Page 1 of A Misguided Devotion

Chapter 1

Holybourne House, Alton, Hampshire, August 1813

William Merry peeked around the corner into the hallway. He recoiled at the sight. Lady Louisa was waiting for him. Again. There was nothing for it. He would have to sneak down the servants’ stairs. It was regrettable it had come to this, but he refused to lose another day’s painting because of his cousin’s unwelcome attentions.

Clasping his easel, the satchel containing his paints over his shoulder, William slipped out the back door into the garden. He shuddered with relief. He would never have agreed to attend this wretched family house party if his father hadn’t requested it. Not even that would have swayed him if he had not needed his father’s blessing on his plans for the future.

“My, oh my. We are being secretive this morning,” said a female voice behind him.

William didn’t flinch at his twin sister’s words and continued striding down the garden until he was out of sight of the house.

“You’re one to talk, Charlotte,” he said, setting up his easel facing a bench, which stood under the shade of a majestic old oak tree. “You’d have retired to your bedroom indisposed for a week if a gentleman were trying to force his attentions on you with a fraction of the persistence with which our darling cousin Louisa is pursuing me.”

His sister ignored the jibe. “I am aware she’s being rather troublesome, but you could be more sympathetic. Her father is seriously ill, and no one knows if he will recover. She needs a diversion. I know I would if my father were so unwell. Why don’t you offer to paint her? That would distract her from her worries whilst keeping her at arm’s length. She is quite pretty. Perhaps she could be your muse.”

“Don’t be ridiculous! Her nose is too small, her chin too pointy, and her straw-coloured hair too ordinary to have any real claims to beauty.” Even if he had found her attractive, he was too intent on self-preservation to give his cousin the slightest encouragement, however sorry Charlotte was for her.

Louisa already clung to his arm at every opportunity, her overfull red lips creeping alarmingly close to his whenever he dropped his guard. He had no more desire to capture her likeness on canvas than he had to be caught by her wiles.

“I need a muse who is more than just pretty if I’m to impress the powers that be at the Royal Academy.”

Charlotte narrowed her eyes and glared at him. “Is that how you judge every female of your acquaintance? On whether she is a beautiful enough subject for your art?”

“I can’t help it. I’ve been gifted with an artist’s eye.”

“Then I pity the lady you marry.”

Was she serious? “Why on earth would you do that? Louisa is not the only woman who would jump at the chance to be my wife, and if they got that opportunity, I’m sure none of them would appreciate your sympathy.” He fluttered his eyelashes. “Don’t you think I would make a dashing husband?”

Charlotte batted him with her arm. “Stop preening! Your looks are not in question. What woman wouldn’t want to be married to a six-foot tall man with white-blond hair and a smile that could launch as many ships as Helen of Troy? It’s too bad that you are so aware of your own attractions. One day, you’ll meet a lady who doesn’t succumb to your charm. You had better pray you don’t lose your heart to her.”

William puffed out his chest. “Never fear—I can charm anyone.”

“We’ll see. I hope, for both your sakes, that she isn’t too pretty.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You don’t understand, do you? If you value physical appearance above all else, how will you cope when your wife becomes old and wrinkled? Or if she gets ill and loses her bloom. Will your love evaporate with her beauty?”

William’s mouth opened, but no words came out. Did Charlotte really think him so shallow?

“That is, of course, if you ever find anyone who fits the bill to start with, which seems doubtful, as you never seem satisfied with anything you paint. What happened to the portrait you were working on in London? Don’t tell me—it wasn’t good enough.”

He undid his satchel and concentrated on setting up his paints. “Then I won’t tell you.”

“What was wrong with the painting this time? Was your client displeased?”

“Oh no. Lord Carrowbeg was delighted with the picture, but I felt it was lacking.”

“At this rate, you’ll never submit your work to the Royal Academy.”

William dismissed her words with his hand. “I’ll get there. I simply need more time. When I find the right muse, it will happen. I’m seeking that extra something, and it will be worth waiting for. Something to make my audience gasp, not just tell me it’s good. I can paint that well any day—”

“Ugh! You’ve become so puffed up with your own merit that I’m surprised you don’t fly away like a balloon. It’s not as if you gained your talent through your own efforts. It is a God-given gift, and you should not treat it so lightly.”

The accusation rankled. “Give me some credit. I’ve worked hard at my art, watching masters paint and asking lots of questions. And practising. A lot.”

“I appreciate that. I’m the same with my music. If I didn’t spend so many hours playing the pianoforte, my performance would suffer. We cannot control how much natural ability we’re born with, only what we do with it.”