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“I have many younger siblings. It’s natural I should miss them from time to time. That you saw in me something I’d ignored in myself confirms your talent rather than denies it.”
    Somewhere in that grudging admission was a true compliment, though likely one he hadn’t intended.
    “Thank you.”
    Which left nothing more to say. The footmen being derelict or preoccupied with decorating some other part of the house, Jenny took Mr. Harrison’s greatcoat down from the hook and held it up to him. Next she passed him his scarf, then held his hat and gloves while he buttoned up.
    And then their time together was over, and Jenny heard the sound of many heavy coaches rumbling, not toward her artistic inclinations, but more in the direction of her heart. “Safe journey, Mr. Harrison.”
    “My thanks for your hospitality.” He tapped his hat onto his head and pulled on his gloves. “Have you considered corresponding with old Monsieur Antoine? He’s very generous with his guidance, and not at all opposed to encouraging the talented amateur, regardless of gender.”
    His suggestion cut in several ways, though it was intended as another compliment—to a talented amateur of the inconvenient feminine persuasion. “Monsieur is, as you say, very generous, but his eyes are failing.”
    Mr. Harrison tossed the ends of his scarf over his shoulders in a gesture more Continental than English. “I didn’t know that.”
    “Few people do. He has been helpful, though now when I call at his gallery, we spend our conversations on his reminiscences. He’s very proud of you.”
    Mr. Harrison glanced up, as if entreating the heavens, then grimaced. “The Yuletide season has officially started.” He pointed to the crossbeam over the antechamber, where a swag of mistletoe had been hung.
    “Louisa and Joseph are quite enamored of all things—”
    Whatever nonsense Jenny had intended to spout one minute before Elijah Harrison trotted out of her life, she forgot as he put a gloved hand on her shoulder. “It’s a harmless tradition,” he said. “One I’ve had occasion to appreciate.”
    With that, he kissed her, and not on the cheek as a proper gentleman ought. He touched his mouth to hers softly, a lingering, gentle kiss that conveyed… something. Regret perhaps, at having to face the miserable winter day.
    Before he drew back, he whispered, “You’ll want to look at the sketchbook I used, and, Genevieve?”
    He bore the scent of rosemary and lavender, and he was leaving.
    “Mr. Harrison?”
    “You draw wonderfully. Be proud of yourself.” He gave her cheek a quick buss and passed through the door.
    Jenny held his compliment close to her heart—the real compliment, the one he’d whispered. She held his kisses closer.

Three
    “Yon beast will not go sound.” Joseph Carrington, Earl of Kesmore, scowled at Elijah’s horse as the gelding was led from the Kesmore stables. “Listen to the footfalls, Harrison. Your hind end is off rhythm.”
    And people called artists eccentric.
    “Kesmore, good morning. My hind end is traveling down the lane posthaste, though you have my thanks for providing shelter for the night in absentia.”
    Kesmore’s frown—the man’s dark features had an entire repertoire of frowns, scowls, glowers, and glares—turned affectionate. “You will forgive my countess for not greeting you here in the yard. She must see to our son’s safe passage up to the house.”
    Lady Kesmore, accompanied by a maid, was wending her way from the coach house up a shoveled path toward the manor.
    “Congratulations on the birth of an heir,” Elijah said. “I thought you had only the two daughters.”
    Kesmore’s affectionate scowl became a long-suffering affectionate scowl. “According to my wife, when the child’s nappies want changing, that boy is my son. When he’s charming every female in the shire, he’s her ladyship’s son. Weren’t you to have immortalized my daughters on canvas at some point?”
    He