Page 26 of A Virgin for the Rakish Duke (Romancing a Rake #3)
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
H arriet glimpsed Jeremy standing eagerly before the entrance to the National Gallery on Pall Mall. It was a modest-seeming house with three stories and a black, wrought-iron fence separating it from the street.
As her carriage drew to a halt on its driveway, she poked her head back in.
She could not help but feel a sense of trepidation.
The sight of Jeremy did that, creating a tension within her, a longing and an apprehension that her yearning would never be satisfied.
At the same time, she looked on his cold, haughty features and felt a maddening irritation.
He holds everyone outside, behind high walls. I should not care. I should not want to be within those walls, but I do, and he infuriates me every time he pushes me away!
Today, the apprehension was born of more than her frustrated attraction. It stemmed from the two other people who shared the carriage with her.
“It does not half present itself as a great, national institution, does it?” Agnes observed, inclining forward to peer through the window.
“I believe it is the house of one Mr. Angerstein whose collection this used to be,” Harriet murmured.
Beecham sat stoically next to Agnes, arms resolutely folded. He was not there to enjoy art but to monitor Harriet. A letter from Ralph to the butler had made it clear that she was not to be out of his sight, and all other responsibilities and duties were secondary.
Beecham was positively gleeful when he presented that letter to Grandmama and me. He must have been suspicious of the various ruses we have deployed. Well, now we're stuck with him.
Jeremy was crossing the pavement to the carriage when the footman opened the door, and Agnes descended.
“Lady Agnes—this is a surprise,” he began, his voice catching slightly.
“A pleasant one, I trust,” Agnes returned with a gracious smile.
“Of course.” His eyes swept to Harriet, who alighted next, then to Beecham. He raised an eyebrow.
“Is Ralph to appear next?” he quipped.
“Mr. Beecham has orders to attend to me wherever I go,” Harriet said with a touch of barely concealed irritation. “Which means Grandmama must come as well, else she would be left alone at Oaksgrove.”
“Hardly alone, my dear,” Agnes corrected gently. “We have a full household of staff. Still, I do prefer Mr. Beecham’s company. He has been with me longer than any other servant. Is that not so, Beecham?”
“Indeed, Your Ladyship,” Beecham intoned.
“I… see,” Jeremy said dryly.
“I did try to explain to Beecham that you would be acting as my chaperon for this visit, Your Grace, and that you are completely trusted by my brother. But his orders are most specific ,” Harriet parroted the butler’s own words with a wry smile.
And it also means that we cannot present ourselves as betrothed, because that would get back to Ralph as swift as shadow.
“I do not know whether I should feel insulted,” Jeremy chuckled lightly.
“I am sure Ralph merely overlooked the possibility that I might be available to escort you,” he added, forcing a smile and offering his arm to Harriet, “still, I will endeavor to take my place alongside your two other chaperons.”
They each proceeded inside. Agnes first, escorted by a footman. Harriet and Jeremy followed, and Beecham shadowed them all.
Harriet was acutely aware of Beecham's presence, feeling his eyes on her with every step.
She held Jeremy's arm, conscious of seeming to be perfectly appropriate at all times but unable to dispel the memories of the intimacies they had shared.
Those memories always came back with touch.
His cologne was familiar by now, insinuating itself into her head.
She took a discreet inhalation, then reprimanded herself for indulgence.
I am here for the purposes of a transaction only. He is a reprehensible rake who plays wicked games with women. He has drawn me into a lie involving my friends and family in order to fool some others that he is respectable!
They slowed at the first painting, a seascape in which the water appeared to be in motion, so skillfully had its properties been captured.
“You grip my arm like a vice,” Jeremy whispered.
Lost in thought, Harriet startled at once. She realized that she had, in fact, been holding on far too tightly to Jeremy's arm. She eased her grip with a grimace but did not let go.
“Sorry, my mind was elsewhere,” she murmured back.
Agnes had summoned an attendant to explain the painting to her and was demanding Beecham's utmost attention.
“If we are to someday purchase similar paintings, we must be prepared, and if we are to be prepared, then the staff must share in a fair share of knowledge, fair share, mind you, Beecham. So pay attention,” she was ordering of the clearly befuddled butler.
She did not glance at Harriet and Jeremy, who had silently stepped back from the fold, but it was clear to Harriet that the diversion was for her benefit.
“I feel sympathy for whoever you were lost in the reveries of just then. I should not like to be them,” Jeremy whispered.
“It was you,” Harriet near enough snapped, “oh, and flippancy is not attractive.”
Jeremy glanced at her, then back at the painting, tilting his head as though to examine it from a fresh perspective.
“Why should I care whether you find me attractive?” he began, putting as much ice in his voice as she had in hers.
“You should not. Attraction is not required to make this illusion succeed.”
“Which you are gaining from as much as I,” he put in.
“Indeed. Perhaps you could tell me something of this painting?”
Harriet deliberately changed the subject, not wanting the day spoiled by another bout of verbal sparring with Jeremy.
Why do I allow him to get under my skin? This should be the simplest of all propositions. We appear in public together. I experience freedom, and he is seen as respectable. That is all.
“I know little of art. I do not even know who painted this,” Jeremy replied dismissively.
“But you do know about painting. I have seen you when you are in a more… appreciative mood,” she reminded.
“Mood is the key. I am not in it,” he shrugged, “now, shall we move on?”
Harriet smiled briskly and allowed Jeremy to guide her along to the next picture. Then the next. At a portrait, he lingered, as though reluctant to move on.
“A very accurate likeness, I should say,” she remarked, trying to pry into his inner thoughts. “It has the look of realism.”
He rubbed his chin. “Do you think? Hmm. I find the artist has flattered the subject immensely. See the light in the eyes—just a dab of color, yet it conveys so much. Remarkable skill.”
“But not lifelike?” she asked.
“Hardly,” he scoffed. “I can think of no one I have ever met, present company excepted, with such light in their eyes. Particularly not of the gentry, which by the dress of this woman, I would hazard a guess she is.”
Harriet suppressed a smile at the compliment that she did not think Jeremy had even realized that he had paid her. It made her feel warm inside, making her close her fingers about his arm tighter until she caught herself.
I must not get drawn in again. It will only complicate what should be a simple arrangement. This is about experiencing the world, not experiencing Jeremy's eyes or hands upon me—
“For instance, that color in your cheeks would be deceptively difficult to capture,” he pondered aloud, narrowing his eyes as though studying her. “It is not simply a question of red; the merging with your complexion and the fluidity of the color itself make it more challenging.”
Harriet peeked up at him and caught him staring at her unabashedly.
He faltered, mouth open as though to say more before realizing what he had been about to say.
Beecham suddenly hove into view at the periphery of Harriet's awareness.
Agnes was tsking and following the butler, reprimanding him for failing her trivia, thus not paying enough attention.
“Shall we move on?” Jeremy smiled charmingly.
They worked their way through the floors of the gallery. There were other ladies and gentlemen present, requiring a slow pace. Harriet found herself enjoying the sight of such artistic treasures, which she otherwise would not have been able to see.
Ralph has no interest in art and would not allow me to come to London alone. Once upon a time, he would have considered Grandmama a suitable escort, but I fear that time has passed.
With each meeting and exchange of small talk with the company present, Agnes led the conversation, ensuring no mention of the relationship between her granddaughter and Jeremy.
They could not be introduced as a couple, but she sailed close to the wind when it came to suggesting that they were.
Jeremy seemed to grow more relaxed as they moved deeper into the collection, finding more aspects of each painting to comment on and explain.
He seemed to have no knowledge of artists or the meaning of the pictures, but was a veritable encyclopedia of knowledge concerning technique.
“Spoken like a true painter, Your Grace,” Agnes hummed after one such explanation.
“Never that. An enthusiasm from my youth,” Jeremy replied, “and a brief one at that.”
They came to a landscape, and Harriet felt the sudden tension in Jeremy’s muscles. She frowned, looking around the frame for any information as to who had painted it.
“I think I have had my fill of ancient daubings. I desire a seat and a glass of wine,” he said abruptly.
“But we have covered barely half of the collection,” Harriet protested.
“Half too much ,” he replied.
He stepped back from her, letting his arm fall. Harriet's hand was suddenly holding empty air. She felt bereft as the gulf between them widened. The same attendant who had been collared by Agnes at the first painting now appeared again.