The Next Best Bride (10 page)

Helena had not objected to being without a maid, because she was used to sharing with her sisters and did not even have her own maid. His grandfather would select one of his own servants for her at Parsleigh. But until then, Rand looked forward to doing the service for her. She had already proven she could stand as his valet quite satisfactorily.

Months traveling Paris, Venice, Rome — even to Egypt, should she have wished — would have pleased him more. But these days on the road to Parsleigh would have to serve. He did not expect to be bored. He had the daily lesson in lovemaking he had promised her, as well. Amusement and satisfaction to delight any man.

He need not hurry the journey for anyone, especially himself. Perhaps they would have a repair or two that might necessitate staying an extra day in a particularly fine inn. Anything to delay the return to his grandfather's control was welcome.

Helena did not directly oppose the idea of traveling more slowly. Her objections were phrased diplomatically. "Will your grandfather not worry?"

"Not at all. I told him we would no doubt see him within two weeks." Rand reassured her. "I explained that you must see your sister off to America."

Apparently, that was not what she wished to hear, for she continued to question him about his plans even as they stood upon the dock to wish Rosaline farewell. "Still, if we travel at this pace—"

He was pleased when Ros saw fit to rebuke her sister. "Helena, you have spent the entirety of your life between Anderlin, London, and the duke's country manse. Surely you are adventurous enough to enjoy discovering new territory?"

Helena narrowed her eyes at Ros. "I suppose I should consider that I am going nowhere at all, if I compare my journey to your own."

"Nonsense," Ros replied with a cheeky smile. "You are venturing into a territory into which I fear to tread — matrimony."

Rand once again felt a slight lift of disbelief as he looked at the sisters. They were both dressed as fine ladies, and if he had not spent the past two years carousing with Ros, he might never have guessed she was anything but a gently bred lady.

He knew that was due to the duchess's influence. And he heartily suspected that Ros's male disguise was safely tucked into her trunks somewhere deep in the hold of the ship. He wondered what the Americans would make of Mr. Roscue Anderlin. Belatedly, he realized that his one true friend was virtually abandoning him. ''I'll miss you, Ros."

"You'll have Helena to remind you of me." No one would accuse Ros of excess sentiment, Rand reflected ruefully.

"Be safe," he said, folding her into a tight embrace until she made a sound of protest.

"Take care of my sister," she countered. If he had not known her so well, he almost would have sworn he saw a tear in her eye.

"Are you certain that you won't stay?" Helena made one last plea.

Ros shook her head and gave both of them stiff hugs. "I'll write. And I'd best get letters from you two, or I'll worry that I made a mistake turning you over to each other."

''I'll write every day," Helena quickly promised. Ros shook her head. "Every week is more than enough. Every month and I'll know you're busy and happy." She held up a tiny sketch of the family that Helena had framed for her in a gold brooch. "Send me pictures, Helena. I'll know by them that you're doing well, and everyone else is, too."

"Will you ever come back?"

Ros did not answer, as the ship's whistle sounded then. But Rand could see the answer in her eyes. Perhaps, for a visit. But Ros's heart was far from England, and most likely always would be.

He put his arm around Helena and they leaned against each other for support as they watched Ros walk with jaunty steps up the swaying ramp to the ship and away from them, perhaps forever. It was an odd feeling to be part of a pair.

He saw the duchess lean against the duke, and sigh, just as Helena leaned against him. He watched the woman he had planned to be his wife walk away, leaving him with the woman who had agreed to marry him and then wanted to back out of the deal. He felt the vulnerability of her slender shoulder and wondered if he would regret the hasty switch he had agreed to.

He turned to the duke and duchess and smiled brightly, as if he were not plagued with misgivings. "Well, it is our turn to be off, I suppose."

There were more hugs, a few tears, and then the carriage carrying Rand and Helena toward Parsleigh jolted off.

Helena fell against him as the carriage jolted forward, losing her view of her family out the window as her fashionable hat tilted over her eyes. He reached to help right her and her silly hat, but she made an anguished sound low in her throat, brushed away his hands, and bent to grab her sketchbook from her basket.

Without a word of apology for her behavior, his wife quickly found a clean page and searched out a sharp pencil from the basket. Frantically, as if afraid that she might forget one small detail, she began to sketch, ignoring him as if he no longer existed.

Ros had told him Helena could draw. He had even seen a few framed sketches that must have been hers. But nothing could have prepared him for the sight of her strong, sure strokes creating magic before his very eyes. With one more glance at his wife hunched in concentration, Rand settled back to watch the scene she was creating unfold.

Chapter Eight

"Your talent astonishes me."

Helena looked up, shocked out of the trancelike state that she often entered when sketching. Rand had positioned himself so that he could see over her shoulder, down to the sketch of her family on the dock. The position seemed oddly familiar — Ros had often done the same thing — and uncomfortably intimate.

Belatedly she realized that she had ignored him for what must have been quite some time. She flipped the sketchbook shut. ''I'm sorry. I did not mean to be rude. I wanted to capture the vision while it was still strong —"

"Don't apologize." He put a finger to her lip to silence her when she would have apologized again. "I am grateful for the opportunity to see you at work."

One glance into his eyes told her he was not lying. She felt a warm pleasure rush through her at his compliment. "Such as it is," she said quickly, so that he would not think her immodest. Another wave of warmth spread through her when her lips brushed his finger as they moved.

He smiled, his eyes growing darker, his finger tapping lightly on her bottom lip as he chided, "Don't belittle your talent."

''I'm not. But I must keep my art in perspective, if I am to have a happy life." Helena recited the cautioning lecture she had received from disapproving elders her whole life: "A lady's drawing talent is of little use in this world, except for marking her own intimate memories."

"Intimate, indeed." Rand's finger left her lips to trace over Ros's sketched image. "I can't imagine anything standing between you and your muse when it comes upon you. Do you do everything you love with such passion?" His gaze was frankly speculative and Helena wished she was not already nestled into the corner of the carriage as closely as possible. He gestured to the window of the carriage. "Do you realize we will soon be stopping for fresh horses?"

Already? To her it seemed they had scarcely begun the journey. Helena examined her sketch. The detail was exacting, but she could not believe she had spent hours — she broke off the thought to examine his expression. His left brow lifted in question, but there was no sign of annoyance. "I ... I will learn to put such things aside, my lord."

"Could you be happy without your drawing?" His gaze was searching. He wanted the truth.

Without meaning to, Helena answered honestly. "No." She held her breath, certain that he would be angry with her blunt answer.

He seemed more pleased than annoyed, when he smiled broadly and gave her shoulder an approving squeeze. "Then you do not have to live without it."

"A wife —"

"Don't say a wife must put her husband's wishes first." He shook his head. "Perhaps if you had married some other man. But not with me as your husband. Have you ever wished to go to Paris to study with the masters upon the Seine?"

That was a wish too private to share, even with a husband who appeared to approve of her unfeminine obsession with drawing. "I could not."

"Why not?"

She was astonished he needed to ask. "I am not talented enough. Besides, I am a woman .... "

He halted her excuses with a look of reproof.

"Would Ros have let that stand in her way if she had your talent?" His finger tapped against the sketch of Ros. Her sister stood fearless upon the bow of the ship, shoulders back, legs wide, a smile of anticipation lighting her face in an almost unearthly fashion.

But even Ros had to pay a price for choosing adventure. "Ros does not desire a home and family, my lord. A woman cannot have both happily, unless she is extraordinary."

What would happen to her sister if she ever wanted her freedom and a family? Whatever it was would almost certainly guarantee unhappiness. Society frowned on women who put their own needs above those of their husband and children. Thankfully, she could not envision Ros ever wanting to settle down. No doubt her sister would be more careful than Helena had been about any lovers she took, as well. After all, Ros did not have Helena's romantic, sentimental streak.

"Nonsense. You can have whatever you wish." He paused. "For example, have you ever sketched a nude?"

"Many times." She had a plaster miniature of the famed David done by Michelangelo. She knew the lines of it by heart, now.

"Have you now?" He inched a little closer, although Helena would have thought that impossible but a moment before. "Again you astonish me."

"The lines of the human form are classic. There is no shame in sketching them," Helena answered a little briskly, misliking the gleam in her husband's eye.

"Still, for a sheltered miss to have a nude model — was it your lover, by chance?"

"Of course not."

"Ros?" He sounded puzzled.

Did he know her sister that little? "Ros would not like to be captured in so vulnerable a state."

"Who, then, did you paint without clothing?"

"David, of course."

"David ... ?"

She sighed. Did he know nothing of art? She should have guessed it the way he seemed to think her own work masterful. ''The statue of David. Done by the artist Michelangelo? Have you never heard of it? It is quite famous."

"A statue?" He seemed disappointed, but not angrily so. Instead, a grin had crept wide upon his mouth, showing his dimple again. "So you have never had a living, breathing nude human form for you to sketch?"

"Of course not." She had wished to. But William had proved shy — or rather she had interpreted his reluctance as reticence. No doubt he had been afraid that something so tangible as a nude sketch of him might get him trapped into a marriage he evidently did not want. "It would not be proper."

He shook his head at her as if to reprove a recalcitrant child. "You are married to me, now. I would not object."

She struggled to strangle the scandalized gasp that emerged from her as she realized what he suggested. "I could not," she objected. Even as she did so, Helena thought of his body as she had explored it last night. She knew, with shame, that if she had been one whit weaker, she would already have sketched him from the memory of last night.

"Could not? Or will not?"

How did he know so well what tempted her to stray outside propriety? "Imagine what talk it would cause if anyone found out."

"What? That you had seen me without a stitch? I believe most everyone has guessed that you will have done so by now." He grinned. "We are married, Helena. I want an heir. Generally, clothing only gets in the way."

"Nonsense." She realized he was deliberately trying to scandalize her and sniffed with as much disdain as she could muster while he pressed against her so very tightly. "That is why nightdresses are thin, and lift easily."

He did not reply, merely threw his head back and laughed as if she had told a ribald joke. After a moment he stopped his laughter, with effort, and asked, "If no one were ever to know, would you wish to sketch a live nude?"

Again, Helena answered honestly. "Yes. But —" He touched her lips again, just briefly, to stop her words. "Very well then, I command it."

"You command it?"

"I am your husband." His look was imperious, and she knew suddenly that he could be a very good earl, if only he would give up his profligate ways.

He commanded her to sketch his nude form? So much for his promise to let her do as she pleased. But, as he said, he was her husband. "When it suits you, I suppose," she grumbled aloud.

"It suits me now." He grinned and tapped her sketchbook. "You have no choice, Wife. Your husband desires that you capture him in the nude."

She blushed at the image his words raised. "My lord ... "

"Am I not well made enough to grace your sketchbook?"

She thought of the shape of him beneath her fingers. As she had seen him in the early morning light. "You are well made," she conceded reluctantly.

"Then how can you refuse my offer and still consider yourself an artist?" He had such the air of a naughty child that she wanted to laugh at the image of Rand that popped unbidden to her mind: lying nude upon a white bearskin rug in a painting that would hang grandly over the parlor fireplace for all visitors to view. She might even have given in to the impulse to laugh, if she was not afraid that he meant it.

"A model needs to stay very still, for a long period of time, my lord. You would become bored."

"I think you are searching for any feeble excuse to avoid putting your talents to the test."

"I am not —"

"Tonight. I will be your model."

Rand had a physique to make David envious; she knew that well enough by now. To sketch him would be any artist's joy. Helena wanted to agree, but she was afraid. What if he did not like the drawing? "The light will be gone by the time we stop, take our supper, and retire."

He struck an absurd pose, his head thrust back and his hand in his vest. "I have always fancied a shadowy night view of myself in all my glory before I run to fat and dissipation."