Free A Lady of Talent by Evelyn Richardson Page A

proven almost immediately, he was a man with a soul—a man who had suffered the isolation of being an outcast in a very rigid society and come to terms with it, a man who had made a success out of the talents that had set him apart from his peers, a man who was not so different from herself in his drive, his ambition, and his independence.
    Cecilia felt heat rise in her cheeks as she remembered the way his dark eyes had bored into her the first time he saw her, and then later, the glow of appreciation and even intimacy that had warmed them as he raised her hand to his lips. No, the Earl of Charrington was not so different from Lady Cecilia Manners; he was remarkably similar—disturbingly so.
    And it was time to stop thinking about him and concentrate instead on his fiancée. Cecilia bit her lip so hard that it hurt as she forced herself to focus on the delicate oval of Miss Wyatt’s face, the large brown eyes, the slender nose, the firm little chin.
    There was no doubt that it was an enchanting face, but... Cecilia’s mind went back to their previous conversation and she could not help chuckling as she recalled Barbara’s look of horror when Cecilia had declared herself to be uninterested in marriage. Her eyes had gone from Cecilia to the crowded little studio and back again. To a woman like Barbara, accustomed to the most luxurious surroundings money could buy, it was inconceivable that anyone could be satisfied with anything less.
    That was it! Cecilia grabbed her chalk and began filling her rough sketch with the finer shadings of character. It was Barbara’s very obsession with fashion and society—her drive to be a diamond of the first water and a leader of the ton, her refusal to accept anything less for herself than the position of an Incomparable, despite her damaging connections with trade—that made her who she was and, to some extent, gave her a certain dignity of character.
    Heaving a sigh of relief, Cecilia, put chalk to paper and worked furiously until the fading light forced her to stop, sit down, and take a drink of the tea that Susan had brought her nearly an hour earlier. But tepid though it was, the tea revived her. After lighting the candles, she went back to her work.
    The warmth of the candlelight bathed the room in a golden glow, softening the surroundings—hiding the clutter of brushes and pigments, the stacks of books and papers in the shadows—and making the room appear cozier than it was during the day. Cecilia glanced around with a sense of peaceful satisfaction. No, it was not luxurious, but it was her place. She had told Barbara that she wanted nothing more, which was mostly true. However, her innate honesty forced her to admit to herself that this was not entirely true.
    What she truly longed for—though most of the time she would not allow herself to admit it—was her light, airy studio overlooking the Bay of Naples—the water glittering a brilliant blue in the warm Mediterranean sun, the scent of orange blossoms wafting in through open windows. Even more, she longed to see her father in the chair opposite her, studying her sketchbooks with the half-critical, half-proud expression that he reserved for her and her alone. How she missed him!
    A lump rose in Cecilia’s throat. No, she would not think about it. It did no good to think about it. Those days were gone forever, never to return, and she should count herself fortunate to have experienced them. She should also count herself fortunate that she had her art to support and sustain her, that she had no need for anyone to watch over her, or care for her. She did not need anyone else’s criticism or appreciation; she had herself for that.
    Those days might be gone, but they were not forgotten, and the very next day a most tangible reminder of them appeared in Cecilia’s very own studio.
    “A gentleman to see you, my lady.” Tredlow barely had time to announce the visitor before he ushered in a handsome-looking gentleman of medium