Page 22

T he next day, Juliana posed inside Drake’s orangery using the branch of an orange tree in place of Sunshine’s neck and muzzle. “It feels strange petting leaves.”

Victor’s delicious chuckle, deep and raspy, scraped against her skin, raising gooseflesh.

“I know, but it’s only for positioning. I doubt your brother would appreciate horse droppings in his home should we bring Sunshine inside.

Perhaps in a few days we can venture out again.

” Victor placed his brush down and glanced toward the glass panels in the ceiling.

“As it is, we may not be able to continue much longer even now. A storm is brewing, and we’re losing the little light we have. ”

Victor stepped back, his hands on his hips, and assessed the painting.

He’d removed his coat and rolled up his shirtsleeves to keep them paint-free, exposing his—very nice—forearms. He had the long, elegant fingers of an artist. Fitting, of course, but all Juliana could think about was how those fingers had touched her face and wrapped around her waist.

Her knees wobbled a bit at the memory. Thank heavens her skirts hid her reaction. Although their courtship was pretend for Victor, her feelings were very, very real.

“Won’t you let me take a peek?” she asked, doing her best to keep her tone light. In truth, she was dying to know how Victor saw her.

He waggled a finger at her. “No. And don’t think you can use those pretty smiles to sweet talk me into it.”

Pretty smiles? Her heart stuttered.

He placed the portrait in his brilliant contraption, then began cleaning his brushes in what she learned was turpentine. “Why don’t we pause for a while and see if the clouds clear. Perhaps you can show me how you’re progressing on the piano?”

Mother, who had been sitting in a far corner, peered up from her embroidery. “She’s becoming quite accomplished, Mr. Pratt.”

Although Juliana wouldn’t consider herself accomplished as Mother had implied, she’d been practicing furiously, wanting nothing more than to make Victor smile at her attempt at Mozart’s Twelve Variations on “Ah Vous dirai - je, Maman.” Her piano teacher had been ecstatic over her improvement.

She couldn’t manage all twelve variations, especially those which grew in complexity, but she managed the simpler ones with ease.

Once Victor finished cleaning his brushes and put away his paints, he rolled down his shirtsleeves and donned his coat.

Pity . Juliana rather enjoyed admiring his forearms.

In the music room, Mother rang for refreshments and Juliana took her place at the piano with Victor standing next to the instrument.

Taking a deep breath, she focused on the music before her, hoping to calm her nerves and shaking fingers.

Thank goodness it started off simply, and Juliana executed the first variation to perfection.

Sunshine—not her horse, of course—flooded her chest at Victor’s nod of approval.

But the moment she met his gaze, she fumbled the quick, right-hand notes. Victor took a seat beside her on the bench, his thigh pressing against her skirts, which only exacerbated her trembling.

“It helps me to do some finger exercises to limber them up. May I?” He dipped his head toward her hands.

Thinking he meant to play and show her, she lifted her fingers from the keys, only to have him take her hand in his. The same energy as the day before sizzled up her arm, and she inadvertently gasped. Her gaze snapped to Victor’s, discovering his own eyes had widened.

He broke the connection, dropping his gaze to her hand and began moving her fingers. One at a time, he stretched and bent them. And with each touch, her heart beat a little faster.

“Excuse me,” Frampton’s voice broke through her haze of longing. “Lord Felix Davies?—”

“Is here,” Lord Felix said, stepping from behind Frampton.

“Sir, as before, I requested that you wait in the entry.” Frampton frowned, his tone censorious.

Lord Felix waved his gloves in Frampton’s face, his lips spreading in a smirk. “But I’m practically family.” His gaze swung to where Victor still had Juliana’s hand in his.

The smirk vanished, and he took several steps forward. “What’s this? I come here in good faith regarding my offer to court Miss Merrick and save her reputation, and I find you two...” He waved his gloves again, this time at Victor and Juliana.

Victor’s fingers tightened around hers, not painfully so, but Juliana recognized it as a gesture of support.

“Your services are neither needed nor wanted, Davies.” Victor released her hand and stood.

Juliana already missed his warmth.

“As you have rightly deduced, I am courting Miss Merrick, so you can take your self-serving offer and leave.”

Juliana’s heart raced at Victor’s possessive tone and stance. Pretend or not, Victor portrayed the part of a possessive suitor to perfection.

Mother rose from her seat on the sofa. “Frampton, escort Lord Felix out—again.”

Frampton bowed. “My pleasure.” Frampton extended his arm toward the door. “My lord .”

The disdain coloring Frampton’s address registered with Lord Felix, who turned on his heel, muttering as he left, “You two deserve each other.”

When Victor turned back, he was grinning. “That felt good.”

But Juliana had a very bad feeling in the pit of her stomach. Simon and Charlotte didn’t trust Lord Felix.

And neither did Juliana.

Two days later, in his bachelor apartments, Victor stepped back from the portrait of Juliana. Even in the quiet of his studio, with the scent of turpentine thick in the air and Juliana’s likeness gazing softly back at him, the world felt watchful, as if something waited in the shadows.

He brushed the bleak feeling aside, attributing it to exhaustion.

He’d been working on some extra background detail in private in order to utilize his time more efficiently.

Victor wanted to finish quickly, hoping to impress Burwood enough to allow him to continue with the rest of the—admittedly, more important—portraits.

Although in retrospect, Juliana’s portrait might very well be the most crucial, as it would either win Victor the commission with the duke or send him into the pit of despair should Burwood decide to hire another portraitist.

A lot of work remained to be done on Juliana’s likeness, especially her eyes.

That particular aspect was something he couldn’t work on without the actual subject.

He studied the portrait again. Close to what he wanted, but he needed to get it right.

The tilt of her head, the easy curve of her mouth.

The spark that overtook her, transforming her and making him forget their courtship was a pretense.

Footsteps coming up the stairs drew his attention to the open door of his studio. His valet’s voice rose with them. “Madam, allow me to announce you.”

Victor angled his easel toward the wall at his mother’s answer. “I’m his mother, Tierney. I don’t need to be announced. This is urgent!”

Bloody hell. What now? Victor exhaled a heavy sigh. No doubt the urgent news was some bit of gossip Victor had no desire to hear.

As his mother stormed into the room, she waved a scandal sheet, confirming his supposition.

“What is it now, Mother? Why must you keep interrupting my work?” Victor wiped paint off a brush, his leisurely motions matching his bored tone. “Has Lady Highbottom been seen wearing a royal-blue bonnet with a chartreuse spencer? How gauche.”

Pleased Lydia hadn’t accompanied her, Victor finally lifted his gaze toward his mother. And promptly dropped the brush he was cleaning. She looked ghastly. Her color was ashen, somewhere between a dark chartreuse he had teased her about and the color of charcoal.

He raced over, grasping her arm and leading her to his sofa. “Sit.” Spinning around, he searched for his bottle of brandy, only then remembering she refused it the last time. He crouched before her, his gaze dipping to the sheet of paper in her hand.

The Muckraker!

Her voice cracked, and her hand shook as she thrust the gossip rag toward him. “How co—could you, Victor? Now you will have to marry her!” She crumpled on the sofa, sobbing.

An uncomfortable thought crossed his mind that perhaps—just perhaps, mind you—he had come by his flair for the dramatic quite naturally.

At least he hoped his mother’s reaction to whatever news the scandal sheet held was exaggerated. But the words ‘ Now you will have to marry her ’ put him on edge.

He scanned the piece of filth which began with more sordid gossip regarding Burwood’s man-of-business, Simon Beckham, and Lady Charlotte. What followed hit him like a punch to his stomach.

In addition to the scandalous behavior of Mr. Beckham and Lady Charlotte, not only in Swindon but prior to their marriage as well, which this reporter notes occurred in the Duke of Burwood’s London home, news has reached our ears that the duke’s sister, Miss Juliana Merrick, posed for a portrait painted by Mr. Victor Pratt, heir to Viscount Cartwright.

The news would seem unremarkable, as Mr. Pratt is known to be an aspiring artist. However, the reports state that Miss Merrick did so in a state of undress.

It would appear that the new duke’s home has become a hotbed of scandal.

To make the news more interesting, in addition to painting Miss Merrick’s portrait, Mr. Pratt is said to be courting the young—ahem—lady. That a man in line to inherit a viscountcy would stoop to forming an attachment with a commoner elevates the scandal to new heights.

This reporter is curious. Which came first: the commission or the courtship? And is Victor Pratt using Miss Merrick to his advantage? Or simply taking advantage?

Victor’s stomach roiled, and he wanted to rip the detestable paper to shreds as he skimmed past reports of babies born prior to their expected arrivals and Lord Felix Davies’s purchase of a new gelding at Tattersall’s, confirming the gossipmonger directed no more attacks toward him or the duke and his family.