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clouds.’

      ‘I’m sure he did, Emilie. But we are mortals. Except we paint. Which puts us in a world of our own. But a romance could add some depth to your images.’ The mirror caught Beatrice’s attention and she took both her hands and poked at her hair. Then took out a few pins and managed to secure her hair.

      ‘Is that true? That romance could add depth to the watercolours?’

      ‘I told your mother I would say that. And it could be true. But you have to marry someone who is right for you, or you’ll be breaking your own brushes. I had the worst of luck until I met Andrew.’ Her aunt gave a dismissive toss of her words. ‘If not for the naked picture I finished of him, I doubt we would have made it to the altar.’

      ‘The wrong husband could be intimidating. He could destroy my dream, just as Mother is doing.’

      ‘You know that inheritance powder? Arsenic? You could always poison him later if it doesn’t work out.’ Beatrice gave Emilie a wink and laughed. ‘You know I am jesting.’ She twitched her shoulders. ‘My first husband—may he…stay wherever he went—had more problems than I could create and, trust me, I could cause plenty. But I had lots of instances to indulge in creativity after he abandoned me. Even more after he died. And Andrew loves my work.’

      ‘I’ve heard he can be dismayed by it.’

      ‘Yes—’ Beatrice’s head nodded in agreement ‘—but he loves it—from a distance. I keep myself between him and it and we get along wonderfully.’

      ‘I understand,’ Emilie said. ‘I don’t know what to do. I have a plan, but it’s flawed.’

      ‘A flawed plan?’ Beatrice tapped her earlobe. ‘Well, if you have a notion it’s wrong, then based on my experience I would say it is certainly a mistake.’

      ‘Or I could return home.’

      ‘You can stay at your parents’ home and dabble in your paints. You will be avoided, perhaps, but you’ll be all but forgotten.’ She had a bubble of laughter under her next words. ‘You can perfect an evil cackle and everyone will be afraid of you. You’ll be a sinister, spinster painter.’

      Apparently, her aunt did not know that her paints were now forbidden. Emilie made a decision. A flawed plan was better than no plan and to do nothing was unthinkable.

      She pressed her lips together, pushed her uncertainty out of her mind and said, ‘I have a plan with Mr Westbrook. Avondale’s younger son.’

      ‘Oh, no, no, no. Not him.’ Beatrice shuddered. ‘He’s a rake to the core. He won’t propose.’

      Emilie turned back to lift the dress and hold it to her shoulders. ‘If I were to be caught in a compromising position…’

      Beatrice stood, her gaze on the dress. ‘Then you would be ruined and compromised and likely unmarried.’

      ‘True.’ Emilie put the dress on to the bed, pulling it straight so it would not wrinkle. ‘I am not matrimony minded, except as a last resort. There are few men in the world like your Andrew who appreciate a woman of substance.’

      ‘To let you in on a confidence…’ Beatrice spoke softly and stretched her arms wide ‘…he doesn’t really relish my work. He adores me.’

      Emilie put her hand to her neck. ‘Truly. And you are happy?’

      ‘Of course…and I’m painting better than ever. Not as much. But still, better than ever.’

      Emilie bit the inside of her lip. Usually she trusted her aunt, but she didn’t believe Beatrice’s skills were better now because of Andrew. Truly, it was talent.

      Except for Beatrice’s Andrew, Emilie now realised a husband could treat art like a rival, and wouldn’t accept it any better than her mother did. Beatrice had admitted she was working less and she’d not grasped that her skills improved with practice, and she had spent years and years perfecting her talent before finding Andrew.

      ‘I have to convince my mother that a wedding will never happen.’ Emilie stared at the silk and straightened a puffed sleeve. ‘Once she forgets that, she’ll leave me alone.’

      Beatrice clucked her tongue. ‘You really should consider wedded bliss, Emilie, to a man who can afford good staff. Those large portraits get heavy.’

      ‘I have, but I cannot decide between whether it is better for me to be married or to be ruined.’ She took her aunt’s hands and, even with Beatrice in heels, Emilie rose above the other woman. ‘Please help me, Aunt Beatrice. And if Mr Westbrook is such a rake, he would survive a compromising position and be elevated by it. I, on the other hand, would be disgraced.’

      Beatrice frowned. ‘I would not be a party to this, but I know how much the oils mean to you. Plus, Mr Westbrook will never marry at this point. He’s living it up too much. You’d best forget marriage if you’re thinking of the second son.’

      ‘True. And I shouldn’t be forbidden the love of my life, art, and Mr Westbrook won’t be trapped into a marriage with a woman who can hardly tolerate him.’

      ‘Make sure you do not let your mother near any of that inheritance powder after this. She is going to be very, very angry with me.’

      Emilie would hardly have counted the Marquess of Avondale’s birthday celebration a celebration. Avondale had disappeared early into the event. A duchess and her friends were taking turns at the pianoforte in the next room, playing verses of different songs, adding occasional bursts of laughter. Marcus had played several songs earlier, singing along. His voice had floated through the air. She’d heard the ladies ask him to play more, but he’d begged off.

      Her aunt Beatrice had disappeared, chatting with someone.

      Most of the men had congregated in the library and were playing a wagering game of cards, calling out to each other as if they were all brothers. Emilie did not know who was Horsey, Al, Bottles, Dupes or Doughy, but she was certain that Terry was Lord Terrance, and of course, Nathaniel was Mr Westbrook. She couldn’t imagine calling him Nathaniel, which surprised her as she had no trouble conceiving Lord Grayson as Marcus.

      Mr Westbrook had showered attention on her when she arrived, but the men had finally called him into the card game, leaving her with the older women.

      Lady Avondale sat with her friends and a servant stood by to bring them refreshments or attend to whatever they required. Emilie’s mother was perched on the outer edge, leaning in, and on her very best behaviour. And Emilie settled at the edge of that, her back straight and the rest of her as hidden as possible.

      When they departed London, she would not miss society as much as her mother would.

      ‘Miss Catesby.’ Marcus’s voice moved over her like a song.

      She turned, surprised he’d entered the room. ‘Lord Grayson.’

      ‘Her Grace asked that I might fetch you to sing with us.’

      She glanced at her mother and her mother beamed. Emilie knew that if Marcus had asked her to plummet from the edge of the earth, her mother would have said nothing to disrupt Lady Avondale’s conversation.

      Emilie rose and walked with him. As they neared the pianoforte, the Duchess asked Emilie if she would like to play a tune with them. Emilie declined. ‘I fear I’m not musical.’

      ‘Neither am I,’ the Duchess said, shaking her head. She wrinkled her nose. ‘I try to surround myself with people who are talented, so I don’t have to play, and it makes everyone else happy. And trust me, everyone prefers me to listen.’

      Her friends chuckled and she suggested a tune to one of the ladies and the conversation swirled in a different direction.

      Marcus stayed at her elbow.

      ‘You’re

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