Spring 1825
I'm sorry, miss, but we are unable to take your piece for the Royal Exhibition this year. I'm afraid it doesn't meet our standards."
Elizabeth Bishop, or Beth as her mother called her, tightened her grip on the canvas of what she considered her finest work to date. It was different from anything she'd done while her father was alive. The poor flower girl near the street where she now lived was there every day without fail. Beth had given the child a coin when she could, taking the wilted flowers from the child for her mother. The juxtaposition of the gray fog that never seemed to dissipate and the bright yellow and white of the girl's flowers had called to Beth in a way that the proper landscapes most ladies learned to paint never did. There was hopelessness, but also hope in many of the faces she saw in the streets now, and she felt the need to capture them on canvas.
"You've not even seen it clearly."
"I'm sorry, Miss-"
"Bishop."
"Miss Bishop, I can tell you went to a great deal of effort to get here, but it was for naught."
"It was my understanding that the Royal Exhibition was open to everyone."
"Everyone with talent." The small, pompous balding man in front of her raised his chin and crossed his arms. He glanced down at her old coat and dress that was at least two years out of style. She wasn't shabby, but she wasn't as well dressed as the other ladies and gentlemen waiting in the Royal Academy of Art.
Anger surged through her. Normally she would swallow the disdain of those who thought they were above her, but not today. Not here. "Your name, sir?"
"I hardly think that is necessary, miss. Now run along before I have someone remove you."
Her breath quickened and her eyes narrowed. "I will have your name, sir. In all the years that I have been in this building, never have I been treated in such an infamous manner."
"Mr. Connors, is there something wrong?"
Beth flinched as the dark, husky voice spoke softly behind her. Could this day get any worse? Seeing Michael Camden, the Marquis of Langston, was the last thing she needed. She should have never let Sally Morgan talk her into putting this painting in the Exhibition. She should be at the Drury Lane Theatre working on the new set designs, not chasing an impossible dream.
"Lord Langston, I did not see you there," Mr. Connors said as he straightened. "This woman thought to enter the Exhibition. I was just expressing that her work did not meet our standards." Disdain dripped from his voice like water from his chin.
Lord Michael Langston brushed past her as he stepped to confront Mr. Connors. His scent of man and soap wafted in her direction, causing all manner of memories, including the one where he promised to marry her, then disappeared.
"Miss Bishop is Sir Charles Bishop's daughter."
The man blanched. "I'm sorry, Miss Bishop, I had no idea."
"Why don't you let me handle this, Connors? There are several other artists waiting to submit their work."
As Mr. Conners walked away to insult some other artist, Beth straightened her shoulders, lifted her chin and prepared for battle. She was no longer that pathetic girl he'd known five years ago. She was an independent woman, now, capable of taking care of herself. She turned to face him.
"It has been a long time, Miss Bishop. How have you been?"
Damn him, he still looked the same as he had when he studied art with her father, except a bit more honed, seasoned. His dark blonde hair waved away from his long face. His blue eyes were kind, his mouth tilted up in a slight smile. He was lean and tall as he towered over her.
