“Would you attend in my stead, please? I’m simply exhausted these days.” Elizabeth’s hand moved, almost unconsciously, to her lower abdomen.
Bea felt her eyes grow wide as a giddy rush pushed her to her feet. “E., never tell me you’re expecting!”
Elizabeth smiled.
“Oh, how absolutely wonderful!” Bea skipped to the chaise to embrace her friend. “You and Alex must be beside yourselves with joy.”
Elizabeth’s smile grew into a grin.
“Of course, I’ll attend the salon with Charity. You mustn’t worry about a thing. You need your rest. And I don’t mind the opportunity to lay eyes on Monsieur Durand, either. He has quite the reputation.” It was true. Women across France and Italy had swooned before the popular artist, and now the females of England were lining up to do the same. Bea winked. “Honestly. Don’t worry. I’ll keep Charity out of trouble.”
As Bea waved good-bye to Elizabeth later that afternoon, she couldn’t help the pang of jealousy that made her momentarily pause and lean her head against the doorframe before wistfully closing it.
Marriage, and a baby. Well, Bea had experienced the first. At twenty-two, she’d already been a widow for over two years. For most of that time, she’d been grateful for her circumstance. Lord Pullington had never been cruel, but theirs was hardly a love match. When the old man had cocked up his toes a mere six months into their marriage, leaving her an independent woman, she’d felt nothing so much as relief. Only lately had she begun to wonder, especially watching her dearest friend Elizabeth, if life might hold more for her, too.
Between her mother, sisters, and Elizabeth and Charity, Bea never lacked for female companionship. Invitations to teas, soirees, even balls arrived with regularity. She danced when asked, and had been complimented on her conversational skills as a dinner partner. But none of that could erase the fact that Bea was—had always been, even during her brief marriage—alone.
When she’d first been widowed, her spinster cousin Ernesta had come to live with her for some months. The arrangement had been tolerable, though the two women had little in common. The presence of a companion allowed Bea to maintain the aura of propriety her parents and husband had drilled into her.
But last year, Ernesta had surprised them all by answering an advertisement for a teaching position in America. She’d heard that not only teachers, but women as a whole, were in short supply over there, so after thirty-five years of dull but respectable life in England, she’d decided to try her luck in the New World. Bea wished her the best.
When her mother had brought up the topic of a new companion, Bea had argued that the proximity of her parents, scarcely a block away, ought to be sufficient. It wasn’t as though she was receiving callers of a questionable nature; not once since widowhood had she engaged in anything more questionable than offering her best friend, Elizabeth, a place to stay when she’d experienced some turmoil with her family. Which, come to think of it, was rather depressing.
She had her independence, but what good had it done her?
Of course, if she wanted to meet the right sort of man—the sort she could love and marry—she needed to attend the right sort of events, not the usual teas and musicales she was too polite to turn down.
Chaperoning Charity at Monsieur Durand’s salon seemed like a good place to start. Still, years spent attending ton events left her skeptical. The only appropriate topics of conversation were meaningless—fashion, weather, and such. They left one with scarcely more than a surface-level acquaintance. This time, Bea wanted more. A second marriage to someone who didn’t truly know her, and value her at that deeper level, might leave her feeling even emptier than she did now.
Chapter 3
The salon, hosted by Lord Robert and Lady Alicia Wilbourne, was a crush. Footmen scurried to gather pelisses and overcoats, while the butler worked double-time to account for the fact that many of the evening’s guests had not been on the original invitation list. Thankfully, the Wilbournes were gracious enough to take this in stride, and their home large enough to accommodate Philippe Durand’s many admirers.
Bea and Charity arrived just in time and melded into the receiving line to greet their hosts.
“Bea, lovely to see you again,” Alicia Wilbourne said as they approached. “And Charity. The two of you make quite the lovely picture.”
“Enjoy yourselves, ladies,” Robert Wilbourne invited. “My Alicia here was beyond excited to learn Monsieur Durand was coming to England. He’s never put in an appearance in our country before, you know, but we had the good fortune to meet him in Paris last year. So when we got the word, my lovely wife insisted we open our home to display his work.” He winked. “If I didn’t know how much she loves me, I daresay I’d be jealous of the man.”
“Is Monsieur Durand present, then?” Charity asked eagerly.
Lord Wilbourne’s genial smile widened. “Don’t tell me you harbor a tendre for our artistic friend as well. The youth of London will be devastated. Yes, he’s here, putting the finishing touches on part of the display. I’m sure he’ll be out presently.”
Bea and Charity thanked the host couple and moved into the small ballroom, where a number of paintings were already on display. Others remained draped in velvet, presumably to be unveiled later.
“Ooh, how exciting,” Charity said. She clasped her hands, then anxiously smoothed her skirts. “Do I look presentable?”
“Absolutely.” Bea studied her. Charity’s golden hair and blue eyes were set to perfection by the ice-blue silk gown she wore. The design was simple, the color pale, befitting her status as a debutante, but each drape and fold was artfully designed to flatter.
“In fact, you are even more stunning than usual this eve, Charity.” She smiled. “But I promised your sister I would not let you fall all over yourself before the Frenchman.”
Charity’s mouth dropped open in mock outrage. “Well, I never! Simply because I remarked once—all right, perhaps twice—that Monsieur Durand is known to be both handsome and charming, not to mention talented…”
Bea held up a hand, laughing. “Enough. I, too, am anxious to meet this paragon.” And any other eligible gentlemen who happened to be present.
Charity moved closer to examine a painting of a young girl peering through ferns, into a forest stream. “Amazing,” she murmured. “The expression is so intent, you feel as though you are there.”
Bea said nothing, drawn in as well. The lush strokes and colors of the work were so different, so much more alive, than the rigidly formal portraits of aristocrats that graced the homes of so many of her London counterparts. If only she could capture that same sense of life in words, in her own creative dabbling, perhaps she’d have the courage to pursue her love of poetry more openly.
Bea chuckled to herself and shook off the silly musing. Monsieur Durand was known as a flamboyant, flirtatious Frenchman. He painted in a style that disregarded current convention, then fearlessly opened his work to the public. Good fortune had smiled on him when the work caught on, but Bea couldn’t envision baring her soul to the world like that—for baring the soul was what true art, in any form, did.
“Do you know,” Charity remarked as they drifted toward another painting, “Monsieur Durand never accepts commissions. He insists on choosing his own subjects, whether they be peasants or nobility.”
Lady Tanner, an aging but formidable member of the ton, poked her cane into their conversation. “I imagine the monsieur is successful enough to have earned that luxury.”
“Now, yes,” Charity told her politely, “but he has always done it thus.”
“I declare,