Portraits, Passion, and Other Pastimes

Portraits, Passion, and Other Pastimes ART OF LOVE BOOK ONE CHARLIE LANE Copyright © 2023 by Charlie Lane All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblances to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities, is entirely coincidental. Charlie Lane asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work. Charlie Lane has no responsibility for the persistence or accuracy of URLs for external or third-party Internet Websites referred to in this publication and does not guarantee that any content on such Websites is, or will remain, accurate or appropriate. First Edition Editing by Krista Dapkey / Chris Hall Cover art by Anna Volkin Created with Vellum To Brian, who, like Raph, claims to have no imagination. (Yes, he does.) But even if he didn’t, I’d still love him. Contents Prologue Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Chapter 21 Chapter 22 Chapter 23 Chapter 24 Chapter 25 Epilogue Sneak Peek Afterword Acknowledgments Also by Charlie Lane About the Author Prologue April 1806 Some days brought childhood back, screaming in on horse-fast legs with greedy fingers. Today, so far, proved such a day—perfect blue sky above spring-green grass, and a breeze trailing invisible fingertips over the lake’s mirrored surface. Miss Matilda Bellvue tipped her face to the sun and held the spring day to her tightly. A perfect day for a picnic, and one never knew when joys would sink to sorrows. Matilda smoothed her lavender skirts and pulled her mother’s cream-colored shawl close despite the day’s warmth. She pulled it more to ward against a shiver of the soul. She’d stopped wearing black on the outside only. Too heavy thoughts for a day like this, so she shook them away, let her shawl drop, and opened her ears to the chatter of her companions. Twelve-year-old Maggie beside her made observations about the clouds. They looked like ladies’ hats. And little Theodore, not quite ten years of age, argued with her. They looked like horses, not hats. Across the soft expanse of blankets on which they all sat, the Marquess and Marchioness of Waneborough whispered lovely things to one another, low and sweet as the tarts they’d all shared moments before. Only bits and pieces of their conversation floated to Matilda on the wind, but each one made her blush. A soft, warm swish bothered her skirts, but she did not open her eyes. She knew what it was—the boot at the bottom of a gentleman’s extended leg, swaying mindlessly back and forth. Viscount Stillman, the marquess’s heir, laid out long and lean along one side of the blankets, arms folded behind his head, ankles crossed, face lifted to the sun. She opened her eyes, just a bit, to peek at him. In all her nineteen years, she’d never seen so fine a man—dark hair, strong jaw, and when he opened his eyes, bluer than blue. Laid out as he was now, he made her breath catch. A governess should not find air difficult to breathe when in the presence of her charge’s older brother. But the air would thicken, and her heart would race, and with parents gone and half brother decidedly uninterested in her well-being, one must take pleasure where it came, whether that be in a sunny spring day or the fine form of a dozing man. Especially since, as a governess, she’d likely never have what she’d always expected to have as Baron Cowperly’s daughter—a husband, a home. She squeezed her eyes shut once more. She’d left her home almost a year ago, had watched it shrink as the coach had taken her farther away toward a family she’d never met before, away from being a daughter to being in service, a governess of no importance. She’d not known what to expect of the marquess and his family, had heard they were more than odd, outcasts of the ton for their bohemian ways. But her half brother, Gerald, had not even said goodbye or waved from the front door as she’d left, while the Marchioness of Waneborough and her two youngest children had been waiting for her when she’d arrived at their home, Briarcliff Manor. Gerald had treated her like a stranger, and they’d treated her like family from the start, and no matter what the ton whispered, Matilda liked them. Likely too much. Governesses were not family, after all. Merely temporary employees. They did not get attached. She had no family now. Best to remember that. “Matilda, my dear, do have another tart. You look positively wraithlike. Still. I’ve been trying to plump you up, but you do tend toward the slender.” The marchioness puffed the last word into a pout. Matilda opened her eyes and found the viscount staring holes into her, those blue eyes like the hottest of flames. “I think you look perfectly well, Miss Bellvue. Mama, it’s not quite the thing to comment on another lady’s looks in a negative way.” Matilda chuckled, and the viscount caught her gaze, glowered a bit before his face softened, the wind picked up a lock of his hair to tousle it, and his full mouth hinted at a smile. Just for her. But his eyes seemed removed from mirth, seemed to see things beyond a picnic blanket and spring day. What ills plagued a man like him? His mother threw an arm out wide. “But I’m worried, you see!” The viscount pushed to sitting, his large hands