Page 47 of Oddity of the Ton
He smiled. “Your secret’s safe with me. A young woman disposed to adventure in pursuit of accomplishment is to be admired.”
“I don’t draw for accomplishment.”
He assaulted her with his sapphire gaze. “Then whydoyou draw, Miss Howard?”
Eleanor hesitated. Nobody had asked her that before.
“I suppose it’s because I have to, Your Grace”—he squeezed her hand—“Montague.”
“There!” he said. “Was that so difficult? Does someone compel you to paint?”
She shook her head. “The compulsion comes from within. Every time I see a blank page, I find myself driven by the urge to cover it with marks, to express what I see around me, and how I feel. It’s…it’s like I’m filled with water—filled to bursting, sometimes, and the only release I can find is to pour it out onto the page. As I move my hand about the page, creating shapes that are blurred, at first, then come into focus, the more detail I put in. Then, when the picture begins to form, it’s like…” Unable to articulate the feeling, she made a random gesture in the air. “It’s like I’m forming myself—becoming whole. And I cannot rest until the form is completed, until I’ve captured it fully on the page. Only then have I eased the ache from within…”
She paused to draw breath. What, in the name of heaven, had compelled her to make such a speech—to expose herself so fully—and tohim, of all people? He must think her wits addled.
Or worse…
Unfit for the world. That was what she’d overheard Mother say to Papa one night after a particularly distressing party—the same party when she’d inadvertently trodden on Mr. Moss’s toe during a dance, when the harsh voices, bright lights, cacophony of colors, and crowds of people had driven her into herself. One moment she was being crushed by all around her, her mind desperately attempting to withdraw to safety, and the next she was in Papa’s arms in the carriage, Mother and Juliette’s admonishments filling the air.
Eleanor cringed and lowered her gaze, waiting for the ridicule. But instead, a warm hand cupped her chin and gently tipped her face up.
She looked up, anticipating the discomfort of his gaze. But she saw no contempt, only wonder, and she was reminded of themoment when he took care of her after she’d been overcome by Juliette’s taunts.
Finding she’d been holding her breath, she slid her gaze sideways and exhaled.
“There!” he said softly. “You can articulate yourself very well when speaking of something about which you’repassionate.”
She felt a pulse of longing as he uttered that last word, and tried to withdraw, but he moved closer. Their thighs touched.
“Forgive me,” she said. “Mother’s always telling me not to rattle on.”
“Miss Howard, you can rattle on as much as you like, given that you have somethingrealto say,” he said. “What do you like to draw the most?”
“I draw anything in which I see beauty.”
“Including a tree stump.”
Was he ridiculing her?
“Most would overlook a tree stump,” she said. “But that’s because they lack the ability to look—reallylook—at a subject. They’re so caught up in what Society deems to be visually pleasing that they fail to look beneath the surface to observe the character within.”
“And you find character in a tree stump?”
“Character is to be found ineverythingif one bothers to look. A tree stump might not conform to the niceties of Society, but I’ll wager it has experienced more of life than most. Consider its history—it might have stood, towering over the park for decades, and though the tree is gone, the stump remains. It’s only right that the artist gives it due consideration when drawing it, to reflect all that it has been, which can be seen in the texture of the bark, the deep cracks, within which all manner of tiny creatures have made their home…” She shook her head. “Oh dear, I’m speaking nonsense again.”
“I applaudyournonsense, Miss Howard. It is much to be preferred over the nonsense one hears in drawing rooms. But I must ask whether you confine your talents to trees, or whether you employ them to draw likenesses of people?”
“I’ve drawn portraits,” she said, “though they’re not always appreciated.”
“Why not?” he asked. “I find it difficult to believe you lack the talent, though I understand drawing true likenesses can be a challenge.”
“I depict people asIsee them, not as they wish to be seen.”
“Which is entirely consistent with your character.”
“You understand my character, Your Grace?”
“I’m beginning to, yes,” he said. “Rather than converse in riddles to conform to Society, you speak—and depict—the absolute truth. Whether that gives offense is no reflection of your character, Miss Howard, but that of others.”
