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“I regret not having paid witness to such a memorable occasion. It shall surely be the talk of the town for at least a full day.” Rogers dipped his brush into the pan and added swift strokes of brown to the untamed landscape emerging on his canvas; he was in his shirtsleeves, his easel set up next to the always blazing fireplace. He paused, scrutinizing his marks. “And are you certain there is none among the ladies who has caught your eye?”
James bristled. “As I have told both you and my mother repeatedly, I am not looking to marry this season.”
He rose from the ottoman he’d flung himself down onto in a fit of boredom, to wander around the stuffy drawing room. Rain poured down outside, grey curtains obscuring the gardens; James was itching to get his hands on the reins or his boots on the ground. He turned his back to the windows.
His friend had not been taken aback by his sudden temper. He rested the end of the paintbrush on the pointy tip of his chin, considering James with the attentiveness he usually devoted to his paintings. There was a smudge of blue on the angled point of his jaw; he would forget to clean it off and be scolded for it at dinner.
“What about Miss Romanova?”
“Natalia?” James balked. “Have you lost your senses?”
Rogers regarded him with a crooked smile. “I was referring to the younger Miss Romanova.”
James opened his mouth and closed it again. He could hear his mother’s voice echoing the same question. Yelena Romanova was a pretty girl, from a respected family—and to his knowledge did not hold the same stance on marriage as her older sister. She was also known to be an accomplished painter. Her eyes did have nearly the same blue colour as—
He banished the thought from his head.
“No,” he said, declaring the topic of conversation over.
His friend did not heed the cue. “Then what about Miss Maximoff? I recall seeing you dance with her on more than one occasion, if I am not mistaken.”
James only grunted in response. He did not care to divulge that the main reason for his dancing with Miss Maximoff so often was that it provided his sister ample opportunity to converse with the brother, Mr Pietro Maximoff. Rogers did not need to know the extent to which his little sister had him wrapped around her finger.
He came to stand next to the easel to observe the half-finished painting, which did not seem half-anything in his eyes; the desolate northern hills were captured in such detail that James would have sworn he could feel the howling wind pulling the breath from his lungs.
“And you?” he asked, rather abruptly.
“What of me?” Steven looked up at him.
James waved his hand in the air. “Is there no lady who has charmed you with her intelligence, lively wit and …. extensive knowledge of art and poetry?”
His friend laughed. “I do not suppose any lady possessing all of those qualities would bestow her charms on one such as myself.”
James made a face his mother would have scolded him for had she been there to witness it. “I wish you wouldn’t talk about yourself that way.”
Steven offered him a rather pitying smile. “I am only stating the truth, as you well know. A man’s fortune can make up for much of his shortcomings in matters of looks or manners. As I am neither in possession of good looks nor a fortune—”
“Stop, please.” James grasped ahold of his arm and spoke with a rush of some strange emotion, “Not every match is made for money.”
He came to his senses a moment later, to discover they were all but standing chest to chest; the brush still held in Steven’s hand was threatening to stain his waistcoat. James let go of his wrist and backed away, face hot from the proximity of the fire.
“No,” his friend said slowly, eyeing him with a curious expression, “I suppose some are foolish enough to make them for love.”
“You are making my head spin,” Natalia drawled from where she was lounging on the chaise in that particular manner of hers, much like a cat ready to pounce. “Will you quit that and tell me what is the matter, or do you prefer to thread holes in our carpets?”
James stopped his pacing and spun around.
“I—” He paused and stared up at the ceiling. “How do you tell someone that you cannot fathom spending the rest of your life in anyone’s company but theirs?” he asked, rather more desperately than he’d wished.
Natalia dropped her book and pretense. “Bad poetry is a favoured choice.” Her eyes gleamed with a bright hunger. “Who is she?”
James shook his head and turned his back on her; he clenched his fists by his side. “You must forget I said anything.”
He walked over to the French windows. It was raining again, as it had been all those weeks ago. A servant scurried along the path from the stables with a basket in her arms. James stared out over the rain-damp grounds; they felt less real to him than a painting.
A slim hand grasped his elbow. “How can I help?” Natalia had never cared much for propriety when it did not benefit her—and anyone who dared to suggest anything about her character was sure to find their own reputation more affected.
“You cannot. Please,” James begged, “leave it be.”
“You do not have to tell me,” she said in a soft voice. “But I do not like to see my friend this way and I believe I know what is ailing him.”
It should not have come as a surprise that his thoughts and desires were so transparent to her. James banished the stab of fear and laid his hand on top of hers. “Then you know there is no cure,” he confessed.
“But friendship may be a balm. And if one’s friend would happen to find themselves in a similar position …”
James tried not to betray his astonishment; he had heard whispers but always disregarded them as evil, envious rumors. A small, wild thing fluttered in his chest as he turned to face her. “What are you proposing?”
She looked up at him with a matching fervour in her gaze. “Would you not say most offers of marriage are made on the grounds of a mutual advantage?”
James could scarcely breath and was not certain he’d understood her. “What would be the advantage of such a marriage?”
Natalia smiled at him and there was a deep sadness to it.
“Freedom, Mr Barnes.”