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J uliana had hardly slept a wink after the musicale. Each time she closed her eyes, Victor’s voice echoed in her mind—warm, amused, and maddeningly polite. The attention he’d paid her occupied her thoughts as she turned over each and every possibility as to the reason.

Was his civility because he was forced to sit next to her during the performances? Juliana didn’t delude herself, and she had come to know Priscilla Marbry well enough to recognize her intentions.

And yet, Victor had been so kind and attentive at the refreshment table. She countered that with the fact that he had been raised as a gentleman and would do nothing less. But so had Lord Felix Davies, who had been nothing short of rude.

In a moment of weakness, a hopeful thought crept in. Perhaps he’d been genuinely interested. She brushed it off, muttering to herself, “Don’t be a cotton-headed ninnyhammer.”

A man as wonderful as Victor Pratt would not seriously consider a common-born girl like Juliana Merrick, even if she was half-sister to a duke. People in the aristocracy had standards. Drake and Honoria were testament to that—at least until Drake’s true heritage had become known.

Things were so complicated among society.

In the countryside of Somerset where Juliana had grown up, life—courtship—was so much simpler.

If a young man fancied a young woman, he simply brought her flowers and took her out walking for several Sundays to determine if they would suit.

And if a woman indicated her interest, but the man did not return it, he would tell her in no uncertain terms he considered her only a friend.

Of course, there were exceptions. Juliana’s friend Maisie hadn’t waited when she’d set her cap for a boy named Jonas.

She’d marched up to Jonas as he worked in the field and informed him they were getting married.

Four weeks later, when Juliana and her parents attended the ceremony, Jonas stood at the altar, his eyes as wide as a frightened horse as he repeated his vows.

Three years later, when Drake had returned to England and Juliana said her goodbyes to her friend to move to Dorset, Maisie had been swollen with her second child.

And Jonas still appeared in shock, but content.

But among the ton there were so many rules. Honoria made a valiant effort instructing Juliana, but Juliana longed for the simpler life where people said what they meant without the ridiculous games.

Wouldn’t it be lovely if she could confess her feelings to Victor Pratt?

Not just that she found him attractive. Of course, he was handsome.

But Victor Pratt was so much more than that to her.

She would tell him she found him intelligent, intriguing, and interesting.

That she longed to see his paintings—and not just to see his finished works, but to watch him paint.

To watch his brow furrow in concentration, his eyes sparkle with delight as he brought something to life on a blank canvas.

She imagined she’d caught a glimpse of what that would look like as she studied his face during Dr. Somersby’s performance at the musicale.

There was an aching pain in his eyes that she found heartbreakingly beautiful, and she wanted to know what, besides the music, had put it there.

What emotions lay beneath the surface of his lovely exterior?

Juliana desired nothing more than to solve the mystery that was Mr. Victor Pratt.

“Juliana? My dear, are you quite all right?” Honoria’s voice shook her from her musings.

A half-eaten slice of toast dangled from Juliana’s fingers, and she placed it on the plate in front of her. “I’m sorry. I was wool-gathering about last night’s musicale.”

An all-knowing smile crossed Honoria’s lips.

“No doubt the music captivated you. Speaking of the musicale, why don’t we send an invitation to Mr. Pratt to join us for a ride along Rotten Row this coming Sunday afternoon, weather permitting?

I realized how much I needed to be out of the house and away from my thoughts about poor Margery and Colin.

And riding always lifts my spirits.” She gazed lovingly at Drake.

Guilt squeezed Juliana’s heart. How could she indulge in girlish daydreams about Victor when Honoria was still coping with the death of her sister-in-law. “Have you heard from your brother?”

Honoria nodded. “Naturally, he sent his congratulations about Kitty, but I worry for him and the girls. He’s like an unanchored ship without Margery.

I thought perhaps later this summer we might invite Colin and the girls to spend time with us at Hartridge House. A change of scenery might do him good.”

Drake squeezed Honoria’s hand. “Whatever you wish, my darling. I can’t imagine Colin’s grief. I would be utterly bereft without you.”

Up to that point, Mama had been silent, her gaze drifting between them. “If he wishes to speak of it, I’m a good listener. And having experienced such loss myself, I might be able to provide a thread of hope.”

Of course. Her mother had buried two husbands—both Drake’s father and Juliana’s own, something neither Juliana nor Drake knew until Drake received word of his inheritance while serving in India.

Juliana felt the love between her parents, but learning about Drake’s father shed new light on her memories, altering them—if only a little. The times when Papa would lavish Mama with affection, and a faraway look would come over her took on new meaning, even if Mama didn’t say as much.

Once, right before Drake had left for the military, Papa had returned from the big house after speaking with Lord Stratford, Honoria’s father.

Papa had been upset, and it was the only time Juliana remembered him and Mama exchanging heated words.

It was also the only time Juliana had seen her father drunk.

Drake had stormed off to go riding, upset about something he refused to talk about.

Mama had retreated upstairs to her bedchamber, her sobs drifting downstairs to the parlor in their little cottage where Papa slumped in a chair, a glass of whisky dangling from his fingers.

Juliana had been twelve—old enough to know something of great importance had happened.

“What’s wrong, Papa?”

He twirled the glass in his hand. “Love,” he said, the word slurred.

Love was wrong?

“I don’t understand.”

He smiled a loopy smile at her, his eyes bleary and unfocused. “Love is a hard master, Juliana. It takes no prisoners, and there are few survivors.”

“You’re not making sense, Papa.”

He laughed, the sound as bitter as the castor oil Mama gave her when her stomach hurt.

“Because love doesn’t make sense, girl. I know your mother will never love me as I love her.

And yet”—he took another drink of the remaining liquid—“I don’t care.

I still love her. Will love her. Even when both people love each other the same, there is always something in the damn way. ”

Even with her knowledge of what happened between Drake and Honoria, and Mama’s first marriage to Drake’s father, Juliana struggled to make sense of what her father had said.

But with her growing feelings toward Mr. Pratt, a sort of vague sense took form. Because Papa was right—something was always in the way.

The following Sunday, Victor mounted his favorite horse and rode to Pendrake Manor to join the duke, duchess, and Miss Merrick for their outing.

Gray clouds littered the sky, but enough blue peeked through to give hope the day would still be salvageable.

His motives were two-fold. One, of course, to become better acquainted with Miss Merrick.

Victor wasn’t so dense to not understand the duchess’s invitation was an effort to further push Victor and Miss Merrick together, something he was not averse to in the least.

His other motive was—perhaps—a little more self-serving.

Very well, a lot more self-serving. He’d hoped Miss Merrick would make good on her word to speak to her brother about commissioning Victor to paint the family portraits.

But of course, with the further debacle at her come-out ball, she no doubt had put it far from her mind.

However, if the conversation veered anywhere near the subject of art, Victor would simply give it a gentle nudge. Not manipulate—he winced at the word—but merely suggest, with all due humility, that his brushes were at their disposal.

Upon his arrival, the butler, Frampton, had Victor wait in the entryway rather than a parlor. “The horses are being brought around now, sir. Their Graces and Miss Merrick are most eager to proceed.”

Victor scanned the area, noticing the portraits lining the walls. Quality artistry worthy of aristocrats captured in each and every work of art. The audacity of Victor to presume he could compete with such skill and win the coveted position of portrait artist to a duke.

The thought flew from his head as Miss Merrick descended the long, curved staircase to greet him. Her riding habit of a fine royal blue velvet clung to her curves, and Victor remembered it had been made to allow her to ride astride.

Sure enough, as she took a step, the fabric of the skirt parted, allowing a bit of light to peek through.

Although voluminous, the skirt had been divided into two parts, much like extremely loose trousers.

How clever! She wore a little matching bonnet on her head, tilted at a jaunty angle, reminding Victor of the one the duchess had worn during the fox hunt.

But unlike the duchess, Miss Merrick’s golden hair was pulled back and tied with a blue velvet ribbon, the long locks trailing down her back.

She greeted him with a warm smile. “Drake and Honoria will be down in a moment. They’re fussing over Kitty and giving instructions to the nurse.” She rolled her eyes. “I’ve never seen people so besotted with a baby before. You’d think they had produced the first one ever.”