“We’ll impress him into service then. I saw your sketches, by the way.”

Jenny was so busy studying the way the blue of the parlor’s wallpaper compared with the blue of Elijah’s waistcoat that she had to think before answering.

“Which sketches?”

He peered into his teacup, his expression disgruntled. “The ones you made of the children, the pastels. They’re brilliant.”

“Pastels can’t be brilliant.” And yet he’d sounded so puzzled by his own compliment, Jenny couldn’t help but be pleased. “I do enjoy children though, very much.”

He glanced up from his teacup, as if he’d heard the reservation in her tone. She enjoyed everybody else’s children, and that hurt like blazes.

A footman paused just inside the doorway. “Post for his lordship.”

Jenny didn’t think Sindal would appreciate his correspondence being left about for all to peruse. “Cornelius, the baron is likely—”

Elijah rose. “I believe Cornelius means me.” He retrieved a single epistle from the footman and resumed his place beside Jenny.

Jenny finished her eggs, toast, and chocolate, trying to decipher Elijah’s expression. He looked bemused now too, and the script on the letter was pretty.

A word came to Jenny’s mind, the perfect word for the feelings curdling the meal she’d just consumed: damn. Damn and blast. Elijah was handsome, charming, well liked, and never in want of commissions. Why shouldn’t some pretty widow correspond with him about a portrait of her children or about renewing her acquaintance with him over the holidays?

Damn and… damn. Double damn.

“It’s from my sister. My youngest sister.” Beside Jenny, Elijah popped a strawberry into his mouth and chewed mechanically.

A sister? Jenny had the sense he was liberally blessed with same. “Are you concerned for her?”

“Sarah has never written to me before. She’s the youngest by three minutes, though our mother claims they were a memorable three minutes.”

Sitting right there beside her, so close Jenny could catch a hint of his scent, he’d gone away to some familial place in his mind.

“Open the letter, Elijah,” Jenny said, passing him another strawberry.

He cast her one glance—a gentleman did not read correspondence at table—then slit the epistle with an unused knife.

If this sister called Elijah home before Jenny had pried from him just how those pastels merited the term “brilliant,” she’d hunt Lady Sarah down and ensure that a lump of coal for Christmas would be the least of the young woman’s problems.

“She’s well,” Elijah said, “and uses a fine vocabulary for somebody who doesn’t yet put up her hair consistently.”

“A bookworm, possibly. Louisa was the same way. I learned many a term from her that impressed our elders.”

He peered at Jenny over his letter. “She and Ruth are both mad for books. I always know what to send them for their birthday and Christmas.”

Twin sisters, then, which was common enough in large families. Two more strawberries disappeared while Elijah finished reading his letter, and Jenny stifled the urge to pace.

She was not ready to have him snatched from her. She needed these days with him, artistically and… otherwise. All too soon Their Graces would return from Town, the children’s portraits would be completed, and Jenny would be heading off for Paris.

If she’d doubted her resolve on that goal before, she didn’t now.

Come fire, flood, or famine, as His Grace would say. Jenny was more determined on her destination than ever, and Elijah Harrison was part of the reason for her conviction.

“Sarah misses me.” He got up and crossed to the window, where bleak winter light did little to brighten the parlor.

Jenny glanced at the epistle long enough to see “Greetings, dear and long lost brother…” in the salutation.

Jenny had two long lost—forever lost—brothers, and would have given her right hand, the hand with which she painted, not to have it so. “You’ll see her at the holidays, won’t you?”

He remained facing away. “She can’t possibly miss me. She hardly knows me.”

Jenny rose and went to him, wanting to see what he saw out that cold window. “She can miss you. I barely recall my grandparents, but because most of my memories of them came from holiday gatherings, I do miss them.”

Missing loved ones at the holidays was always part of the season. How could he not know that?

“I left when Sarah was little more than a toddler. I used to read her stories, her on one knee, Ruth on the other.”

Jenny slipped her hand into his, because he seemed not simply gone away, but lost. “You’ll be with them at Christmas, won’t you?”

He let out a sigh of sufficient depth that the window fogged before him. “After Christmas, and then only if I’m made a member of the Academy.”

“They often don’t announce the results of their votes until the New Year, when the honors list comes out.” And what had membership in the Academy to do with sisters who missed him?

“Then I’ll wait until the vote is cast, but I will not go home until I can do so with sufficient standing that my father will have to admit he was wrong.”

Jenny had been raised with five brothers and four sisters, each sibling a living tribute to their parents’ legendary stubbornness. She recognized foolish pride when confronted with it, and recognized as well that to the person displaying it, it wasn’t foolishness and never would be.

“What was your father wrong about?”

Elijah glanced down at her, then at their joined hands. He kissed Jenny’s knuckles and gave her back her hand. “Very little, as it turns out. He told me I lacked the fortitude necessary to succeed as an artist, told me I was turning my back on my birthright out of laziness and self-indulgence, not because I had an artistic vocation. He told me I wasn’t prepared for what my artistic inclinations could cost me.”

“And you think he was right?” The hound stirred at the sharpness of Jenny’s tone, but Elijah smiled.

“He was spot on about much of it, but not all of it. I’ll admit that when I go home with an Academician’s status. I’ll admit I had no notion of the cost and effort involved in pursuing an artist’s life, that I was a spoiled lordling with no understanding of the greater world—provided my father rescinds his judgment of my character.”

So Jenny could blame this familial drama on honor, the worst of the crotchets male pride was prone to, and not just Elijah’s honor, but the marquess’s honor as well. She linked her arm through Elijah’s and led him around the table, lest they disturb old Jock at his slumbers.

“The regent sings your praises. Sir Thomas sings your praises. Surely you don’t need the Academy’s imprimatur to prove your father wrong?”

“The last thing I said as I tossed my brushes and spare shirts into a traveling bag was that I would come back as an Academician or not at all. I knew I had enough talent, and I was determined he should admit it.”

Jenny wanted to tell him he was an idiot. She wanted to tell him that young men rode off, full of themselves, their talent, and their invincible honor, and they came back in coffins. When they were dead, one couldn’t write them letters, couldn’t apologize, couldn’t explain what had driven one to sharp words and stupid taunts.

“Tell your sister you’ll see her at Christmas,” Jenny said. “Or shortly thereafter. She really does miss you, Elijah.”

Just as Jenny would miss him, even as she boarded her packet for Calais.

Elijah had a reputation for completing commissions quickly. He’d learned the necessity for speed early in his career, when his fees were modest and a gap in work meant a gap in coin.

Though in truth, he wasn’t all that quick. He was organized and disciplined, and work tended to get done when a man rose early and spent time in his studio rather than at the numerous distractions available in London Towne.