Page 64 of A Virgin for the Rakish Duke
“That would be difficult to foster when we are publiclynothing. Because your brother's damn butler is breathing down our necks. This morning was a complete waste of my time!” he raged, sitting opposite, pulling his waistcoat straight.
“You did not seem to think so until we reached a painting by a Penhaligon,” Harriet pointed out subtly.
“We will not discuss that.”
“Why not? What are you afraid of?”
“Nothing! I am afraid of nothing!” he snapped.
“It does not seem so. I glimpsed a new side to you when you allowed yourself to forgo your image for a moment. You had an almost childlike enthusiasm for the art and the knowledge that only an expert has, surely,” Harriet started.
Jeremy shook his head in flat denial.
“I have chosen my path, and how I will make my mark. I am not an artist as my great-grandfather was, nor a great poet like my grandfather, or a soldier like…” He trailed off, staring out of the window, brooding and silent. Harriet studied his profile. Saw the pain there.
Does he hold onto his own frustrated desire as I do? I don't dare flatter myself that it is for me. The frustration at being denied what his heart most wants. A path he refuses to take because he does not think he can ever measure up.
“There is something else I want now that I have seen the National Gallery, as part of our agreement,” she began primly.
Jeremy glanced at her with incredulity. “You want more and more,” he muttered.
“I do, because I am asked for more and more. It is a fair trade,” she noted.
“I think I am being swindled by a master,” he murmured, glancing out the window again.
Harriet laughed, earning a stern frown.
“What is so funny?” he asked.
“That I should be the one to swindle you. Have you not earned a reputation as one who swindles the hearts of women? I remember well how Ralph used to be before he became Earl. The women who... shall we say, overlapped? The broken hearts strewn in his footsteps.”
“Perhaps I am the one who suffers breaks of the heart, had you considered that?” he groused almost pitifully.
Harriet burst out laughing at the very idea. Jeremy held onto his stony countenance for a heartbeat before a smile cracked it. She felt the warmth of that smile, savored the way it lit up his face.
“No, that is too much a lie. I felt the foundations of the world shake when I uttered that,” he chuckled lowly. “Fine, what would you ask of me next?”
“Paint me,” she blurted, “or at least draw me, if you do not have the materials for painting.”
For a moment, Harriet thought he would relent, agree. But then the chink in his armor was repaired.
“No. That is too much to ask,” he said, looking away.
It was as though she had been basking in the sun and now its warmth and light were obscured by clouds.
“Very well. Kindly return me to my coaching inn. We are staying at the Imperial, Grosvenor Square.”
Silence descended over the carriage as Jeremy shortly gave his instructions to the driver. Time slowed with their progress. Suddenly, the roads were congested with carriages and traps, pedestrians darting between. Somewhere up ahead, Harriet caught a glimpse of sheep being herded, all other traffic slowing to a halt. The summer heat made the air in the carriage soporific.
She felt her eyelids grow heavy, drawn under by the quiet tide of sleep.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Jeremy glared out of the window, determined to neither look at Harriet nor break the silence.
A clean break is best. My resolve is not up to the task of resisting the feelings I have for her for long.
For a while, he had been enjoying himself. The art had been inspiring. He hadallowedhimself to be inspired, forgoing his ambitions for a while, reminiscing about the ambitions he had nurtured as a young child. Then he had reached his great-grandfather's work. On proud display in a gallery for the nation, considered worthy of inclusion in that hallowed space. In that moment, he had been dragged back to earth, brutally so. It was nothing more than a dream, and he could never expect to realize it.