Page 21

True beauty and grace must arise from the play of the mind.

—Mary Wollstonecraft

Thank every star in the sky that my house arrest had finally been revoked. My father had relented once the scandal had died down, but I knew the reprieve was mostly thanks to my mother, who was of the firm opinion that action was the seed to absolution. One had to make the effort to make amends, not just suffer the consequences. I was grateful and relieved. After all, a girl had important things to do—art shows to attend, petitions to get signed, and sisters to convince. I had to start righting my wrongs.

It had taken several days of work to track down every girl at Welton, the fourteen outside our book club group, but with Greer at the helm, we were quite successful. Only Petal and Sarah’s signatures were missing, for obvious reasons, but we took a vote amongst ourselves and decided to forego getting theirs. The last thing we needed was for their parents to spread poisonous gossip to the others.

But this was it. A last-ditch effort to save the most remarkable teacher I’d ever had. I inhaled and exhaled, holding the paper with all the signatures, and knocked on the door.

“Enter,” someone said, the eldest Perkins sister, I presumed.

Flinching from the weight of their stares, I made my way to the seat in front of the large desk. As expected, Mrs. Perkins occupied the one, while her younger sister sat to the side. Both wore pinched expressions as if they could guess what was coming.

“Good morning, Mrs. Perkins, Miss Perkins,” I said firmly and clearly.

“Lady Zenobia,” the elder woman said. “Why have you come?”

Though I bristled at her patronizing tone, I stayed outwardly calm. Per my mother, the key here was to be both respectful and confident. Respect was valued no matter the situation, and an inherent sense of confidence bolstered any message, especially if it was controversial in nature. It also made rebuttals less likely.

I pushed the folded parchment across the mahogany surface of the desk. “I have come here with a signed petition to solicit your compassion and reinstate Miss Perkins, your sister, to her duties at Welton, wherever that may be. She is truly—”

“Miss Perkins is no sister of ours, Lady Zenobia,” Mrs. Perkins interrupted.

I stared, my heart hollowing.

“She does not conform to the values of this hallowed institution,” the second sister said on the heels of the first. “And thus, if Welton House is to continue, she will no longer be a part of it.”

My gaze narrowed. “She’s your sibling. How could you just cast her aside because she encouraged us to read?”

“Blood, alas, is no guarantor of piety,” Mrs. Perkins said in a tone so arctic I could swear I felt frostbite on my face. “What Miss Perkins has done is an insult and a sacrilege to our good name. Those books are blasphemous, and our sister is a blight upon this school that must be expunged.”

“How so?” I asked in as calm a tone as I could manage, despite wincing at the depth of her hate. “It’s just a story, a cautionary tale. Isn’t the Bible one as well? Surely, that, too, is a social commentary of sorts on the acts of men.”

“Do not seek to lecture us on theology, young lady,” Miss Perkins snapped.

“I do beg your pardon,” I said with forced sweetness, widening my eyes. “It was not my intent to lecture or cause offense. I simply meant it to say that a novel like that simply allows us to recognize the evil that exists in the world and warns us to be vigilant and keep our distance. Surely Miss Perkins should be lauded for that? For her foresight and cleverness?”

If the eldest sister’s face could cool any more, she would literally turn into a block of ice. I suspected she could see right through me and my tongue-in-cheek criticism. With the tip of one finger, she pushed the petition back in my direction. “Thank you for coming, but I assure you, we are quite firm in our decision.”

“But—”

“Good day, Lady Zenobia.”

That was a dismissal if I’d ever heard one, and I would not get much by arguing further, not when they had clearly made up their minds to excoriate their sister. It was dreadfully unfair! Channeling my mother, I canted my head as haughtily as I could manage and took my leave. This wasn’t over by any means. The two people who should suffer the most were those hateful women!

By the time I made it back home to Mayfair, I was seething with rage.

I would buy that whole damn school if I had to!

I’d use my dowry. That was worth something instead of being promised to some gentleman. Would Rafi care if I came to him without one? Many aristocrats depended on their wives’ dowries to help save deteriorating estates, but I knew that Rafi wasn’t lacking for coin. He didn’t seem like that kind of man, but then again, people’s motivations baffled me sometimes. A woman’s dowry in our world was like a scepter being handed off from one male to another—payment for goods and services.

But the real question was, if for some reason he did care about my reduced circumstances and his reputation by default, could I sacrifice my future happiness for another woman’s? For Miss Perkins, I absolutely would.

When I arrived home, I handed my cloak, bonnet, and gloves to Forsythe. I was determined to see this through, but as always, the impediment to my success and the chains over my dowry was my father. At this point, it was beyond understood that he’d had enough of Welton for a lifetime.

“Forsythe, are the duke and duchess home?” I asked, feeling my resolve settle.

“Yes, my lady,” the butler said. “His Grace is in his study and Her Grace is in the gardens, I believe.”

“Thank you. Could you send a footman asking her to meet me in my father’s study, please?”

He bowed. “Of course, my lady.”

I smoothed my skirts, strode to the duke’s study, and rapped on the heavy oak door before I could lose my nerve. I cracked the door and popped my head around to make sure that he was alone. “Hullo, Papa,” I said when I saw that he was. “Might I have a word?”

Serious blue eyes met mine as I crossed the expanse of carpet to his desk. He wasn’t in a bad mood, though I could tell he was cross about something, which wasn’t in my favor. “What is it, Zenobia? I’m quite busy.”

I flinched at his brusque tone but trudged forward. “I need to discuss something with you, but I’ve requested Mama’s presence as well. Can we wait for her?”

His eyes narrowed at that, but before he could demand for me to tell him, my mother swept into the study, smelling of the outdoors and ruddy cheeked, with smudges of dirt on her hems from the garden. She was still beautiful. Clearly my father thought so, too, because that frigid countenance softened considerably as he came around the desk to greet her with a kiss. When I was a girl, I’d always hoped that one day someone would look at me the way he looked at her.

Rafi does.

Heart swelling, I pushed the thought of him away, lest it distract me from my mission.

“You’re back,” my mother said. “How did it go?”

“Abysmally so,” I replied. “They were horrid and rude.” When my father cocked his head, my mother briefly explained my idea with the petition and what I’d hoped to accomplish.

“I could have told you that would be a waste of time,” he said, leaning back to prop his hips against the desk. “Though rather admirable and resourceful on your part. Unfortunately, bigotry is alive and thriving, even within families, and intolerance is rampant, especially toward progressive views and modern literature.”

If my eyes could widen any further, they’d pop out of my head and roll over the floor like a pair of marbles. “So, you don’t think Miss Perkins was in the wrong?” I ventured carefully.

To my surprise, my father laughed, reaching for my mother and drawing her into his side. “I married one of the most unconventional, outspoken, intrepid women in the world. Why would you ever think I would think Miss Perkins was at fault?”

“But you were so angry…,” I mumbled.

“Yes, at you, for putting yourself in danger,” he said.

I frowned. “And the scandal?”

“Zenobia, I do not relish toeing the lines of decorum, but it behooves us to understand how aristocratic society works. There is a structure in place. I don’t care for scandal in itself. I would have you do whatever makes you happy in this world. But because the world isn’t made up of people like us, we have to tread very carefully amongst our peers so that we can be voices for those who have none.” He pointed at the papers on his desk. “Take this bill I’ve been working with your mother on, for example. If I didn’t have the influence I do, my odds of success of getting it through the House of Lords with support would be much less.”

My frown deepened in confusion. “You’re saying I need to appease people? Awful people?”

He shook his head. “Not at all, but I would caution that any interaction could benefit from pausing and speaking with wisdom. Your mother has a favorite adage about flies, vinegar, and honey.”

I nodded, knowing that one well. “We have to pick and choose our battles, as well as the hills upon which we fight,” I said.

“Correct.” The duke laughed and nuzzled my mother. “Though I am rather impatient when I run out of honey and vinegar both. But luckily, I am saved by my beautiful duchess’s skills of charm, wit, and persuasion.”

Smiling, I stared at my parents, each of them so different—my father’s pale skin and my mother’s deep brown complexion, his bright blue eyes and hers dark as night, her tumbling wealth of inky braids and his wispy blond hair. And yet, they fit together as if they’d been born to be. Keston and I were amalgamations of them…their looks, their intelligence, their compassion, their will, their stubbornness, and their sheer mettle.

“Papa, Mama,” I said with a deep breath, straightening my spine. “I wish to buy Welton with my dowry. I want to be the change that needs to happen.”

They both stared at me. “Your dowry is meant for your wedding, Zia,” my mother said.

“It’s an archaic custom,” I protested. “Like you’re paying for some man to accept responsibility and care of me. If someone truly wanted my hand in marriage, they would not care whether I came with a penny or pound.”

“A betrothal arrangement in the aristocracy is a transaction,” my father said. “Regardless of how unpalatable it might be to you, that is the way it has been done for centuries.”

“Then maybe things need to be different,” I said fiercely.

My father nodded. “I don’t doubt that they do, my girl.”

Emboldened, I went on. “Teachers like Miss Perkins are rare. Women who run local circulating libraries and reading rooms are rare. They should not be punished for encouraging young ladies to think for themselves and hoping for a better future.” I paused. “Will you approve my request, Papa?”

The duchess disentangled herself from my father’s embrace. “No need for that.” My heart dropped. I’d expected resistance from him, not her. But my spirits were instantly buoyed by her next words. “I’ll buy the school.”

“Darling,” Papa began, but my mother stopped him with a sidelong glance.

“You did not marry a milksop, and you did not raise one, either,” she said. “Zia is right. We need to protect our teachers and educators, particularly women. They are the best hope of every new generation. Lady Felicity has said that owning Hinley is quite a rewarding experience.”

My father smiled and then shook his head at me. “A brain like a vise. You two likely have that quality in common. Very well, buy your school.”

The duchess winked. “Thank you, my darling, but I wasn’t asking.”

Staring at the building hosting Rafi’s exhibition at No. 52 Pall Mall, I held my breath at the entrance as I descended from my father’s coach. Guests were still lined up, waiting to enter the vestibule, and the inside North, South, and Middle Rooms would be teeming with wall-to-wall art connoisseurs. Tonight was Rafi’s night, and I couldn’t be prouder that he was showcasing his art to the world. From all accounts, his uncle had been livid, but Rafi had not cared for the man’s approval. His art meant something. Even his mother had returned to England from Persia for her son’s artistic debut. I’d meet her tonight—yet another reason for my jangled nerves.

Followed by my faithful Gemma, I approached the line, wondering if I should wait, but the gentleman of the hour saw me arrive and hurried down the stairs. “You came.”

I smiled at Rafi, his expression uncharacteristically harried and much too adorable as he led me inside the gallery to the end of the North Room and the start of his exhibit. “Of course, I did. Nothing could have kept me away.”

“Who knew it would be such a crush?” he muttered. “I thought only Kes, Ansel, and Blake would be here, but it seems like all of the ton showed up.”

“Everyone loves a handsome, artistic, reformed rakehell,” I teased. “Should I be worried about any of these ladies stealing your affections?”

“You never have to worry about that.” He pulled me scandalously close, drawing avid attention from those around us, including my brother, Ela, and the rest of their friends, but for once, I didn’t mind. Let them all stare.

I smiled and peered up at him. “Good, because I can’t get rowdy in this dress.”

“In case I forget to tell you later, you are breathtaking, Zia,” Rafi told me, his gray eyes gleaming at the Grecian gown that left one shoulder daringly bare. I’d chosen to wear a moonlit silver tonight, a shade that matched his eyes when he painted. “Come. I have someone I wish for you to meet.”

I gulped as a very beautiful woman wearing a jeweled headpiece and sheer veil, whose son favored her looks, including her thick dark hair and sparkling gray eyes, approached. Her floral-embroidered jacket with gem-crusted cuffs was layered over a navy silk shift with flowing bell sleeves and wide trousers, and the sumptuous clothing only heightened her stunning appearance.

“Mother,” Rafi said. “This is Lady Zenobia, the girl I wrote to you about.”

I blinked. He’d written to her about me? Inexplicably tongue-tied, I curtsied. “My lady, er, Empress…”

Her laugh sounded like bells. “I am not empress, but you may call me Lady Farah. It’s a true pleasure to meet the young lady who has tamed my ungovernable son.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that, Mother,” Rafi teased with a twinkle in his eye. “Once you get to know Zia, you might change your mind about who tamed whom.”

“Rafi!” I exclaimed, blushing.

Lady Farah laughed. “I am thrilled I could meet you in person. When my son wrote about a girl who turned him inside out, I knew she had to be special.”

“He probably meant that I make him want to tear his hair out.” My gaze flicked to Rafi, and I nearly swooned. At the utter softness in his eyes, I wanted to kiss him so badly, but we were in public and in front of his mother, so decorum had to be maintained.

I squeezed his hand instead when someone drew Lady Farah away for an introduction, and then more of his admirers descended upon him, which left me free to wander the exhibit. The pieces were quintessential Rafi, all bold strokes of color and deft texture. But what had me blushing was the centerpiece of the show…the one of me.

And the bloody prince regent and his entire entourage stood in front of it!

“He has captured the lady’s expression so marvelously,” I heard the prince say. “It’s a remarkable portrait. Is it for sale?”

“Regrettably, Your Highness, not this one,” the owner of the gallery said. “But shall I show you his other works? Perhaps one will suit you.”

“Very well,” the prince said with obvious disappointment. “Inform Mr. Nasser that I intend to commission him for a private piece.”

Heavens, my heart nearly came apart at the seams with pride. Seeing my painting under bright gas lamps on an entire wall of its own made my breath catch. To the casual observer, it was an enormous canvas of a woman’s body in repose, holding a half-eaten pear while reclining on a chaise longue. Her expression was half-lidded and deeply sensual, as if she shared a secret with the painter. Rafi had titled the piece Muse. Deep down, I rather liked being his secret catalyst…and his muse.

Because in truth, he was mine, too.

I turned, and as if we were two things dragged by gravity, I saw him thread his way through the crowd back to me, and I basked in his magnetic presence. “The prince loved this one,” I told him over my shoulder. “He wanted to buy it.”

Rafi lifted the knuckles of my right hand to his lips. “No one else gets to keep you but me.”

My heart threatened to crash its way through my rib cage, and I was sure everyone in this gallery could see my feelings for this gentleman written all over me. I peered up at him, seeing nothing but sincerity in those gleaming gray eyes. “And do I get to keep you?”

“I thought you already knew, Zia. I’m yours.”