recital of her errors to be repeated, but her mother remained silent.

The carriage rumbled along, returning her mother and Emilie to her aunt Beatrice’s home.

‘Goodness, Emilie, Avondale’s heir was speaking to you at his mother’s portrait and you brushed him away as if he were of no consequence. You have no skills in courtship.’

Emilie sighed inwardly and then her mind wandered to Marcus, but she forced herself to concentrate on his brother.

Mr Westbrook had good qualities. They were hard to identify, but lurked under the surface, she was sure.

At the soirée, she’d wandered by a group of men talking and couldn’t avoid overhearing their conversation. A gruff voice said if a man were to be lost in the desert, it would be good to be lost with Mr Westbrook because he would find the quickest path to the nearest woman and could do so without a smudge on his boots.

Then another man claimed Westbrook’s sense of direction was sad because he could never locate a path back to the same woman twice. The other men had laughed. And one claimed Westbrook had his compass in the same place as all men carried one.

‘Emilie.’ Her mother snapped out the word, pulling Emilie’s concentration back into the carriage. ‘I must talk privately with you. That is why your father and sisters remained at home and we have been visiting London.’

Emilie frowned, but she hid it before she turned to her mother, waiting. She’d known that her father had stayed home because her mother could be forceful about pushing Emilie into marriage and he preferred to stay out of the discussion.

These motherly speeches always went on overly long and it was best to pretend interest.

Her mother raised her chin. ‘It is not so horrible to want a family. Children. Sons…’ she raised a brow when she observed Emilie ‘…or daughters who marry.’

‘I’ve not found anyone who suits me.’

Her mother pulled her wrap closer and gripped her fan.

Emilie toed her slippers into the floor of the carriage, and let her stocking feet wiggle free while she rested her toes on the footwear.

‘Search about and uncover someone who suits.’ Her mother paused before raising her voice. ‘And put your slippers back on.’

Emilie dared not meet her mother’s eyes and she pushed her feet back inside the shoes. Even her feet had to do as they were told.

‘Your father,’ the older woman continued, ‘and I are distressed at your stubbornness where men are concerned. It is not just your prospects you’re scuttling—you are not doing your younger sisters any favours either,’ she grumbled. ‘You are twenty-five. Twenty-five. You should have married years ago.’

‘Oh,’ Emilie mumbled and felt her lip tremble. She had so hoped to have her artistic talent noticed earlier. She must try harder. Elisabeth Vigée Le Brun had achieved fame with her portraits, but her father had encouraged her from such a young age.

Emilie sighed. She should have been as dedicated, but, no, she had spent her youth learning nonsensical matters. Watercolours had hardly interested her at all until she discovered oils and then everything had burst into fulfilment for her. Even the watercolours became worthwhile.

Emilie studied the dark outlines of the passing shops, wondering how a night-time drawing of them would be best accomplished.

All she needed was watercolours, or oils and canvas. To paint was her greatest joy. To hide away somewhere with a brush and palette would be the best excitement of all.

No one understood.

When she irritated her sisters enough, they avoided her, which gave her a chance to sketch and enjoy her work.

‘You even discourage your sisters’ prospects.’