Keeping Faith (Fair Cyprians of London 3)

“Just be careful amongst the reeds,” Lord Delmore cautioned, “and keep well within your depth. This is a smart new set of clothes I’m wearing.”

“You’d actually consider getting them wet and muddy on my account?” She sent him an impish smile. “I think that’s the most gallant thing a gentleman has ever said to me.” She could afford to feel lighthearted, for this morning was all about playacting, setting up the gentlemen to think of her as she wanted them to, not as she was.

“I think you’d inspire such chivalry from anyone who met you, Miss Montague.”

Faith caught the surprised look Lord Delmore’s words received from Mr Westaway and was emboldened. “What about you, Mr Westaway? I’ve heard that the focus of the true artist would not be torn away by anything.”

“Except losing the very thing that keeps him focused.” He grinned as he looked up from the canvas. “I suppose I’d have no choice but to rescue you if I wanted to finish my painting.”

“Well, I prefer Lord Delmore’s response, even though it’s a relief to know I’d be saved in both instances. Am I floating artistically enough?”

Faith had adjusted to the water temperature and made sure her hair fanned out about her and the folds of her dress looked suitably artistic.

“It’s perfect.” Mr Westaway nodded.

“Will she have to go into the lake every day, Mr Westaway?” Lady Vernon asked. “There are logistical concerns with seeing her dress is dry when she puts it on each day only to then have to float in it for as long as it pleases you.”

“Today will suffice, Lady Vernon.” Mr Westaway barely looked at the old woman, but he smiled at Faith. “I promise not to sacrifice you, Miss Montague, to my artistic pursuits. Today I only need to sketch in the background and get a general composition.”

Faith, who’d been floating for as long as she could manage, stood up. The water reached mid-thigh, and as she glanced down, she could see the outline of her corset beneath the fabric of her gown. She decided to remain standing for a while and pretend to be unaware.

“Perhaps she’ll need a new dress,” Lady Vernon went on. “Faith, get back in the water this instant!”

“Only if Mr Westaway says I must,” Faith countered. “He’s the artist.”

She saw the way his eyes lingered on her just a moment too long before he agreed with Lady Vernon, the pause and the obvious reluctance in his tone music to her ears.

Faith lay back down in the water, but after another few minutes, her task really was becoming difficult. The chill was starting to seep into her bones.

When she could take it no more, she rose suddenly, but her feet stuck fast in the mud and she stumbled and fell to her knees. Her hands went out in front of her, and now her knees were sinking in sludge while the water was too high for her head to remain above. Her corset cut into her, and she couldn’t move properly. Panic was swift. She truly was trapped. With her clothing too constricting, she could neither rise to her feet, yet nor was she agile enough to roll onto her back so that she was again floating with her face to the sky.

By the time a pair of hands gripped her elbows and hauled her to her feet, she was choking on the water she’d taken in, shaking with nerves and on the edge of tears.

“I have you, Miss Montague. A nasty fright, that’s all.” Lord Delmore led her to his chair, his tone fatherly, his concern making her want to cry even more. There’d been precious few people in her world that had ever spoken to her like that. “There, there, Miss Montague,” he soothed, patting her shoulder. “Open your eyes, here’s my handkerchief.”

Mr Westaway had barely

registered until it was all over, it seemed, for he was blinking at her over the top of the easel, and she seethed inside at the injustice of losing such an opportunity to play to his concern.

“I won’t cry,” she said between gritted teeth, and it was as if she were six years old again and her father was berating her for letting the cow run away, bringing the willow switch across her shoulders in a series of violent outbursts. Little matter that he had left the gate unlatched plenty of times and that the cow had always either returned home for milking or been brought back by one of the neighbours. “I won’t cry. I won’t cry.”

She’d said those words so often as a child and she never did cry. Nor did she cry, now, but clearly the combination of hunched shoulders, stiff jaw, and defiant mantra was not the usual reaction of damsels in distress.

“You’re very brave.” Mr Westaway was on one side and Lord Delmore, standing on her other, was wrapping a towel about her shoulders. Lady Vernon was blinking dispassionately at her, not having bothered to rise from her chair, but she didn’t count. Faith could bask in the attention from two handsome men and believe for a few minutes they genuinely did care she’d been frightened.

She relaxed her shoulders and smiled suddenly. “I won’t do that again.” Mr Westaway’s brow was creased as if he didn’t know what to say, so she saved him the trouble. “I’m sorry I spoiled things, Mr Westaway. I hope I was there long enough for you to get the sketch you needed at least. But I’m ready to go back again, if you’d like.”

“Of course not!” Lord Delmore was quite vocal in defence of Faith having a reprieve. “Ten minutes is more than enough time for a gently nurtured young lady to float in a swamp. I wouldn’t hear of it, and I’m sure Mr Westaway wouldn’t, either.”

“Gad, but she’s a rare jewel,” Lord Delmore declared as he accepted the brandy Crispin handed him before taking a seat opposite him in the library. The long balmy evenings of sitting outside were gone since the summer days had given way to a dreary grey, with a decided chill in the air. “I wonder what her plans are when this is all over. Don’t suppose she has her eye on you, do you think?”

“It’s something that has already been aired between us,” Crispin said, stretching his long legs towards the fire. She’s very aware of my situation as I am of hers.”

“And that is? Yes, yes, I know you told me she’s penniless and looking to make a marriage.” Lord Delmore seemed surprisingly agitated, which was uncharacteristic.

Crispin put down his empty glass and stared at the longtime friend of his aunt and uncle. A man of another generation. One he admired, certainly, but whose life and future seemed settled and predictable. “Are you suggesting you might make her an offer, Lord Delmore?”

Crispin had heard his uncle’s old neighbour voice his disinclination to change his widowed status on many occasions.