Page 13

But not the painting of Drake’s father. A half-smile tipped one corner of his mouth, reminding Juliana of Drake.

His gaze held a dreamy, far-away look, as if he imagined something wonderful and—perhaps—unattainable.

Mother had pointed out the tiny rosebuds adorning his waistcoat, telling Juliana with a sigh it was what had brought them together.

A little spaniel sat obediently at his master’s feet, gazing up at him, eyes filled with adoration.

Mother told Drake the artist had captured them both perfectly.

Such was the painting of Priscilla. A mischievous glint sparkled in her blue eyes, the technique of capturing light Victor spoke of giving them life.

The devious smile playing across her lips supported that which shone in her eyes.

Strands of blond hair fell loose against her neck in disarray.

But the most unusual part of the painting was the umbrella she held aloft, as if ready to swing at someone and knock them out.

Juliana felt every loving stroke Victor must have applied to the portrait.

She understood more fully his remark about passion for one’s art, for his work embodied it.

Juliana’s heart lurched in her chest, a not uncomfortable pang squeezing it, as the emotion Victor had poured into the painting flowed forth and pushed her closer to the already precarious edge of love she teetered on.

Silence settled around them, and Juliana glanced at Victor, catching the furrow of worry creasing his brow.

Something more painful twinged in her chest. He thought they didn’t like it.

Her gaze flickered to Drake, Honoria, and her mother, whose gazes remained latched onto the portrait.

If they wouldn’t reassure Victor the painting was marvelous, she certainly would.

Before she could open her mouth, Honoria laughed, rather loudly for Honoria, who was typically the model of decorum. “You’ve captured her perfectly, Victor. This is Priscilla personified.”

Drake nodded. “From what Honoria told me about her and my limited experience, it’s remarkable. However, I’m afraid I don’t understand the umbrella.”

“She’s wielding it like a weapon,” Mother said.

Victor chuckled, the sound brushing against Juliana’s skin and trailing gooseflesh in its wake. “Precisely. It’s a joke between my sister and her husband.”

“Oh! I think I know!” Honoria touched her husband’s arm, then exchanged an amused look with Victor.

“It’s not my story to tell,” Victor said, “but let us simply say Cilla’s husband doesn’t have to worry about anyone kidnapping her.”

The affection on Victor’s face as he spoke of his sister tugged on the already raw emotion rushing through Juliana. His eyes locked with hers, and her cheeks flamed at his intense gaze. Were her emotions as transparent as his?

Quickly averting her gaze back to the portrait, she said, “This makes me like Priscilla even more.”

Victor laughed. “Because she’s a termagant?”

“Because of the portrait. Unlike so many others where I get no sense of who the person really was, I feel like I’ve received a peek into her soul. Into what makes her truly her .”

When her attention drifted back to Victor, his mouth hung ajar. “Y-you do?”

“Why are you so surprised, Victor?” Drake asked. “Juliana has put into words what we’re all experiencing. What you’ve captured is real. No. That’s not the exact word I want.” Drake shook his head and paused for a moment. “Genuine. Yes. That’s it.”

“I’m flattered, Your Grace.”

“Nonsense.” Drake waved it off and rose. “Come. I want you to see the portrait of my father, and we can discuss your visions for ours.”

“I have the position?” Victor asked, as if unsure of the answer. “Aren’t you going to interview other artists?”

“No need. But if you prefer to prove yourself, we could have you start with either my mother or Juliana.”

“Wonderful idea, Drake,” Honoria said, her gaze flitting between Juliana and Victor. “I suggest Juliana.”

Victor turned toward Juliana, his smile sweet. “An excellent idea.”

Juliana’s pulse raced as she imagined posing in front of Victor while he captured her likeness on canvas.

The fleeting moment of connection vanished as Victor returned his attention to Drake. “Would I have your permission to spend time with your sister? Getting better acquainted with Miss Merrick will help me develop the perfect pose. Although I already have one possibility in mind.”

A gleam similar to Honoria’s sparkled in Mother’s eyes. “I would be happy to chaperone you both.”

They reached Drake’s bedchamber, where the portrait of his father hung, a wistful expression crossing her mother’s features once more.

Victor stepped closer to the large painting. “Hmm. You look like him, Your Grace. There’s a playfulness about the eyes and mouth the artist captured. This is much different from the one of your grandfather.”

“Call me Drake, Victor. According to Mr. Ford, my Uncle Gyles’s—friend, when my grandfather threw my father from the house, he never used that artist again.”

“Pity.” Victor examined the artist’s signature. “I know of this artist. A Scotsman, quite well-known, I believe. He’s said to have painted directly on the canvas using no preliminary sketches of his subject.” Admiration rang in Victor’s words.

“Is that unusual?” Juliana asked, stepping closer to the painting and appreciating it anew.

“Very.” Victor’s eyes once again met hers, causing her heart to skip. “But I also appreciate his ability to capture that certain je ne sais quoi of his subjects.”

Feeling like a ninny, Juliana frowned. “I’m sorry?”

Honoria translated. “It’s French. Although it’s literal for ‘I don’t know what,’ it’s used when speaking about an indescribable feature that makes something unique or special.”

“Oh! As you did with Priscilla.”

Victor’s sweet smile returned. “I’m pleased you think so, Miss Merrick.”

Warmth expanded in Juliana’s chest and her stomach gave a little flip.

Finished examining the portrait, they returned to the drawing room to discuss the particulars.

Juliana struggled to focus on the conversation, her gaze locked on Victor’s profile, his features animated with such joy when he spoke of the creative process and some of his ideas for the family’s portraits.

If only she could be the source of such happiness. She sighed dreamily.

“Would that be agreeable, Miss Merrick?” Victor stared at her, no doubt expecting an answer to his question.

If she only had an idea what he had asked.