Read Lady Jenny's Christmas Portrait for Free Online Page B

one you liked best when you were a boy.”
    The frown disappeared, replaced by a half smile. “‘The Cock and the Jewel,’ I suppose. When a fellow is famished, all the gems in the world will not satisfy his craving for a simple crust of bread, no matter how others might value the pretty jewel.”
    Elijah felt a whiff of relief. Little girls could draw roosters and gemstones, particularly with some assistance from their aunt.
    “Be off with you,” Kesmore said with a flourish of his whip that had Bacchus looking nervous. “And you”—Kesmore pointed the whip at the horse—“no mischief, or Father Christmas will make you do pony rides all Christmas Day for both girls.”
    The horse stood docile as a lamb at the mounting block. Once Elijah was in the saddle, Bacchus turned down the snowy drive without an instant’s hesitation, though Elijah cast one last glance back at the empty third-floor window.
    ***
    “What is this?” Louisa, Countess of Kesmore, marched across the nursery and thrust a sketch pad under Jenny’s nose. “It doesn’t look like your work, Sister.”
    Louisa did not glide about the house. She did not make small talk. She appropriated neither the airs and graces of a countess nor those of a recently published author whose poetry was acclaimed by the most discerning of the literati. She was simply Louisa: blunt, beautiful, and unfailingly genuine. Jenny loved her for those qualities but was not so enamored of Louisa’s unrelenting curiosity.
    “It’s a sketch pad, dearest. The girls leave them all over the house.” With a brother underfoot, they’d learn, as Jenny had, to keep sketches under lock and key.
    “I know it’s a sketch pad, Genevieve Windham, but what’s this ?” Louisa held out the tablet, flipped open to a pencil drawing of… Jenny, sketching.
    Jenny regarded the page with something between dread and fascination. Her hand closed around the sketch pad while her feet clamored to leave the room. “I suppose Mr. Harrison drew it. Some artists must draw compulsively.”
    “Like you.” Louisa’s expression held only sympathy. “He’s good, though not as good as you are.”
    Louisa was loyal to a fault too.
    “Elijah Harrison is the most sought-after portraitist in London, unless you count Sir Thomas Lawrence, who is flooded with commissions and at the regent’s beck and call.”
    “Which you ought to be. His sketch of you is quite good.” Louisa came closer to study the drawing. “He’s caught how fiercely you concentrate, like a raptor focusing on her prey.”
    “Louisa, I know you are a poetess, but that image is hardly flattering to a lady.”
    “Elijah Harrison has also caught you as a woman, Jenny. He drew you full of curves and energy, a female body engaged in a passion, not some drawing-room artifact showing off her modiste’s latest patterns. He sees that your beauty is not merely physical.”
    Was that why he’d kissed her, or had it been merely a passing holiday gesture? “You are fanciful, Louisa.”
    “I am honest.”
    Both could be true, but one didn’t argue logic with Louisa and win unless one was Joseph. “Why do you say I’m better than Mr. Harrison?”
    Louisa flipped back to the sketch of Fleur. “Look at this.”
    “It’s very accurate, and if he had time to sketch me, as well, he drew both quickly.”
    And why had he sketched Jenny, and then told her specifically to examine this sketch pad as he’d trotted out of her life?
    “Portraiture is not exclusively about rendering an accurate image,” Louisa said. “Fleur is a happy little soul. She doesn’t have Amanda’s inquisitive nature or impulsivity; she likes to make others happy. Fleur is quick to sense others’ feelings, like my Joseph, but she hasn’t Joseph’s analytical bent.”
    Louisa spoke with the assurance of a mother who knew her children. Fleur and Amanda were Louisa’s stepchildren, and Louisa had only known them a year; and yet, by virtue of marital alchemy, Louisa