A Scandalous Situation. Patricia Rowell Frances

quite achieves the aura that nature bestows. Of course, it is not completely finished.”

      Rob shook his head, smiling wryly. “I suppose that is the hazard of being a talented artist. They are never finished, are they? I find your painting exquisite.”

      “Do you really?” Her face brightened.

      “Indeed, I do. The delicate detail…like that snow piled on the twisted tree, or the subtle colors of the ice cascades against the dark clouds. I see those things in nature, but I would not know how to recreate them on paper.”

      She nodded seriously. “You have an appreciative eye. You have described the very challenge. Do you think the background too dark?”

      Rob considered gravely. “Nay, it sets off the detail.”

      “Yes, I think so. I do like the effect, although I usually use light, airy colors. I am a great admirer of Anne Vallayer-Coster, but I find her backgrounds too dark. Do you know her work?”

      “I’m not familiar with it, but I have heard her name. She was Marie Antoinette’s painter, wasn’t she?” Rob moved a chair nearer the fire, and his guest sat.

      “Yes, painter to the court, and one of only four women admitted to the French Royal Academy of Painting and Sculpture.” Miss Kethley sighed. “She is in eclipse since the advent of the revolution, but she was fortunate to have her genius recognized. It is so difficult for women.”

      Wondering if her own talent had been belittled, Rob nodded sympathetically. “I fear that is so.”

      “And not only in art—in writing, also. Many female writers use men’s names in order to have their work published. And female dancers are reduced to…” She blushed. “To such a low status that… Well…”

      Rob took pity on her embarrassment. “That they are little better than prostitutes,” he finished for her. “You are right. It is not fair at all.”

      Still blushing, she smiled. “Plain speaking can be very useful.”

      “I have always found it so.” He grinned. “But here is Burnside attempting to announce dinner.”

      Over another excellent repast of ham with Cumberland sauce, Iantha studied her host. Again, he did not wear evening clothes, but remained at his ease in buckskins, with a simple cravat tucked into an unadorned waistcoat. A plain man, as he had said. But quite handsome for all that, with a square face and a strong, cleft chin. The fire struck reddish lights in his rich brown curls, and lines from laughter seemed always to crinkle his dark eyes. A very likable man.

      Just…just a little overpowering.

      He had done nothing to create that impression. He just was. Very broad, very strong, very physical. Perhaps that quality accounted for her feeling overpowered. She could not ignore it. Not that he stood too close or touched her more than courtesy required—except when she had been a bit… Well, perhaps a bit difficult. Even then he had been only slightly impatient and concerned for her welfare. But he exuded… What? Power. Yes, he exuded a subdued, but confident, power.

      But he was speaking. “I’m sorry, my lord. I was not attending. You were saying?”

      “I suggested that you try a bit more curry. Burnside made this especially for you—chicken, I believe, this time.” He ladled a portion for her over rice studded with almonds.

      “Why, thank you. How kind of him.” And of his lordship. His kindness grew more apparent each hour she knew him. “Ooh. It is quite delicious. Just the right amount of pepper, but so exotic. English food is so dull and predictable. I have never tasted anything like this.”

      “No, the ingredients are not usually found in England. I had them shipped back ahead of me.” As he spoke a few discordant strains of music drifted up from the lower reaches of the castle. “Aha! Feller is tuning up his fiddle. Perhaps we can persuade you to join us for a little entertainment after we have eaten.”

      “Why…why that sounds delightful.” At least it did at first. She enjoyed music. But then again, as she thought further, Iantha realized she’d be the only woman among several men…. That did not sound so delightful.

      Just as she opened her mouth to make an excuse, his lordship took the decision out of her hands, declaring a fait accompli. “Very good. We’ll gather in the library shortly. Feller plays only folk tunes, but they are lively and will relieve for all of us the boredom of being snowbound.”

      Rob waited a moment to see if see she would demure in spite of his intervention. She looked a bit distressed, but went back to her chicken curry without saying anything else. The fact that she ate with a good appetite pleased him. He could not abide women who picked at their food.

      Because she was so delicate of body, he had expected her perhaps to be too thin, but when her ruffles fell back, he could see that her arms were only slender, not bony at all. He wondered about the rest of her, but dared not stare at her body. Hiding behind the act of cutting his ham, he risked a glance at her breasts. Full, round, well shaped. Nice.

      Yes, very nice, indeed.

      This elusive lady intrigued him. Like the wraith she resembled, he felt that he could see her, but not feel her. Her emotions emerged for only moments at time; she allowed the small touches of courtesy only until they had accomplished their purpose. Then she subtly moved away, never rudely or abruptly.

      Very politely.

      Very firmly.

      His determination to breach her barricades, to discover what lay behind that reserved exterior, deepened. At first he’d believed she simply distrusted him, but now he thought the matter more complex. Surely he had proved himself trustworthy now. Perhaps with a little time and patience he could win through her reserve.

      He did, after all, have an excellent reason to do so.

      With dinner complete, the small company assembled in the library, bringing with them a pitcher of ale. Only one. Rob had decreed sobriety as the order of the evening. He could trust his men to behave themselves, but nonetheless, he would not take a chance of offending Miss Kethley. Or of frightening her. She was too wary by half as it was.

      The party consisted of all the current residents of the castle—Burnside, Feller with his fiddle, the young, redheaded Thursby and of course, Lord Duncan and Iantha. And, unexpectedly, Prince Vijaya. He appeared quietly as they were gathering and pulled a chair close the fire. Thursby had brought with him a tea tray, which he set on a table between Iantha and the Indian.

      Iantha had not spoken with Vijaya since the night before. His dress was no less resplendent than it had been on that occasion, consisting of a soft satin shirt and trousers, with an open robe over all. They glittered with rich embroidery worked with jewels. The sapphire resting against his forehead called attention to eyes astonishingly blue in the dark face.

      The air of unreality again began to grow in Iantha, and the tension of confinement. And yet, she chided herself, what could constitute a more intriguing adventure than to listen to border folk music in the company of three sturdy north countrymen, an English border lord and an eastern prince? She studied the scene, recording every detail in her mind’s eye to transfer to paper at her first opportunity.

      As the only woman present, apparently the duty of pouring tea remained hers. “Who will drink tea?”

      She glanced around the room as, one by one, all the men but Vijaya declined in favor of ale. After pouring two cups and passing one to the prince, Iantha leaned back and sipped her own. Remarkable. She rolled the unfamiliar flavor over her tongue. Smoky and exotic. If only she might include the flavor in her painting!

      Feller drew his bow across the strings, and after two exploratory chords, launched into a familiar tune. At the end of a second tune, Iantha reached for another cup of tea.

      “Do you enjoy the tea, madam? It is my own blend.”

      Iantha regarded the Indian with surprise. He had been so quiet she had almost forgotten him. “I like it very much,