Faith ignored her, of course.
A short while later, gathering a bunch of wildflowers that grew by the lake—in full view of Mr Westaway’s bedchamber window—Faith reflected on her chaperone’s chilling words. Seven days to achieve so much? Had she allowed herself to be carried away by confidence, again? Or was it fear, during the first week when she’d achieved precisely nothing?
She’d sensed she couldn’t go too fast with Mr Westaway, but Mrs Gedge had always appeared so obliging during their afternoon tea sessions at the Dorchester, and Faith had been lulled into thinking she had all the time in the world to achieve what she had to. Not a paltry few days.
Lord Harkom had disabused her of that notion.
She rose slowly, enjoying the feel of the dew underfoot and the light breeze on her skin. As she turned back towards the house, a butterfly fluttered up from a nearby rose bush. She put her hand out and the delicate blue-winged insect hovered above it, finally landing on the flowers she held.
Suddenly, she was five years old again, enjoying a bank holiday with her parents in the days when her father still smiled and there were not so many mouths to feed. She and her two sisters had their parents’ full attention as they picnicked with many other families enjoying a rare day off. The grass was soft and green; the sandwiches had never tasted so good, and nature was butterflies and blooming flowers—not vermin in the kitchen and mud underfoot picking stunted vegetables in the soggy garden.
She closed her eyes against the pain of memories unbidden. She didn’t want to dredge up thoughts of her past. She had no past to call her own anymore. Her parents would have forgotten her long since. Perhaps the sisters closest in age, older and younger, would wonder what had happened to her, but it was best they never knew the truth—that Faith was a thief, according to her employer, who lived in a house of ill repute.
Her sadness was momentary. She was stronger than that. She had to be if she were to crawl out of the mire and be something more. Something more than what others would paint her—a thief and a prostitute.
But she had never been a thief, and she never would be a prostitute.
Forcing her thoughts to the painting she headed towards the house, glancing briefly at the casement windows and wondering how Lady Vernon could claim to know so much about the way gentlemen’s minds worked.
Crispin stared out through the casement window towards the small lake at the bottom of the field. A light mist rose above it, and wildflowers littered the soft green grass. The scene was enticing and even more so when a movement caught his eye.
His breath caught. Miss Montague was gathering flowers still wearing her nightclothes. At least, only a light peignoir covered her nightdress, a thought which made him unexpectedly aroused.
He quashed his feelings quickly. Inconvenient and impossible to act upon.
Yet that didn’t mean he wouldn’t enjoy her company in the spirit of accommodation they’d tacitly agreed upon.
In seven days, he would create a masterpiece, and he’d need her compliance. Nothing more than that. A pleasurable whiling away of the time could be anticipated. He knew already she was good company. Easy on the eye, as Lord Delmore had pointed out, but that didn’t imply Crispin would be unable to rein in the rampant impulses of a young man who hadn’t had a woman in his life for a very long time.
His future was in Germany, and while his artistic temperament might suggest a romantic and spontaneous nature, he intended to be exacting when it came to choosing the right woman to spend the rest of his life with. He’d need to spend a great deal of time with her to ensure their minds were of one accord.
He’d not act with reckless abandon and allow infatuation to have any bearing on his decision.
Indeed, as his father counselled, it was far better to consolidate his career. In another year, perhaps, he might be better placed to put the necessary search for a wife near the top of his agenda. Not that Miss Montague was a contender, as he’d made clear to both the young lady and to Lord Delmore.
So why did he have to keep reiterating it? He hesitated before he dragged his eyes away from the scene by the lake. She’d stopped as if a thought, compelling, but not pleasant judging by her stance, made her hesitate.
He quashed the desire to quiz her when she returned. It was unwise to invite confidences. The less they delved into anything of a personal nature the better.
But he must think like a painter, and a good painter had a sense of the essence of his subject matter.
No point in wondering how he would paint her. The delivery of the props in an hour or so would determine that. For a moment, he cast his mind over to the brief. An eccentric American was behind the competition. Rockefeller? Rosenstein?
Imagine painting a canvas that would hang upon one of the walls of their homes. The idea sent a thrill of excitement through him.
Just as the sight of Miss Montague turning her lovely face up to the sun, smiling for a moment, sent a spear of foreboding through him.
Her fate lay in his hands. He could craft a future for her that was more than being a wife to a no doubt appreciative, but almost assuredly impecunious, young clerk, or as an unpaid servant to aged parents or small children.
He was roused by the sounds of gasps and oohs and aahs downstairs. So, the delivery was early. Not that he minded being put out of his anticipation. His mind couldn’t settle until he knew how he would stage the young woman.
He hurried into the drawing room where a canvas bag lay upon the table. Around it stood Miss Montague, Lady Vernon, and the parlourmaid; all three of whom looked expectantly at him as he entered the room.
So much for being the aloof master of this temporary household. But then, there had never been any secret that this moment was the beginning of everything.
“I suppose there’s only one thing for me to do,” he said with a resigned grin at the company before he began to undo the ties.
A piece of paper with neatly written instructions lay upon a set of paintbrushes he unwrapped from its canvas covering, and a bag of something whose contents he couldn’t quite identify.