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A fter returning to his bachelor apartment where he kept a small studio, Victor searched through drawings and smaller canvasses to provide samples of his work.

His hand hovered over one of the sketches he had done of Adalyn, her likeness squeezing his heart and, in turn, reminding him how much Juliana looked like her.

He placed it aside, not wishing to draw questions from the duke.

Instead, he selected a few renderings he’d done while sitting in the park, capturing little snippets of people’s lives as they went about their business.

He chose two completed canvasses—a still life to demonstrate his brush technique and a small portrait of Cilla he’d completed and planned to give Timothy on their wedding anniversary—and wrapped them carefully.

During the brief carriage ride, he ran his hands lovingly over the satchel containing his art. What a coup it would be to be awarded the privilege of being portraitist to a duke, and his skin tingled with anticipation.

But what if Burwood found his work lacking? Victor spiraled with doubt, imagining the disappointment in the duke’s eyes as he gazed upon what Victor thought of as his masterpiece. Even worse, what if the duke found his work to be ordinary, lacking any sort of originality or spark of the unique?

The crushing weight of failure paralyzed him, and Victor nearly pounded on the carriage roof to have the driver return him home.

How could anyone understand what his art meant to him? How he poured his very soul into each and every piece. To be criticized. Ridiculed. Made to feel less than.

Victor’s throat tightened, and he forced down the lump of fear that had formed.

Although his painting master praised his work, did he really have the audacity to believe he could dare consider himself to be among such exemplary company as Thomas Lawrence, portrait artist of kings?

Before he could raise his hand and give the roof a sound thump, the carriage pulled to a stop before the duke’s London mansion. Victor wiped his sweaty palms on his trousers, took a deep breath, and exited. His knuckles white as he gripped the satchel’s handle, Victor strode toward the front door.

Victor’s mind shot back to Juliana’s come-out ball. If anyone understood the fear of not measuring up, she would, and Victor secretly hoped she would be a participant in the interview.

The butler greeted him, taking his card and showing him to an empty parlor.

“I shall inform His and Her Grace of your arrival. Would you care for refreshment?” the butler asked.

Victor’s stomach roiled at the suggestion. “No. Thank you.”

Left alone to wait, Victor rotated between pacing, gazing out the window, sitting on a comfortable wingback chair, and inspecting the paintings hung on the walls—spending considerably more time on the last activity.

In fact, he’d been inspecting a portrait of a surly looking man when the duke entered. “My grandfather.”

Victor spun at the duke’s words.

“There are several portraits of him here and at Hartridge House, as he lived to be nearly ninety. That”—Burwood nodded in the direction of the portrait—“was the last.”

Did Burwood have Victor placed in this room because of that portrait?

Was that the result Burwood expected? Although the artistry was exceptional, the subject left something to be desired.

Victor stepped forward, inspecting the portrait more closely.

“There’s a sadness about the eyes. At first, I thought he was angry, but on closer inspection, he appears heartbroken. ”

At his side, Burwood peered up at his grandfather’s likeness. “Now that you say it, I see it as well.”

Victor turned toward the duke, who appeared pensive.

“It would align with what Aunt Kitty said about him. That he had regrets about how he treated my father.” Burwood shook his head. “What it must have been like for him to realize all of his sons had preceded him in death.”

A smile tipped Burwood’s lips that didn’t meet his eyes. “But let’s not be morbid. Come, sit.” He gestured to a sofa and the two wingback chairs.

As Victor debated which to choose, Her Grace joined them. “Mr. Pratt. Thank you for coming so quickly.” Seating herself on the sofa, the duke joined her, making Victor’s choice of one of the wingbacks that much easier.

Before he could sit, Burwood’s mother and Juliana also entered. Apparently, the decision regarding who would have the honors of painting the portraits would be a family matter.

The moment Juliana arrived, Victor’s nervousness settled. Odd, but it was as if her mere presence gave him the confidence he needed not only to survive the interview but to present himself as the capable artist he believed he was. Her calming effect was unexpected but very welcome.

“First, let’s get some particulars out of the way,” Burwood said as his mother settled next to Her Grace, and Juliana seated herself in the remaining wingback.

“If you insist on formalities, Burwood will suffice, but I’ll admit I’m still having difficulty adjusting to the address.

I prefer Drake, and my wife agrees, preferring you call her Honoria.

If you accept the position, you will be spending a great deal of time with our family, and addressing us by our Christian names will make everyone more comfortable. ”

“I’m honored. Then you must call me Victor.” Victor seated himself and slid his gaze to Juliana, catching the little smile playing across her lips. Had she told her brother of their agreement to address each other informally?

Victor’s mind stuttered and reeled back on something Drake had said. “I beg your pardon. Did you say if I accept the position?” He reached for the satchel at his feet. “Don’t you want to see my work first?”

“Of course.” Drake held out his hand, a slight pink tinge coloring the tips of his ears.

Honoria patted Drake’s arm. “What my husband means, Victor, is we are both confident in your ability. I was most impressed with the knowledge you exhibited some years back.”

Of course it would be because of the National Gallery.

“Knowledge doesn’t always translate to ability, Your Grace—Honoria,” Victor said. “Although I’m flattered by your confidence in me.”

“Not only your knowledge, sir,” Honoria continued. “I recall you studied under the masters in Italy, and Juliana encouraged us to extend the opportunity. She said you were quite modest when pressed about your skill. For the most part, I have found that humble people are often the most talented.”

Victor had his doubts about that presumption, but who was he to argue with a duchess? However, his spirits lifted that Juliana had remembered and recommended him. He opened his satchel, removing the sketches first and handed them to the duke.

“What I love to do is catch people when they’re lost in the moment. For example, this one”—Victor pointed to the top sketch—“with the young boy crouched down, examining an insect. Simple things that we presume don’t mean much, but in reality, do.”

Mrs. Merrick leaned over as Drake passed the sketch to Honoria. “Oh! You’ve captured that tentative reach of a finger so well, Victor. I remember Drake’s fascination with insects as a child.”

Drake snorted a laugh. “If I recall, you didn’t appreciate the dirt I would drag in that resulted from my fascination.”

“Oh, and look!” Honoria exclaimed at the next sketch. “A couple hiding behind a tree. It appears as though he’s going to try to steal a kiss.”

Victor debated including that particular sketch, but considering the duke and duchess had a love story for the ages, he thought they might appreciate it.

“You can almost feel his longing,” Drake whispered. He lifted his gaze to meet Victor’s. “These are excellent, Victor.”

“Well, stop hoarding them!” Juliana rose from her chair and huddled next to Drake on the arm of the sofa.

An image of a family portrait popped into Victor’s mind of the duke’s family huddled together just so.

Much better than the stodgy formal portraits he himself had to pose for with his family, with his arm perched at an odd angle across his father’s chair and Cilla complaining about the crick in her neck as the artist positioned her.

Hope bloomed in his chest like a spray of watercolor in vibrant reds and golds.

“I have paintings to illustrate my technique and an example of a finished portrait.”

The family barely raised their heads as they continued to examine the sketches. Victor handed the duke the still life.

“I’ve employed a technique for capturing light I learned while studying in Florence, playing off the dark and shadows as well as layering textures.”

Juliana hovered an index finger over the painting, much like Victor remembered the boy’s careful movements with the insect. “The apple is so lifelike, I want to take a bite.” She peered up at him, and Victor’s heart gave a thud at her compliment. Or was it from something entirely different?

Drake nodded. “My stomach is growling, and we just finished luncheon.”

Sketches and still lifes were all well and good, but the true test would be the portrait. Retrieving it from his satchel, Victor drew in a deep breath and handed it to the duke. “This is of my sister. I know it’s not typical of aristocratic portraits . . .”

From everyone’s widened eyes and parted lips, Victor surmised he had just lost the opportunity.

Juliana gazed dumbstruck at the portrait of Priscilla. Not typical was a massive understatement.

After she had recommended Victor to Drake as the family’s artist, Juliana spent time examining all the portraits in her brother’s vast home.

Other than the one of Drake’s father, most were staid and cold, much like that of Drake’s grandfather hanging in that very room.

The people in them looked—uncomfortable.

Although realistic, their likenesses appeared stiff.