When You Wish Upon a Duke

by Isabella Bradford

  Those same words had also given her the courage to be in this carriage now, on her way to the studio of Sir Lucas Rowell. She’d never met a true artist, let alone sat for one, especially not one with the daunting reputation and talent of Sir Lucas. She hoped to persuade him to paint her portrait as quickly as possible, so that she might send it to March at Greenwood. March held portraits in the highest regard; they were his favorite form of painting. She’d only to remember how much he liked and respected the portrait of the first duchess in his parlor, and how other members of his family stared down from nearly every wall in his house. To him portraits represented family and permanence, which was why he’d suggested that they have their portraits painted in honor of their marriage.

  But Charlotte was determined not to wait for that. A portrait of her now would prove to March that she already considered herself his wife and his duchess, and always would. It would be a part of her there with him, and she hoped her painted image would inspire him to return more quickly to the flesh-and-blood reality.

  The carriage stopped, the door opened, and with her head high in her plumed hat, Charlotte waited while her footman knocked on Sir Lucas’s door. She still wasn’t accustomed to the response that her new title drew. Sir Lucas’s poor housekeeper nearly tripped over herself welcoming her into the artist’s house, while his dogs barked at her footman and other servants raced about like headless hens.

  Sir Lucas himself hurried into the hall to greet her. He was a middle-aged gentleman with a bulbous nose, and he wore a fur-trimmed velvet cap on his head and a canvas coat brilliant with daubs of every color of paint.

  He ushered her through the house and back to his workroom, a room the size of a small ballroom with extra tall, curtainless windows along one wall, thrown open to the garden beyond. It wasn’t a tidy room. New canvases and completed pictures leaned haphazardly against walls and chairs, and costumes, drapery, and painterly props were strewn here and there. Plaster casts of ancient statues served both as inspiration and as makeshift tables, with a blank-eyed Venus balancing an empty teacup on her head. A long table for mixing paint and cleaning brushes stood to one side. The room’s centerpiece was Sir Lucas’s easel, with a half-finished portrait of an as-yet-faceless general. Standing in for the general was his gold-braided coat and hat, arranged on a wooden mannequin on a low modeling stage before the easel. A red and blue parrot in a brass cage chattered and squawked, and despite the open windows, the oily scent of paint and turpentine mingled with the aroma from a pot of fresh coffee on a nearby table.

  Quickly Sir Lucas cleared a chair for Charlotte.

  “I cannot begin to tell you what an honor it is to have you here, Your Grace,” he began. “A great lady of your beauty and rank in my humble studio!”

  “I am the one who is honored, Sir Lucas, to be in the presence of such genius,” Charlotte said, her eyes wide as she looked about the exotic clutter. “I saw Lady Finnister’s portrait last night, and judged it the loveliest and most like I’d ever seen.”

  Sir Lucas beamed and dramatically swept his cap from his head as he bowed.

  “You are too, too kind, ma’am,” he said. “But as handsome as Lady Finnister’s picture might be, ma’am, I am sure the one I’d make of you would surpass it in every degree, if you’d but honor me with your patronage.”

  Charlotte smiled, imagining Lady Finnister’s indignation if she’d heard that. “I wish not one painting from you, Sir Lucas, but three. My husband the duke and I wish you to paint us as a pair to mark our wedding.”

  “A splendid notion, ma’am,” Sir Lucas said, his eyes brightening at the prospect of the sizable commission. “I would venture you’d want the portraits full-length, to mark so momentous an occasion properly.”

  “That will be for my husband to determine,” Charlotte said, “though I would expect he’ll have no wish to scrimp on paintings destined for Marchbourne House.”

  “No, no indeed.” Sir Lucas rubbed his paint-stained hands together with anticipation. “And the third portrait, ma’am? Who is the subject to be, ma’am?”

  Charlotte took a deep breath, hoping she’d be able to explain her wishes. “I wish a portrait of myself, Sir Lucas, as a special gift for the duke. Are you familiar with an old painting from the last century of the first Duchess of Marchbourne?”

  “The shepherdess, ma’am?” He hurried to rummage through a nearby portfolio and returned with an engraving of the painting, the kind of cheap print of famous folk often pinned to the walls of taverns and common houses. “Is it this one?”

  “It is,” Charlotte said, unable to keep from blushing at the sight of the bare-breasted Nan Lilly in the artist’s presence. “I wish to have myself painted in a similar pose, thought not quite so—so—”

  “So antique,” Sir Lucas suggested delicately. “It was a different time, with far less refinement than our present day.”

  “Yes,” Charlotte said with relief. “Then you understand. I would like to be painted sitting the same way, with the same sort of setting, so that the duke will at once see the connection between us.”

  “A cunning conceit, ma’am,” Sir Lucas said thoughtfully, nodding. “You are to be congratulated for your invention. Dare I ask if the earrings you wear now are—”

  “The same ones?” Charlotte touched the pearls, wistfully thinking again of March. “They are, Sir Lucas, and I would especially wish that they be included. This, too.”

  She pulled a bundled handkerchief from her muff and unwrapped March’s ruby heart pin. She’d retrieved it this morning, still pinned to the tattered remains of her shift. “It belongs to His Grace, you see, and has special meaning to me.”

  “A wondrously pretty bauble, ma’am,” he said. “I could show it pinned to your bodice, but it would be much more sentimental if you were to hold it in your open hand, as if offering your own heart to His Grace.”

  “Oh, yes, I’d like that.” Swiftly she looked down at the little heart, hoping Sir Lucas wouldn’t notice the tears that had suddenly filled her eyes. “Then we are agreed, sir. How quickly can the painting be produced? I should like it sent to the duke this evening, if possible.”

  “This evening, ma’am?” The painter’s mouth fell open with astonishment. “Forgive me, ma’am, but as much as I regret disappointing a lady like yourself, that is impossible. A painting such as this takes weeks, even months, to complete. There must be sittings, and sketches, and preparation of the canvas, and painting, and curing, and framing.”

  “I did not realize,” Charlotte said, disappointment sweeping over her. “I’ve no knowledge of painting, you see.”

  “But all is not lost, ma’am, all is not lost.” Sir Lucas tapped his fingers against his cheek, thinking. “If you wish to send His Grace a token, a memento, then we could oblige him with a drawing of you in chalks. To be sure, it would only be a preliminary drawing, with none of the subtleties of a painting in oils, but I am certain I could produce an agreeable and pleasing likeness within an hour or two, if Your Grace would be so kind as to sit for me.”

  Within a quarter hour—and with the assistance of Sir Lucas’s housekeeper as a lady’s maid—Charlotte had changed into a fanciful costume of gauzy linen and silver ribbons that bared her arms and feet but nothing more. Holding the old print for comparison, Sir Lucas had taken great care to arrange her pose and her drapery to match Nan Lilly’s as closely as possible. He pinned a fresh sheet of paper to a board at his easel and began, with much furious scowling and muttering and sweeping, scraping strokes of the chalk over the page.

  Sitting perfectly still was much more difficult than Charlotte had ever dreamed, yet though her nose itched and her right foot fell asleep, the very idea of the picture was wildly exciting, and she could scarce wait to see it done. She’d no idea of how long she posed, which was likely the reason there was no clock in Sir Lucas’s studio.

  “We are close, ma’am,” Sir Lucas said absently, as if sensing her impatience. “We are close.”

 
; “Might I see it, please?” Charlotte begged, taking care to move only her eyes toward him and not to shift her head from how he’d placed it. “Please, Sir Lucas?”

  The artist stepped back and with a flourish tossed the chalk aside. “You may indeed, ma’am.”

  Charlotte hopped from the stand and ran to the easel, and gasped with delight. The drawing was extraordinarily beautiful, larger than she’d expected, in black chalk with white as a highlight, and done with remarkable detail for such haste.

  “That’s me!” she exclaimed. “That’s me exactly, Sir Lucas!”

  “You as a fanciful shepherdess at any rate, ma’am,” he said, clearly pleased by her reaction. “I doubt you’ll ever be seen like this ambling through the park, but His Grace will know you at once, and that’s what matters, isn’t it?”

  Charlotte nodded. The longer she looked at the drawing, the more she realized how Sir Lucas had captured much more of her mood than she’d realized. Though the pose was as mannered as the original, he’d sensitively discovered a longing in her face and in the way she held the ruby heart in her outstretched hand, a poignancy that she hadn’t expected. She truly was offering her heart to him. How could March resist such a picture, or mistake the love that would come with it?

  “Thank you, Sir Lucas,” she said softly. “It is perfect.”

  The housekeeper came bustling in, her hands in her apron. “More company, Sir Lucas, more guests,” she announced. “Lady Finnister and Lord Andover.”

  “Not company, but the very dearest of friends!” exclaimed Lady Finnister, racing toward Charlotte. “Good day, Your Grace, good day! What a charming, charming surprise to find you here, when my only paltry business was to ask after copies. I know you said you wished Sir Lucas to paint your portrait, but I’d no notion you meant today!”

  She held her arms outstretched as if expecting Charlotte to forget propriety and welcome her embrace.

  But Charlotte hadn’t forgotten last night’s disasters, or how they’d come about, or how she didn’t at all think of Lady Finnister as being her very dearest friend, or really any manner of friend at all. Instead of returning Lady Finnister’s exuberant greeting, Charlotte pointedly kept her hands clasped before her, and waited for Lady Finnister to curtsey, as was proper before a duchess, even a duchess in the makeshift garb of an ancient shepherdess.

  Belatedly Lady Finnister realized her error and turned her unwanted embrace into a fluttering curtsey. Lord Andover bowed without prompting, but there was nothing respectful about the way his gaze remained on Charlotte, wolfishly taking note of everything that her wispy costume revealed. Beneath his scrutiny, Charlotte blushed, heartily wishing she hadn’t. She wrapped one of Sir Lucas’s extra lengths of drapery over her bare shoulders and arms, against both the chill and Lord Andover’s gaze.

  “Come, my lord, let us play the critic,” Lady Finnister said, familiarly tucking her hand into Lord Andover’s arm. Whatever friction might have existed between them last night was gone today, and they lolled against each other with such ease that Charlotte wondered if the brittle words she’d heard last night at the gaming table had been meant only as some kind of provocative flirtation.

  Sir Lucas turned the easel to better display the drawing. “It was Her Grace’s idea to pose in the manner of the first duchess, a pretty conceit to amuse His Grace.”

  “How perfectly charming!” exclaimed Lady Finnister. “Sir Lucas, you must draw me exactly the same way for Sir Henry.”

  “He could, my dear, but the effect would not be the same,” Lord Andover drawled, leaning closer to the picture. “Only a duchess can pretend she’s a shepherdess. It goes with the strawberry leaves.”

  “Oh, Andover.” Lady Finnister rolled her eyes and tapped his arm with her furled fan. “I should like to see you as shepherd, or perhaps just a sheep.”

  Lord Andover ignored her, instead studying the drawing against the old print that Sir Lucas had pinned to the top of the easel for reference.

  “It’s a fine likeness, Sir Lucas,” he said, “but I do find some fault with the costume. The original shows the lady in becoming dishabille. For the sake of capturing true beauty, shouldn’t the copy be equally revealing?”

  “No, Lord Andover, it should not,” Charlotte said tartly. “It is a gift meant for my husband, not the wall of a bawdy house.”

  Lord Andover laughed, his gaze wandering to her breasts. “All the more reason for you not to be so coy. Being male, His Grace must surely enjoy the sight of your charms.”

  “But being my husband, Lord Andover,” Charlotte said, her indignation growing as she pulled the improvised shawl more closely around her, “he’d rather not share any part of me with other males.”

  “Pray be easy, ma’am, be easy,” said Lady Finnister, her voice placating. “Lord Andover is only trying to provoke you. It’s his way, you know, and signifies nothing. But where is His Grace? If my husband were half so handsome as yours, I’d never let him stray from my sight.”

  Charlotte wouldn’t have, either, if it had been up to her. “The duke was called to the country on a sudden emergency,” she said. “I expect him back as soon as the affair is resolved.”

  “To the country?” Lord Andover asked with surprise. “What manner of emergency could possibly draw a bridegroom away from his bride’s bed so soon after the wedding?”

  “Hush, Andover.” Lady Finnister raised a single painted brow. “I hope we were not the cause of that emergency, ma’am. La, I’ve never seen a husband grow so angry over his wife’s winning as yours did last night.”

  “It was a private, petty misunderstanding between us, Lady Finnister, now resolved,” Charlotte said as severely as she could. It was too late to undo what had been done, but she still could try to keep their private life private, exactly as March had so wisely counseled. “It was of no lasting consequence.”

  “Of course not, ma’am,” Lady Finnister said. “Our merry mob will be playing again this evening at my house. If His Grace returns in time from the country—or even if he doesn’t—we should be thoroughly honored to have you return to us.”

  “Especially if His Grace doesn’t return, ma’am,” Lord Andover said, leaning closer to Charlotte. “There’s nothing to be gained by being lonely in London, nor any virtue to it, either. And as your friend, I—”

  “But you are not my friend, Lord Andover,” Charlotte said, as sharply as she could. “Nor do I ever believe you shall become one.”

  “Oh, ma’am, pray do not be so severe to poor Andover,” Lady Finnister said, patting the marquess on the arm as if to console him. “He means no ill toward you.”

  “You need only try me, ma’am.” Lord Andover smiled, and dared to wink as well. “Unlike husbands, I bring only pleasure and amusement.”

  “There, ma’am, you see how it is,” Lady Finnister said. “You must join us this evening. The company will be quite bereft without you.”

  “Thank you, Lady Finnister, but I must decline,” Charlotte said quickly. “I wish to be at home when His Grace returns.”

  With that in mind, she left the studio as soon as she could, and returned to Marchbourne House. She’d canceled the day’s wedding calls, not wishing to make them without March at her side, but without his company, the afternoon stretched interminably. She began letters to her mother and sisters, but tossed them unfinished into the fire. She picked up a half-dozen novels, only to put each aside after a page or two. When Polly brought her dinner to her room, she realized she’d no appetite, and pushed the tray away untouched.

  She sat by the window, sighing. Sir Lucas had arranged for her portrait to be sent that very afternoon, and she imagined it strapped to the back of some fleet courier’s saddle. She hoped March liked the picture; most of all, she hoped it would make him return to London, and to her.

  But as the sun set and the empty evening stretched before her, she was forced to realize that he likely would not come back that day or even that night. Greenwood Park was many hours from Lond
on, and it would be nearly impossible for him to have journeyed there this morning, done whatever it was he was determined to do during the day, and come back to town.

  Whatever March was doing, he was clearly doing it without her. The more she considered this, the more lonely and despondent she became. They hadn’t even been wed a fortnight, and already her husband had left her. He’d told her it wasn’t her fault, but how could it not be? Somehow she’d driven him away, and not knowing the reason only made it worse. She’d felt better when she’d been at Sir Lucas’s studio, because then she’d been taking action, however empty it might prove to be, and not merely waiting. Now the vast house seemed so empty that even the silence echoed, and she’d never felt more alone, nor more unhappy.

  She was so lost in her misery and in missing March that she started when Polly came to the door again. With her was a footman from the front hall and, more surprising, a footman who wasn’t hers.

  “Forgive me for interrupting you, Your Grace,” Polly said with a hasty curtsey. “But this man says he has a most urgent message for you from His Grace.”

  “From His Grace?” Eagerly Charlotte rose to address the man. “What news have you of the duke? Have you brought me a letter, a note?”

  “Your Grace.” The footman bowed low, his expression blankly inscrutable in the manner of the best-trained servants. “I regret that I have not, ma’am. His Grace did not wish to take the time to write, but sent me to deliver his message in person.”

  That was so unlike March that immediately Charlotte feared the worst. “He isn’t injured, is he? Not harmed, or ill?”

  “Not at all, ma’am,” the footman said quickly. “He is attending my mistress, Lady Finnister, at her home, and wishes you to come join him there.”

  “The duke is with Lady Finnister?” Charlotte frowned, both perplexed and doubtful, too. Given March’s feelings regarding Lady Finnister—and he’d made no secret of them—she couldn’t imagine why, if he had in fact returned to town, he’d gone there, rather than here. Yet she’d no real reason to doubt the servant, especially now that she recognized his livery as belonging to the Finnisters. “He is there now?”