Page 16

A t the desk in his bachelor apartments, Victor worked diligently, filling out the details of the sketches he had started at the duke’s the day before.

True, the initial lines were little more than an outline to capture the overall shape of Juliana’s face, but Davies’s remark that the sketches were rudimentary had galled.

The man obviously had no understanding of the drawing process.

And—Victor assured himself—if Davies had paid the least bit of attention, he would have noticed the detail with which Victor had captured the expression in Juliana’s eyes.

He sat back, assessing his work. Many attributed the quote, The eyes are windows to the soul to Shakespeare, and although Victor appreciated the man’s wit and skill with the pen, he was more likely to believe it had been Da Vinci who had coined the phrase and Shakespeare had merely adopted it, recognizing its truth and beauty.

Because they were the words of an artist.

Regardless of the phrase’s origin, Victor acknowledged the truth it held. Eyes brought a portrait to life and provided the viewer a glimpse into who the subject was.

Worry slithered in as he examined the fleshed-out drawings, and he reached inside the desk drawer and removed the sketches he’d made of Adalyn, comparing them to those of Juliana.

Had he inadvertently given Juliana Adalyn’s nose or the way her lips parted as if pulling in a breath filled with wonder?

Drawn from memory, the image of Adalyn gazed back at him.

Gauzy material draped around her shoulders, dipping down seductively and revealing a little more cleavage than was decent.

He had added that detail strictly from his imagination, never having seen Adalyn in anything other than modest attire. Although there had been that gown with the enticing décolletage she’d worn the night she rejected him.

Oh, why did he have to think about that horrible night when the world crashed down on him? The pity in her eyes as he tried to make his proposal crushed his heart anew. How could he have been so blind? Again, he chastised himself for misinterpreting her politeness for interest.

Not expecting company and asking his valet not to disturb him, Victor startled at the knock on the door. “Yes?”

Tierney, who also served as Victor’s butler, opened the door. “Apologies, sir, but your mother and Miss Whyte insist on seeing you.”

“Out of my way, Tierney.” Victor’s mother pushed the poor man aside, striding in as if she paid the rents. Lydia followed behind her, the cat-that-got-into-the-cream expression on her face triggering alarms in Victor’s head.

He quickly shuffled the drawings under his sketchpad and rose. “Why are you here, Mother?” His alarm grew at his mother’s somber expression. Had something happened to his father? And was Lydia’s smug expression from the belief she could leg-shackle Victor and become the next viscountess?

“Is Father well?” Victor choked out the words, fearful of his mother’s answer.

She blinked. “Your father?” She batted a dismissive hand. “How should I know? He hides from me in his study when he’s not at Lords or at White’s. I only see him when you or Priscilla call.”

No wonder. He couldn’t blame his father one bit. Mother was fortunate Father allowed her to return to London from her exile in Lincolnshire.

“No. I’m concerned about you, my dear. Miss Whyte and I have come to pull you away from this dreary place.” She gazed around at his tidy studio, tsk - tsking and running a gloved finger over a perfectly clean table. His rooms weren’t palatial, but they gave him the space he needed to breathe.

“I’m busy, Mother. I have an appointment this afternoon with the duke, and I must prepare.”

“Which duke?” Speaking of windows to the soul, the gleam in Lydia’s eyes became predatory.

“Burwood. I was awarded the position as their portraitist. I’m beginning with his sister, Miss Merrick.” He placed a hand over the sketchpad, sliding it to more adequately cover the sketches.

Lydia’s gaze followed his movement, while his mother gave an exaggerated sigh and said, “Why a duke needs a portrait of a commoner is a mystery.”

“Miss Merrick is Burwood’s sister, and she is a lovely young lady.”

Fear flashed in his mother’s eyes. “Half-sister, Victor. Her father, unlike the duke’s, was a commoner. You would do well to remember that.”

With an emphasized sway to her hips, Lydia glided up to him, reminding him of a viper he’d seen once in Italy.

She laid a gloved hand on his arm and batted her eyes.

At least she didn’t wield that damned fan.

“Don’t fuss with your mother, Victor. Come, let’s go to Gunter’s for ices.

You have plenty of time to get to your appointment with the duke. ”

Using his thumb and a forefinger, Victor removed Lydia’s hand from his person. “No. What don’t you understand about the fact that I still have work to do to prepare? I have no time for ices at Gunter’s.” Unless it was to take Miss Merrick there.

Where had that thought come from?

Lydia pouted, no doubt hoping to persuade him with either attraction or pity.

Ha!

His mother gave an unnatural sneeze and then held a handkerchief to her nose. “When was the last time your maid of all work dusted? It’s a disgrace! Allow me to go speak with her at once.”

Icy fingers trailed down Victor’s spine as his mother moved toward the door. She planned to leave him alone with Lydia!

“Oh, no you don’t.” Victor followed her out and closed the door behind him.

“What is your game, Mother? If you plan to compromise me with Lydia because she is your choice for my wife, think again. And I would hope you learned your lesson with Cilla. Do you wish to go back to Lincolnshire and the sheep? Because one word to Father from me and?—”

“Cease, Victor!” She huffed another sigh. “I only wish to give you a little nudge in the right direction.”

“If, in your opinion, that direction is toward Lydia Whyte, I urge you to reconsider.”

An idea, at first no more than a ball of shapeless clay, but punched, pulled, and sculpted by the events of the last few days, took shape.

The simplicity of it addressed several concerns at once.

With an impetuosity he hadn’t felt since meeting Adalyn, Victor said, “In fact, I plan to court Miss Merrick.”

“No.” The strangled whisper would have been comical had it not been for his mother’s alarming appearance as she uttered it. Her skin paled, and she held her handkerchief to her bosom. For a moment, Victor worried he would have to send Tierney to fetch a physician.

He grabbed her arm. “Mother? Do you need to sit?” Opening the door, he led her back into the room.

His gaze swung to Lydia standing by his desk and staring out the window.

Odd. The view from that particular window was of the neighboring building’s brick wall.

When she turned toward them, her sickeningly sweet smile set his nerves on edge.

He darted a glance to his sketchpad, the tension coiled in his chest easing to find the drawings still resting beneath.

After depositing his mother on the small settee, he poured a splash of brandy into a crystal glass, then handed it to his mother. “I’m sorry. I don’t have any sherry.”

She pushed it aside. “You know I don’t drink strong spirits.” Her gaze drifted to Lydia, and her brow furrowed.

Victor followed his mother’s line of sight, searching Lydia’s oddly satisfied expression for what had caused his mother’s additional distress.

“Lady Cartwright.” Lydia moved from her position at the window to his mother’s side. “We’ve obviously come at an inopportune time. Let’s not bother Victor any longer. Why don’t we go to Gunter’s without him and enjoy a nice cup of tea instead of ices?”

Mother’s brow furrowed more deeply, but she nodded and rose. “Very well. Victor, you and I shall discuss your decision later.”

Eager to be rid of them, Victor bussed his mother on the cheek. Opening the door wide, he motioned them out. “Enjoy your tea, ladies.”

When he closed the door behind them, he pressed his back against it, not entirely relieved. Lydia was up to something; he was sure of it.

His gaze darted back to his desk, and in six long strides, he stood before it.

He stared down at the sketchpad completely covering the drawings, unease niggling in his chest. Hadn’t a corner of the paper peeked out before?

He lifted the sketchpad, trying to remember if it had obscured the sketches completely when he’d repositioned it.

A quick check ensured all the drawings remained, with Adalyn’s still on top of those of Juliana.

His body dropped to his chair, and his impetuous announcement to his mother forced concern over the sketches from his mind.

What had he done?

In truth, he hadn’t done anything.

Yet.

He’d simply said he planned to court Miss Merrick.

But the idea was neither without merit nor unappealing.

She needed a respectable suitor. At least one better than that cad Lord Felix Davies.

And Victor admitted he liked her very much.

Spending time in her company would be no hardship whatsoever, and it would fall naturally in place while he painted her portrait.

However, one con niggled at his mind. Would it be fair to Juliana? He had no desire to hurt her.

The clock on the mantle chimed quarter to one. No time to ponder it further, he scooped up the finished sketches—sans the ones of Adalyn—and placed them in his satchel.

He would present them to Burwood, along with his request to court the duke’s sister.

And prayed he wasn’t making a huge mistake.

Miss Price offered suggestions while Juliana debated over which gown to wear when Victor called. “The pale-rose muslin complements your complexion, miss. Although the blue brings out your eyes.”