* * *

In Elijah’s experience, fatigue came in two varieties. The primary colors of fatigue were an unsubtle indication that the body or mind sought rest. Ignoring this kind of tiredness came at a peril. Bad decisions, stupid pronouncements, inept paintings, ill-advised couplings, and inane arguments could all result from an unwillingness to accommodate the basic forms of fatigue.

Elijah’s argument with his father had happened late at night, around yet another bowl of holiday wassail. He and his sire had both been tired, and unfortunate words had been exchanged.

So Elijah had learned to heed the signs of simple fatigue.

The more subtle fatigue was of the spirit, and like a secondary color, it had antecedents, and usually involved a blending of bodily weariness with something more. One grew overwhelmed observing the world in all its folly, overwhelmed by want and woe on a scale too great to be productively addressed. One grew weary of being good, of being kind, honest, hopeful, and civil.

He’d tempted Jenny into swearing the previous evening in hopes of alleviating some of her weariness of heart, more fool him.

For she’d passed beyond the common hues of fatigue into something more, some unassailable state of calm, which Elijah suspected resulted from his rejecting her intimate overtures on the impromptu dance floor.

She stood not two feet away, a monument of serenity in green velvet. “The portrait is lovely, Elijah. Rothgreb and his family will treasure it.”

Jenny’s smile was sweet, a bit tired, and to all appearances genuine.

She’d left for Paris already.

“It’s a good effort. I suspect if I take on more juvenile commissions, I’ll become more confident with them. I do like it.” This portrait of Sindal’s sons was the best thing Elijah had ever painted, in fact. Its temporary frame did not do it justice.

Jenny touched old Jock’s ear, a bit of brushwork of which Elijah was particularly proud. “Will you display it at the open house?”

He resisted the urge to touch the lock of hair that wanted to curl over Jenny’s ear. “I will not. Nothing will be allowed to overshadow Their Graces’ portraits. The duchess was clear on that, as was her doting swain.”

“You mean Papa. Shall I have this one packed up then? I’m sure Rothgreb will want to display it as soon as possible.”

Did she have to be so blasted helpful? “I’m reluctant to lose sight of it.”

She quirked an eyebrow, looking much like her father. “The joy is in the creation, Elijah, not in the possession.”

Where was the polite, demure Lady Jenny who’d offered him shelter from a winter storm? Would he want her back if he could restore her? Was she any happier than this talented, determined, exhausted version of the same woman?

“There can be joy in creating and savoring, my lady. Pack it up and send it off. The painting belongs to the one who commissioned it, not to the fellow who merely happened to create it.”

“Or to the lady who merely happened to create it.”

She wanted an argument, and he was hard put not to oblige her. “Just so. I’d rather we spent this afternoon completing Their Graces’ portraits instead of crating up finished business.”

They had only this afternoon, after all. Tomorrow was the open house, when Elijah’s ducal portraits would go on display before family and friends.

“A splendid notion,” Jenny said, reaching for her smock. She looped it around her neck and reached behind herself to tie it in back.

“Allow me.”

She turned her back to him and dipped her chin, so her nape was exposed to Elijah, a vulnerable, delectable pose, particularly when she wore a comfortable old dress and a simple painting smock. He tied a bow for her, and let his hands drop when what he wanted was to pull her close and hang the consequences.

Hang Paris.

“You’re having trouble with the duke,” he said. “Have you figured out why?”

She aimed a peevish look at him over her shoulder, and that was seductive too. “You didn’t have any trouble with him. Your portrait catches all of his most appealing attributes.”

Elijah slipped his sleeve buttons into a pocket and turned back his cuffs. “Which would be?”

Jenny studied their side-by-side paintings, her arms crossed, her expression disgruntled. “His Grace never fails to act, even when he ought to remain idle. He fires off letters, delivers speeches in the Lords, cozens the MPs, interferes wherever he must to see his ends achieved. You made that seem like leadership, or his responsibility, not busybodying.”

Elijah laid out his brushes and wished his mouth was going to start humming some seasonal tune, though he knew it wouldn’t. “You could not paint the duke as easily as you did Her Grace because he embodies the parts of yourself you are least comfortable with. Are you going to paint, or stare away the afternoon?”

Jenny turned, dropping her arms. “You think I’m like His Grace?”

She was fascinated, not horrified, which meant he was doomed to explain rather than defend his notions. He chose a small, fine finishing brush, took up his palette, and added a dot of green to the drapery behind the duke.

“When was the last time you had any instruction in art, Genevieve? Anyone to discuss your ideas with, anybody to trade criticisms with?”

She watched as he brought His Grace’s curtains into harmony with the same drapes in Her Grace’s portrait. “I tried for a while after my come-out to work with Antoine, but the subterfuge was too much, and he became… He humored me.”

“And yet, you still painted. When you couldn’t paint, you drew. When you couldn’t draw, you embroidered.” He turned to aim a glower at her. “You are relentless.”

He’d all but growled the words, and yet, she was smiling a bemused smile. “After Victor died, I didn’t want to paint, but he’d made me promise, and he was right. I am … relentless. His Grace is relentless too—so’s Mama.”

She started in painting, still not getting the duke quite right in Elijah’s opinion. The portrait was all but completed, and recasting the sitter’s personality was not easily done in touch-ups and finishing work.

His Grace was relentless, and tireless in pursuit of his ends, but he was also a man capable of asking for what he wanted, even demanding what he wanted, and Jenny had far to go if she were to emulate her father.

He paused, his brush poised above the duke’s heart. Jenny had been very forthright on the dance floor. Elijah considered the curtains, decided they needed more work, and allowed Jenny to paint away the afternoon in silence.

* * *

“Elijah didn’t even suggest Sindal’s portrait should be sent to the nominating committee.” Jenny turned at the mantel and paced back across the parlor the ladies had taken over for the holidays. “He didn’t mention the Academy at all. Just told me to pack the thing up and send it along to Sidling.”

“Sit down,” Louisa muttered. “If I only have an hour before the baby wakes, I don’t want to spend it watching you careen about like a kite in the wind. Maggie, send that teapot over here.”

Maggie rose from her rocker by the fire and set the teapot—a porcelain confection of green leaves and pink cabbages roses—down before Louisa. “Jenny is worried for her artist. If the committee doesn’t see this portrait, then some old curmudgeon—Farthingdale?—will keep Bernward from being nominated to the Academy.”

“Fotheringale,” Jenny said, taking a seat next to Louisa. “He holds a grudge against Elijah’s parents. I believe Elijah has given up any hope of becoming an Academician.”

Sophie glanced up from her embroidery hoop. “Men have been known to give up when they receive no encouragement whatsoever.”

The door opened, admitting a flushed and flustered Lady Eve. “I have ruined Christmas!”

“Close the door,” Louisa groused. “We can at least be cozy while we endure this ruined Christmas.”

Eve flounced down onto the sofa on Louisa’s other side. “I’m serious. Deene and I agreed to exchange our presents on Christmas Eve under the mistletoe, because we wanted a tradition, and that’s today, and amid all the commotion and the coming and going, I left his p-present at L-lavender C-court!”

Louisa put an arm around Eve, who took to weeping, while Jenny exchanged looks with her sisters. Eve and Deene’s first kiss had been beneath a sprig of mistletoe, just as Elijah and Jenny’s had been.

“We’ll send a footman,” Maggie said.

“Can’t,” Eve replied, blotting her eyes with a handkerchief. “Mama has them running all about in preparation for the open house later today.”

“A groom?” Louisa ventured.

“They’re still decorating the ballroom,” Eve wailed.

“I’d send Sindal, but he’s gone off to fetch old Rothgreb,” Sophie said.

Jenny rose, before her sisters could stop her. “I’ll go. I’ll be there and back in a trice, and Mama won’t notice my absence, because you lot will distract her if the preparations don’t suffice. You will not tell our brothers, either.”

Another round of looks was exchanged: Louisa’s thoughtful, Sophie’s dubious. Eve looked hopeful—also quite gravid and in no condition for any upset—while Maggie looked… Maggie’s expression was hard to discern.

“Go then,” Louisa said. “Eve, describe this dratted present, and, Genevieve, you will not tarry or end up in a snowdrift, lest we’re left explaining to Mama why she has a portrait to show off to the neighbors this evening but no Lady Jenny, hmm?”

Jenny listened with half an ear as Eve described an oblong box left on a sideboard. Lavender Court wasn’t far at all—it adjoined the Morelands park on the other side of the woods—and far more important than Eve’s sentimental intentions toward her husband, this errand would free Jenny from Morelands for the space of at least an hour.