Cocky Earl - Annabelle Anders Page 0,42

manservants rolled a table into the circle. Whatever had been stacked on it was presently concealed with another of the ubiquitous tarps.

“Madams and Mademoiselles.” The Frenchman cleared his throat. “May I have your attention s'il vous plaît? Maintenant we are going to journey deep into the historical importance of painting nature morte. Or as the English say, the still life.” He turned to nod at the servants who carefully folded the sheet off of the table.

They revealed a large bowl of fruit placed on a velvet-covered block so as to be visible to everyone. “What do you see here?”

“Fruit.” Charley stated the obvious and a soft murmur of laughter echoed in the room. She hadn’t meant to draw attention to herself, but the question was such an obvious one that it would have been silly not to answer.

The painting master pinned his gaze on her, a thrill of excitement in his expression. “Ah, but is it? Is it really? Come forward and look closer.”

Charley shifted a moment but then stepped around her easel to peer more closely at the bowl. What sort of a trick question was this? “An orange. A banana. Grapes. A pineapple.” She shrugged. “Apples?”

“Look closer,” he urged.

“There is light and color. The fruit is a moment in time,” Felicity provided from where she stood at her canvas and Charley sent her an appreciative glance.

“Yes!” the master announced gleefully. “Return to your station, Mademoiselle.”

Charley was grateful to be dismissed and quickly ducked back behind her easel.

“This fruit. Today, eet is beautiful. The colors, they are magnifique, are they not? But tomorrow, the banana, it will have streaks and spots of brown. The orange, it will grow green and soft, and the apple will eventually dry and shrivel. But if you can capture it, if you can paint it.” He paused as though he was going to reveal the secret to life itself. “You will capture a moment in time.”

Charley glanced at her blank canvas and then back toward the fruit in confusion. Soft gasps of awe whispered around the circle and a few of the older ladies clapped their hands together.

But to her, the bowl still contained plain, ordinary fruit. She shook her head, feeling utterly out of place.

“And with my words of inspiration urging you to create, you may now select your colors and begin.” He gestured toward the fruit and made a sweeping bow.

As applause filled the room, Charley vaguely remembered how her mother had shown her to load her palette and by the time she was finished, she’d loaded it with more colors than were likely necessary.

When she could delay the actual act of putting paint to canvas no longer, she swirled one of the brushes around in the sticky red clump and then drew the outline of her apple and hastily filled it in. She wiped the red away and filled her brush with orange.

As she utilized the yellow, she wrinkled her nose when orange and red streaks ruined the color of her banana.

She might even have enjoyed herself if no one was present to witness her results.

“Ah, the light, oui, you have captured it perfectly.” The painting master had moved to observe from over Bethany’s shoulder. Charley stiffened when he moved to view her painting.

“What is this? Are you, how do you say? Making a joke?”

“A joke? Oh, Charley. That’s priceless.” Felicity covered her mouth but couldn’t keep her laughter at bay, nor could Bethany.

Heat climbed up Charley’s neck.

Frowning, the art master turned when shuffling sounds at the door inspired an altogether different sort of appreciative murmur from the young misses in the room.

And several of the older ones as well.

“My lords.” Monsieur Jean Luc dismissed Charley to stride toward the newcomers. “You have come to join the ladies, non?”

Charley didn’t turn to see which lords had stepped into the room. She didn’t have to. Even if she didn’t know by the giggles and fluttering of lashes all around, she’d know by the strange prickling that climbed up her spine whenever Lord Westerley was near. No doubt, he’d come along with his rookery of handsome lordlings.

She peered at the mess she’d made on her palette and wished she could throw one of the blasted tarps over her easel. She didn’t want him to see her lousy artwork. Or perhaps it would be best if he did. It would only require a single glance for him to realize that she would never suffice as his wife—as a countess no less.

She raised her brows