Sindal’s people had come from the North, as was evident in his height, blue eyes, and the intrepid courage with which he’d taken on marriage to Sophie Windham. Jenny liked him tremendously, and yet, the way he regarded Sophie was hard to watch so early in the day.

“Children are sometimes more themselves when parents are not in evidence,” Jenny replied, touching a dab of strawberry jam to her toast.

Another look passed between Sindal and his lady, reminding Jenny that they’d met and fallen in love when Sophie had maneuvered a few days of solitude one fine Christmastide—a few days of freedom from the loving eyes of the duke and duchess.

“Good morning, my ladies, Sindal.”

Elijah Harrison stood in the doorway in informal morning attire. At the sight of him, Jenny’s hunger skittered sideways, into a bodily longing that had nothing to do with food.

“So, Harrison, any last wishes before you take on the Vandal horde?” Sindal pushed the teapot down the table as he spoke. His smile was friendly, though Jenny sensed an element of challenge to it as well.

“Tell my brother Joshua not to put up with any of his lordship’s nonsense, and never to underestimate her ladyship.” Elijah poured for himself and passed the pot to Jenny. “Though I’m sure your sons are delightful.”

They were—also complete hellions.

“Jenny will be on hand to ensure nobody is seriously hurt,” Sophie said. “You must help yourself to whatever appeals at the sideboard, Mr. Harrison. Cook is in alt to have company, though there will be more directly, based on Her Grace’s last letter.”

An alarm sounded through the fog created in Jenny’s mind by the sight of Elijah Harrison’s hands in morning light. “Mama has sent along some news?”

“She has. Papa has decreed that we’re all to gather for Christmas at Morelands this year. Her Grace is vexed because Papa will not remove to the country yet, and such a large house party will require significant preparation.”

Sindal winked at his wife. “His Grace is not done with his holiday shopping.”

Mr. Harrison stirred cream into his tea, apparently used to marital glances and winks over breakfast. “I thought shopping was the province of the ladies. I have six sisters whose letters—when they bother to write—are filled with dispatches about this and that shopping sortie. Even the two youngest like shopping for books.”

He stirred his tea counterclockwise then clockwise, a slow dragging of the spoon along the bottom of the teacup. Jenny wondered if he stirred his paints with the same symmetry—first one direction then the other.

“Papa must find Mama the perfect Christmas present every year,” Jenny explained. “Some years, we don’t know what he gives her, but we know a gift was bestowed in private. One year it was new chandeliers for the ballroom in Town, another year he found her a Shakespeare folio. Another year, he borrowed the regent’s chef for a private meal of Her Grace’s favorite dishes. Papa can be ingenious, and he’s very determined.”

Mr. Harrison rose, aiming a smile at Jenny. “Determination is a fine quality. Would my ladies like anything else from the sideboard?”

Sophie came to her feet. “I am quite finished, thank you. I’ll have the boys brought up to you in an hour, Mr. Harrison. Sindal, come along. A paternal lecture about decorum wouldn’t go amiss.”

Sindal was on his feet in an instant. “Of course, my love. The children can always use practice ignoring their father’s advice.”

And thus, Jenny was alone with the man who’d kept her up most of the night.

“Do you mind if I sit beside you?” Mr. Harrison asked. “The sun is in my eyes on the other side of the table.”

He didn’t wait for her reply, but took a seat to Jenny’s left. No footman stood guard over the sideboard—or the proprieties—but the door was open, and Viscount Rothgreb or his lady might come down at any time. Rothgreb was Sindal’s uncle, the one responsible for commissioning the boys’ portraits, but a very elderly fellow who likely took a breakfast tray above stairs.

“You’re going to eat all of that, Mr. Harrison?”

He glanced at his plate, which held steaming eggs, ham, bacon, and toast. “I’ll have some oranges and stollen on the next pass. What can you tell me about your nephews? And please be honest. Once Rothgreb joins us, diplomacy will be the order of the day, unless I miss my guess.”

“His lordship is a late riser, but he’d be the first to tell you the boys are very active little fellows.”

Mr. Harrison grimaced and tucked into his eggs. “I thought one was yet a baby.”

“He’s fifteen months. He walks, he talks after a fashion.” He also put all manner of inappropriate objects into his little mouth, cried piteously at the least sign of injury, had not one iota of sense, and could illuminate the world with his smile.

The disappearing pile of eggs suffered another grimace. “And the other boy?”

“About twice as old. He runs everywhere, yells everything, and is a prodigious good climber.” Kit was also very gentle with Timothy, who’d been known to take a swipe at Sindal on a bad day.

The grimace became a scowl, the first Jenny had seen from Mr. Harrison. “I suppose they abet each other’s mischief?”

“Siblings generally do.” To wit, sisters abandoned one with handsome, interesting men at the breakfast table. Sophie had either failed to note Mr. Harrison’s abundant charms, or she trusted that all in her ambit were as virtuous as she.

The wages of successfully appearing virtuous were constant temptation to behave at variance with those appearances.

Mr. Harrison sat back, his hands braced on the arms of his chair as if he’d rise and leave.

“Is there a problem with your meal, Mr. Harrison?”

“Yes.” He reached for his teacup then dropped his hand without taking a sip. “No… there is a problem with my digestion.”

Gracious heavens. “Is it the company? I would not impose on Sophie and Sindal above stairs, but I have correspondence—”

He shook his head and glanced at his plate, then at the plaster molding of disporting cupids above them, then at Sindal’s vacant place at the head of the table. “I’ve never done a juvenile portrait.”

His tone was a blank page. Jenny could not tell if he dreaded the task before him, resented it, was bored by it, was challenged by it, or… feared it. She could, however, hazard a guess he wasn’t looking forward to spending days painting two small boys.

“Painting is painting, Mr. Harrison. Shapes, colors, light—the process doesn’t change based on the subject. As children go, these two are attractive, and Rothgreb will be pleased with any reasonable effort.”

He shifted to focus on her, his expression fierce the way a raptor was fierce. “I will not be pleased with any reasonable effort.”

The conversation became more and more fraught, and Jenny had no clue as to why. “You are reported to have high expectations of yourself. You once burned a portrait of Princess Charlotte with her dog because it did not meet with your approval. Such standards have earned you significant respect.”

And what might the regent give now to have that likeness of his late daughter?

“This portrait will determine whether I gain acceptance to the Royal Academy. Nobody puts it in such blunt terms, because there’s always a vote involved, but ever since Reynolds made painting children so popular, it’s like a tacit requirement. One must paint royalty and near-royalty, academic subjects, and even the occasional landscape, but one must also paint children.”

“You do not like children?”

Something flickered through his eyes, something sad and bewildered. “I was a child once. That is the extent of my understanding when it comes to children.”

Jenny considered him as he sat beside her, a plate of food growing cold in front of him, his finger tracing the rim of a blue jasperware teacup.