‘You mean, earn your living as a portrait painter? Impossible,’ Lord Kendall said flatly.
Is that what I meant? Could I do that?
It was a terrifying prospect, something that had never occurred to her. Then his look of disapproving incredulity struck home.
Anyone would think it was the equivalent of earning a living on my back.
Jane almost said so, swallowed, and recited, ‘Artemisia Gentileschi, Elisabeth Vigée le Brun, Angelica Kauffman, Mary Beale, Sofonisba Anguissola—’ She wished she could think of more female artists, especially modern English ones.
‘Exceptions that prove the rule. I refuse to believe in that last one and, besides, you are an English gentlewoman of tender years. You must have a husband.’ There was an edge to that statement, some hint of scorn, almost. Whatever it was, it made her bristle. If he had not thought it a possibility, why had he suggested it? And the thought was tantalising, alluring and dangerous. Could she?
‘I must have a husband?’ Jane snorted inelegantly, almost drunk on the terror of her own rebellion, on the possibilities his careless, scornful suggestion had thrown up. ‘I shall be an independent artist and I neither need nor want a husband. Men are dull or unsuitable or untrustworthy. Or lacking in originality and imagination.’
‘Thank you.’ This time his lips showed no sign of that amused twitch.
‘There is no need to take it personally. You are an earl and heir to a marquess,’ she said with a dismissive wave of her hand. ‘You are certainly more than suitable. For all I know you might be exciting and faithful. But it is academic, I am not talking about you.’
‘We might be if your family discovers that we are spending the night here.’ That was said without the hint of scorn.
Aha, there was definitely an amused twinkle in his eyes just now.
And they were rather nice eyes, dark blue, long-lashed. His best feature, in fact, although there were those shoulders... It was gratifying to make the blue sparkle and it would be a challenge to catch that in oils. But one battered earl was not the problem.
How much could I charge for a portrait? Could I really make my living?
He was still regarding her quizzically.
‘They will not discover it,’ she assured him. ‘Why ever should they?’
‘Miss Newnham—’
‘Call me Jane, then we do not risk tripping up in our pretence of being brother and sister,’ she suggested. Wrestling with the practicalities of their present situation was at least calming.
‘Very practical, Jane. And I am Ivo, although I think you may forgo the frequent dears. Siblings are rarely so affectionate from what I have observed.’
That was true, in her experience at least. She and Hubert, her brother, had quarrelled their way through childhood and had nothing in common as adults.
The maid came in, unfurled a large white cloth across the table, replaced the tea things when Jane clutched at the tea pot, produced cutlery from her apron pocket and bustled out again.
‘Ivo is a nice name. An unusual name. Mine is so dull—Plain Jane.’ She poured herself more tea. ‘Shall I ring for another cup? No? If I am to succeed as an artist, I think I should change it.’ Already in her imagination a picture was forming of a studio, an easel, a chair and a chaise longue for her subjects, a scattering of tasteful props and drapes, herself in a flowing smock, paintbrushes stuck in her elegant but artistic coiffure. The dream of achieving elegance with her mousy, rather fine and wayward hair was perhaps the most improbable element of that vision.
‘Like a nom de plume?’ Ivo queried. ‘That would be nom de pinceau, I think.’
‘Paintbrush name?’ She found herself smiling at him. ‘I should have to find something, certainly. Bath would be an excellent place to set up a studio, don’t you think?’
‘No, I do not. How much money do you have, Miss Newnham?’ The sudden switch to seriousness wiped the delightful imaginings from her mind and, with them, the flutter of happiness.
She did not want to be serious. Laughter kept the nerves about what she had just discovered about herself from tying her stomach in knots. Jane raised her eyebrows with mock hauteur. ‘It is surely somewhat early in our acquaintance for you to be considering dowries, Lord Kendall.’
He did not rise to her teasing, the irritating man. ‘I could not agree more,’ he said with unflattering emphasis. ‘I meant, how much money do you have at your immediate disposal?’
‘Thirty pounds. Sufficient for the journey and contingencies.’
‘That is ample to hire a respectable maid for the remainder of your journey—and to sleep in your bedchamber tonight. I am sure t
his inn could supply you with a suitable young woman for a few days.’
It was what she had told Billing to do, not what she wanted to hear herself. ‘We have already established that there is not room for three in that chaise. Not in any comfort.’