Page 27

His father nodded, the dark half-moon shadows under his eyes disturbing. “I would expect no less. Any speculation as to why such lurid claims were levied against you and the good lady?”

“There is something .” Victor trusted his father. “When Mother and Miss Whyte visited a few days ago, I had some sketches of another lady out. I placed them aside, but...”

His father’s face reddened as he straightened in his chair. “If your mother had anything to do with this, I shall send her back to Lincolnshire forthwith!”

“Calm yourself, Father. I’m formulating a plan.

I don’t think either Lydia or Mother is directly responsible.

” At least he prayed his mother wasn’t directly responsible.

What type of mother would spread gossip that her own son had sketches of an unclothed woman lying about, even if her son was an artist?

Father answered that question, veritably spitting out the words.

“Unless she hopes that publicly shaming you will force you to give up on your dreams. After what happened with Priscilla, nothing your mother does surprises me.” He shook his head, as if trying to dislodge the disgust rattling in his brain.

“If Mother did have a hand in this, it backfired. Miss Merrick is the last person she wishes to see me wed.”

“Hmph. Her brother is a duke. And I happen to like Burwood. He’s a very ambitious young man for one so new to the title. I expect we’ll see great things from him. You could do much worse than align yourself with his family.”

Victor didn’t disagree. But . . .

His father interrupted Victor’s wandering mind. “Do you care for the girl?”

“I like her very much.”

With a nod, his father said, “Then I have something for you.” He placed both hands on the desk’s surface and pushed up, a quiet moan escaping his lips. When had he needed such assistance?

“Father, are you unwell?”

His father glanced over his shoulder. “Only old bones. Enjoy your youth while you can.”

Awareness flashed in Victor’s mind of his father’s stiff gait, the placement of a hand on his back after rising. When had he grown—old?

Victor had always admired his father, aspired to be like him when the day came and Victor inherited the title. A good man who wielded power justly. However, he had no wish to have those aspirations come to fruition so soon. He wasn’t ready to assume the responsibilities of the viscountcy.

“Have you spoken to Ashton? I’ve heard good things about his methods.” Victor failed to mention he’d heard those things from Adalyn, who praised the duke for his forward thinking when treating his patients.

At the large cherry cabinet, his father turned a questioning gaze Victor’s way. “Ashton has better things to do than to coddle a man simply because he’s getting older.” He reached into the cabinet. “Ah, here it is.”

He returned with a small box covered in rich navy-blue leather.

“This”—he set the box down in front of Victor—“was my mother’s.

I was supposed to give it to your mother upon our betrothal.

” A sheepish expression crept over his father’s face.

“But I knew she would consider it”—he pursed his lips, searching for the right word—“inadequate. So I bought her an enormous emerald and pearl ring instead.”

Smooth leather felt cool against Victor’s fingers as he lifted the jewelry box and used his thumb to push up the lid.

Delicate and feminine, the ring nestled in a bed of creamy satin.

Three small flowers, their petals fashioned from blue enamel, adorned the gold band.

Tiny seed pearls sat in the center of each bloom.

“Perfetta.” The whispered word slipped from Victor’s lips.

Simple and elegant, it captured Adalyn—Victor froze at the errant thought.

Juliana. Juliana. Juliana. He mentally repeated her name like a mantra, then snapped the lid closed.

“Thank you, Father. I’m sure Miss Merrick will love it. ”

Pausing, Victor studied his father. He’d never witnessed great love exchanged between his parents, certainly not the passion he desired from a marriage. “I never asked. Why did you marry mother?”

The bark of laughter lightened the lines of his father’s face. “Our parents arranged it. It was the way of things back then. For many in society, it still is.”

“Do you...love Mother?” At that moment, Victor realized his father hadn’t asked him that same question, only if he cared for Juliana.

“I love that she gave me two fine children, both of whom I adore and am proud to call mine.” His father laughed again. “Although your sister gave me more than a few gray hairs.”

Victor couldn’t help but grin. “And still does, I imagine. Poor Marbry. The man should be elevated to sainthood.”

“You young people and love. I don’t understand it, but I do envy you at times.” After coming around the desk, his father put a hand on Victor’s shoulder. “Now, go to your young lady and give her the ring.”

Victor had left the portrait at the duke’s that morning, and he decided to leave his paints and brushes at home, devoting the afternoon solely to courting Juliana.

He needed to redeem his paltry proposal.

With the ring safely tucked inside his coat pocket, he borrowed his father’s phaeton and made his way to Pendrake Manor.

Frampton took his hat and gloves. “Miss Merrick is outside in the gardens, sir. If you would follow me.”

At the double doors leading to the terrace, Victor stepped out and patted the ring box in his pocket. Juliana sat alone on a bench, reading.

Not wishing to startle her, he kept his voice low. “Juliana?”

She gazed up at him; her blue eyes shimmered with a glassy sheen.

He motioned to the empty spot on the bench beside her. “May I?” At her agreement, he sat. “What is it?”

With her left hand, she swiped at her eyes. “It’s silly, really.”

“Not to me.” He smiled, hoping to encourage her.

She laughed, the sound more like a gurgle of emotion, and completely unlike Lydia’s high-pitched, faux ear-splitting giggle. “You say that without knowing what it is.”

His smile widened into a grin. “Isn’t that what a man is supposed to do for his betrothed?” He nudged her with his elbow. “Now, tell me, and I shall put on my most serious expression.”

“This book.” Like a lover’s caress, her hands ran over the leather binding of the small book. “Well, the story, actually. It’s about two sisters who have gone from a life of wealth and comfort to losing their home and security to their older half-brother when their father dies.”

“A great misfortune, to be sure.”

She shook her head. “I couldn’t help but think how lucky I am that I have a kind, caring half-brother who has done his best to provide for me.”

Taking a chance, Victor placed his hand over hers and squeezed. “You are deserving of his care, Juliana.”

She gave him a tremulous smile. “When I’m not bringing shame to him.” She paused, pulling in a breath. “It’s not that, though. In the story, a gentleman named Colonel Brandon loves Marianne—the younger sister—but Marianne is enamored with another gentleman named Willoughby.”

“And thatupsets you?” A strange camaraderie formed with this Colonel Brandon fellow, even though Victor had never read the book.

Tears formed in Juliana’s eyes. “I find Colonel Brandon’s unrequited affection for Marianne so touching.” She swiped at her face. “I fear he is destined for heartbreak.”

Victor squeezed her hand again, the feel of skin against skin sending a pleasant sensation through him. “You have a tender heart, Juliana, to care so deeply for a character in a story.”

Eyes downcast, she stared at their joined hands. Silence settled between them like an old friend. Comfortable. Familiar. Welcome.

Her gaze lifted, and her blue eyes sought his in question.

“What is it? Something else is troubling you.”

She swallowed, the movement in the long column of her throat slow but visible. “Will you tell me about Miss Lovelace? Is she the woman in the sketches?”

Blast.