Page 74 of Brave New Earl (The Way to a Lord's Heart 1)

“Remembered,” said Benjamin’s uncle.

It was gratifying to be surrounded by intelligent people, Benjamin thought. Or was it irritating to be surrounded by people who thought he required assistance? “We should have your picture painted, Geoffrey.”

The boy put his reassuringly empty hands behind his back. “Would I have to die afterward?”

“My likeness hangs in the gallery, and I am not dead.” Why did he have to keep reminding his son of this fact? “Nor do I plan to be anytime soon. It is not a requirement.”

Geoffrey shrugged. Silent and supple as an eel, he slipped around them and up the stairs. In the next instant he was gone. Heading to the gallery to watch them mount Alice’s portrait, Benjamin had no doubt.

“With his mother moved out of the center of the household, he feels as if he has been, too,” said Lord Macklin.

“Insofar as he’s ever been in it,” replied Miss Saunders.

Benjamin felt a flash of anger. “You’re making a great to-do out of nothing. Next to nothing.” The change was significant, but for him, not his small son. “Geoffrey isn’t capable of such complicated thoughts. I’d wager anything you like he’s up there begging to climb the ladder and try out the hammer as they hang the painting.” Which was paint on canvas and nothing more, he thought. They shouldallremember that!

His companions considered. “You’re probably right,” said his uncle.

“I am. It happens now and then.”

“Geoffrey will grow accustomed,” said Miss Saunders. She nodded. “You should have his portrait made.”

“I shall. Though I pity the artist who tries to make him sit still.”

They all smiled.

“Tom could do it,” said his uncle. When the others turned in surprise, he added, “A pencil sketch anyway. He has great natural ability. I don’t know that he’s ever had real paints though.”

“Perhaps we should get him some,” said Miss Saunders.

“Perhaps we shall,” answered Benjamin.

• • •

Furness Hall was positively packed with people, Jean thought later that day. She hadn’t noticed how crowded the place was until she thought of arranging a clandestine encounter. Mrs. Thorpe was everywhere, eager to offer her companionship and conversation, charming but inconvenient. Jean saw the irony—that she’d acquired a chaperone just when she particularly didn’t want one. Lord Macklin roamed about the estate like the kindly uncle he was, with no set routine. Geoffrey was liable to pop up anywhere, at any time. And then Tom, with or without Lily the nursery maid, would show up to find the boy. There was the whole staff of servants, of course. This group had seemed paltry when one was trying to get fresh tea at breakfast. Now they appeared to be everywhere. In particular, Sarah came in and out of Jean’s bedchamber at unpredictable hours.

Finally, her target had his own tasks and whims, not easy to pin down. She might have enlisted Lord Furness’s help, of course, and simplified matters considerably. But she wasn’t going to. This was her idea and her decision. She didn’tthinkshe would change her mind, but she might. So she would figure things out herself. Clearly seducers had to be quite clever, she thought as she pondered the details. Or perhaps cunning was a better word.

Where wasn’t a difficult question. The public rooms were obviously unsuitable, as were the gardens, as well as possibly inclement. Her bedchamber was haunted by Sarah, and also Jean would have to herd him there and then out again afterward. She wasn’t certain how that could be managed. No, it would have to be his room, late at night when the household slept, she concluded. She’d visit him there. He’d be at her disposal. She felt a delicious little thrill at the idea, even as a part of her was shocked and another a bit anxious.

Was she really going to do this? After a period of lively inner debate, she made up her mind. She was.

And so, that night, at an hour when everyone was settled for sleep, Jean put on her dressing gown over her nightdress and slipped out of her room under Tab’s questioning gaze. She took a candle but did not light it. The glow would advertise her presence, should anyone be about.

Instead, she crept slowly in the dark, trailing her left hand along the corridor wall, counting doors. She’d made triply certain that she knew which room belonged to Lord Furness. What a fiasco if she walked in on Mrs. Thorpe or Lord Macklin! But she wouldn’t. This one was right. On a deep breath, Jean opened the door and went inside.

The bedchamber was less dark than the corridor. The day had been chilly and rainy; the coals of a fire cut the dimness. Jean could see a great four-poster bed. Indeed, the pale linens were like a kind of beacon. She took off her wrapper and slippers, leaving them with her candle by the door, where she could easily find them again, and moved toward the bed in only her thin nightgown.

She felt like a thief or a spy. And then she tripped over a stray shoe, stumbled into a small table, and knocked something to the floor. It clattered.

“Who’s there?” asked her host’s deep, resonant voice, seeming loud in the darkness.

Jean faced a moment of truth. She could still flee. He might suspect, but he’d never know her identity for sure. Surprisingly, she hadn’t the least inclination to run. “Jean Saunders,” she said clearly.

“What are you doing here? Is something wrong?” He threw back the covers, poised to rise.

In for a penny, in for a pound, Jean thought. She rushed forward and climbed in with him.

“What are you doing?” he repeated.

---