Page 27 of A Virgin for the Rakish Duke (Romancing a Rake #3)
“Your Grace, I think you will find this landscape particularly interesting. Oil on wood panel, a depiction of the River Stour estuary by the late Duke of Penhaligon, Walter Cavendish,” the man declared, looking expectantly at Jeremy.
Jeremy scowled at the man.
“I am familiar with my great-grandfather's work, my good man. I know it when I see it. Lady Harriet, Lady Agnes, it has been an enjoyable diversion. I bid you good day.”
Then he was striding away, face resembling a thunder cloud. The other gallery patrons cleared a path for him with startled glances at his expression. Harriet shot a pointed look at her grandmother. Agnes promptly put the back of her hand to her forehead and staggered.
“Oh my, but this room is very hot. I do declare I feel faint,” she breathed in a suddenly wavering voice.
Several gentlemen rushed to her side, but Beecham was looking for Harriet. She had taken her chance to dart away after Jeremy.
“Lady Harriet!” she heard him call after her.
But such was the commotion that her grandmother had caused, there were suddenly too many people between them for him to reach her. Harriet lifted her skirts and dashed from the room.
Ahead of her, she caught a glimpse of Jeremy's back, turning a corner of a staircase.
She hurried after him, seeing him stepping through a doorway at the far side of a room, then out into the street after traversing the next room.
When she stepped out of the front door, she saw Jeremy briskly striding down the road, one arm raised to summon his carriage.
“Jeremy!” she called out.
He looked back, his eyes locking with hers.
The carriage drew up beside him, breaking the moment.
He wrenched the door open, stepped inside, and muttered an order to the driver.
Harriet reached it just as the carriage lurched forward.
She caught the door and tried to climb in, but slipped. Jeremy seized her hand, hauling her up.
She tumbled against him, sending him off balance so that he landed flat on his back with Harriet in a slush of gown and skirts, sprawled over him.
For a breathless moment, she stayed there, chest heaving from the chase and her brief flash with jeopardy.
Their faces were inches apart, noses almost touching.
It would be so easy to kiss him. I know exactly where it would lead—how quickly it could spiral…
Harriet's heart pounded against Jeremy's chest, so much so, she wondered if he could feel it opposite his own.
Did his heart ever race like this too? His hands were about her waist, holding her strongly, making her feel safe.
In his embrace, everything else seemed to pale into insignificance. Ralph. Eloise de Rouvroy. Beecham...
“Are you mad?” he suddenly demanded, dispelling the magic that Harriet had felt entwining them both.
“Are you?” she retorted, “storming off like that. Hardly a good way to foster the image of us as a betrothed couple!”
She reluctantly clambered to her feet, sitting down on the bench.
“That would be difficult to foster when we are publicly nothing . 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.