Perhaps he was wrong about the model. Trying not to be obvious about it, he compared the unclothed reclining body with the muslin-clad figure seated at the escritoire. Surely the painting’s figure was more voluptuous. Were her breasts not quite a bit larger? Mrs. Townsend, he realized, knew what was going through his head, and she was laughing at him. He felt himself flush with embarrassment at being caught staring at her bosom.
“Is it you?” he mumbled.
“What do you think?”
“I don’t know. If it is, the painter is no great hand at a likeness. You aren’t that plump.” He cringed as the words emerged, but she didn’t seem offended. She was a most unusual woman.
In fact, she was quite unlike anyone he’d ever met in his life. For all the grandeur of his birth and rank, Thomas was, he knew, a simple man, almost a country bumpkin, except that no one would ever insult a duke so. Mrs. Townsend was the opposite, a lady used to the artificial style of town life. The ingenuous curls and plain white gown he’d initially seen as the simple attire suitable to a young girl were in fact quite the opposite, evidence of polished sophistication such as he’d never encountered. He couldn’t envision any of his sisters dressed like that. Or speaking thus. He should think not!
He stared at her, perplexed by how to deal with her.
Caro stared back at the duke, holding back open mirth with some difficulty. Her interrogation had been intended to embarrass him and had succeeded. His reaction to the picture was a bonus.
None of her friends would find the picture shocking, whether or not it depicted her. She’d forgotten the prudery of so much of the world. And this man, she had no doubt, possessed more than his fair share of that dismal virtue. A pity. Her initial impression of him had been unwillingly positive. She’d even detected a hint of dry humor. You don’t look anything like my aunts. She’d swear his lips had twitched when he said it. But his recitation of his assets and qualities had reignited her fear that poor Annabella might find herself wed to a damnably dull dog.
She shouldn’t have mentioned his mistress. It was the kind of thing that upset stuffy types. He probably didn’t have one, the dried-up prune. She’d surely teased him enough, but for some reason she very much wanted to know.
“You didn’t answer my question,” she said. “Do you keep a mistress?”
“You haven’t answered my question,” he retorted. “Is that you?” He pointed at the picture.
“I don’t think it’s any of your business.”
“Precisely.”
She leaped to her feet. Even irritated, his manners were so instinctive he didn’t remain seated when she stood. He towered over her, and she noted again that he was a big man. Tall and solid, with broad shoulders and chest tapering to narrow hips and well-muscled legs. His clothing, like the cut of his brown hair, was distinguished only by tasteful propriety. His features were pleasant without being excessively handsome, his eyes an ordinary blue. Though she had noticed unusually long and thick dark eyelashes. Looking for the key to his character in his appearance, she found nothing but dignified reserve exemplified by the stillness of his hands. Unlike hers, with her constant fidgeting, her need to keep busy with embroidery. So she’d pressed him with her questions, trying to provoke a reaction.
She’d succeeded but couldn’t flatter herself she’d learned much except that his attitudes were as provincial as his tailoring. She glared at him and he glared back, his breathing a little elevated. The atmosphere in the room seemed thick with some unnamed emotion. Probably disgust.
When he spoke his tone was measured. “I find your inquiry impertinent, Mrs. Townsend. But I’ll grant you the benefit of the doubt and assume it is motivated by concern for your cousin’s future happiness rather than prurient interest. I will tell you this much. Once married, I will be true to my wife. She will have no cause for concern.”
While she couldn’t object to such a sentiment, it wasn’t her plan to show him any approval. He needed to do much more to convince her he was the right man for Anne. But his cutting response left her momentarily at a loss for words. Luckily, a door closing and a commotion downstairs informed her that Anne had returned.
There was no reason to be disappointed in his future bride. Sitting beside him on a sofa, the naked portrait of his hostess mercifully out of his sight, Miss Brotherton was exactly the kind of lady Thomas had expected. He saw a well-bred face beneath dark hair, pinned up in neat braids, a pleasant visage and a trim figure dressed with quiet propriety. There was nothing about her appearance to object to, nothing to remark. And if there was nothing to remember either, that wasn’t a bad thing. As she responded to his conversational overtures in pleasant, well-modulated tones, he found himself without any curiosity about the size or shape of her bosom.
Which was quite as it should be. An interest in bosoms should come much later in a courtship, if ever. It would be most inconvenient to find one’s eyes constantly drawn to one’s wife’s appurtenances. He dragged them away from Mrs. Townsend, busy speaking with Miss Brotherton’s shopping companion. What could she be saying to Lady Windermere that entailed total animation of her body and a dazzling smile on her generous mouth? Mrs. Townsend appeared to suffer from an overabundance of enthusiasm. A regrettable overabundance.
“Are you finding the London shops to your liking, Miss Brotherton?” he asked, without much interest in the answer. “I’d be glad to offer my services should you need an escort.”
“Thank you, Duke,” she said. “I seem to be buying a lot of bonnets.”
“In that case, Lady Windermere and your cousin will give you better advice than I can. A walk in the park, perhaps, when the weather is warmer?”
“It’s quite chilly today, and I daresay it will come on to rain again.”
“It is April, after all.” Oh Lord. Couldn’t he do better than the weather? He looked over at his hostess, who was regarding him with an ironic eye. She must have overheard his scintillating discourse. It would have been so much simpler if he could have applied to Miss Brotherton’s guardian for her hand and tendered his proposal by letter. He scoured his mind for something to say. Perhaps she liked horses. “Do you ride? Hyde Park gets crowded, but I’ve found an expedition to Richmond or Hampstead enjoyable.”
“I ride,” she said flatly, “but, now I’ve finally come to town, I’m not anxious to do what I can do in the country and have, my entire life. I’d like to visit some of the museums.”
His heart sank. “The Royal Academy? Do you share your cousin’s interest in pictures?” The walls of the small drawing room were crowded with canvases and drawings, often to the point of frames bumping.
“Not really. I enjoy the study of Roman remains, especially those found in Britain. I’m told the British Museum has an excellent collection.”
“I would be delighted to accompany you,” he said, hoping his lack of fervor wasn’t too obvious. Pretending an interest in moldy antiquities was a small enough price to pay for taking care of his sisters.
Miss Brotherton gave a hint of a smile. “Caro!” she called to her cousin. “The duke has agreed to take me to Montagu House.”
“Thank goodness! And thank you, Duke. I can’t imagine anything duller. I shall go to the park instead.”
He tried not to grind his teeth and turned back to the heiress, managing to conduct a civilized exchange about the sights of the capital until a slim young man with a shock of fair hair bounded into the room, passed Lady Windermere and Mrs. Townsend with a cursory “good afternoon,” and skidded to a halt in front of the sofa. To Thomas’s astonishment, he sank gracefully to the floor at Miss Brotherton’s feet. Resting his elbows on his knees and his chin in his hands, he gazed at her like a mooncalf. “Miss Annabella,” he said. “You look like a fairy queen.”
Thomas took a sideways glance at his sofa companion, to make sure she hadn’t miraculously transformed into a beauty. No. She still looked ordinary. And where did Annabella come from, anyway? Anne was the name she’d been given at her
christening. The exotic foreign nickname didn’t suit her at all. She regarded her admirer with stolid amusement and no sign of returning his extravagant opinion.
“Good afternoon, Oliver,” she said. “Have you met the Duke of Castleton? Duke, allow me to present Mr. Oliver Bream.”
Bream didn’t bother with formalities. “Would you like to buy a picture?” Thomas noticed he had blotches of color on his hands, from which he deduced the man was an artist of some kind. “Beckford just bought a canvas from Turner. I can let you have one a third larger at half the price, which is a good bargain since I’m twice as good a painter.”
Miss Brotherton chuckled, and Thomas, for a few seconds, struggled with the mathematics of the offer. Setting aside a complete absence of desire to emulate the rich and scandalous collector, William Beckford, he was a little curious.
“Do you always sell paintings by size? I thought the subject was what matters.”
“Oh no! These days artists charge by the square inch. However, if you have a particular subject in mind, I may have something ready. Just not horses or dogs. I hate painting them.”
“I like pictures of horses.”
“I thought you might.” Thomas’s suspicion that Bream mocked him hardened to a certainty. Why? Jealousy, perhaps, but Bream couldn’t seriously expect to win an heiress of Miss Brotherton’s stature. The other two ladies were now following the exchange, and Mrs. Townsend was grinning at him. If he were a betting man, he’d wager a large sum she was somehow behind Bream’s odd behavior.
“I like pictures of dogs too. I’m no collector,” he said, giving no sign that the discussion wasn’t perfectly serious, “but how about landscapes? I’m quite partial to a well-done view.”
“I know you noblemen like to record your faces for posterity. I’m excellent with portraits.”
“Whom have you painted? Perhaps I’ve seen your work.”
“You have.” Even as Bream gestured, Thomas knew what was coming. “Perhaps you didn’t notice my recent portrait of Caro.”
Thomas looked over his shoulder at the Venus. The painted face invited him to unmentionable delights but left him cold. But he was painfully aware of Mrs. Townsend, who he was now sure was not the subject of the picture, smiling in glee. “In that case, Bream, I shall have to decline your offer. If that is supposed to be Mrs. Townsend, it looks nothing like her.”
A slow clapping was heard from the entrance to the room. “That’s put you in your place, Oliver,” came a low, masculine drawl that Thomas instinctively detested.
A tall figure stood in the doorway wearing a sneer that confirmed Thomas’s impression of the arrival’s voice. Arrogant and immoral. And though he didn’t recognize him, he was oddly familiar. With his lithe body clad entirely in black to match ebony hair worn long and tied back in a queue, he looked outlandish, dangerous even, and quite unlike the sort of people Thomas encountered in rural Hampshire or the respectable confines of Nerot’s Hotel. Where had he seen this man, with his prominent nose and blazing blue eyes, so incongruous in his tanned face? If he’d spoken with even a hint of a brogue, Thomas would have guessed him an Irishman, but his accents were quite English.
“Julian!” Mrs. Townsend said warmly and kissed the villain on the cheek. Thomas’s hackles rose further. Was he her lover? Not that it was any of his affair except that his future bride was living in this disreputable household. “Julian” didn’t linger but turned his attention to Lady Windermere.
“My lady,” he said, in a voice so deep it should have strained his throat. Lady Windermere blushed and offered her hand, which was raised to the fellow’s sneering lips in more than a simulated kiss. Was he involved with both ladies? Windermere, if he recalled correctly, was away on an embassy to Persia. Thomas knew him a little—a decent fellow—but hadn’t known he was married. Apparently his bride, a pretty blonde Thomas had barely registered before, was not averse to a little flirtation, or more, in her spouse’s absence.
“Julian!” Mrs. Townsend said again, this time with a sharp edge in her voice suggesting she was far from pleased at his attentions to another woman. “Have you met Castleton?”
With obvious reluctance, Julian released Lady Windermere. “Caro’s no hand when it comes to sensible introductions. I am Denford. We met a few years ago at Castleton.”
Now Thomas placed him, and he wasn’t pleased. The new Duke of Denford, thanks to several deaths and a surfeit of girl children, had inherited a title no one ever expected to be his. His father was from a distant branch of the Fortescues and his mother . . . who was his mother? No one of consequence and Irish to boot, which explained Denford’s coloring. Julian Fortescue, as he was then known, had made his living selling pictures. And while dealing in art wasn’t quite as bad as—say—selling coal, it was hardly ducal, either.
“That’s right,” he said. “You sold my father some paintings.”
“I offered him a damned good Stubbs.”
“A horse?” This from Oliver Bream. “Why didn’t you buy it, Castleton?”
“Not my decision,” Thomas said, ignoring Bream’s impertinent informality.
“The late duke preferred bad Italian pictures,” Denford said. “He bought a Lucatelli, a couple of Carlo Dolces, and half a dozen others.”
Thomas was by no means thrilled to have his own opinion of his father’s taste in art vindicated. He’d taken a dislike to his fellow duke. “Excellent pieces. They look very fine in the long gallery.” He certainly wasn’t about to admit he’d thought that Stubbs damned good.
Denford curled his lips unpleasantly. “If you should decide to improve the decoration of your house, let me know. I can sell you some good Italian pictures. I have a Correggio I’ll let you have for seven hundred guineas.”
“Wait a minute!” Bream interjected. “He’s going to buy something from me. Or sit for his portrait.”
Thomas stood, anxious to escape from this madhouse before he had the urge to hit someone. Or ended up buying a picture, which would be worse. How could Lord Morrissey have let his ward fall into such company? A painter of naked women who had an obvious tendre for her and two ladies, one married, who seemed to share the attentions of England’s most disreputable duke. A duke who, rumor had it, had inherited very little of the Fortescue family wealth.
A duke who might well be seeking a rich wife.
The only potential rich wife in the room had remained silent since Denford’s entrance. She followed the interplay with the curious but dispassionate expression that was as much liveliness as he’d yet seen in her.
“Miss Brotherton,” he said, taking her hand and not kissing it, merely bowing. He knew how to treat a lady with respect. “I spoke to Mrs. Townsend about offering my escort to Almack’s on Wednesday.”
“Oh,” she replied. “Are we going to Almack’s? I had no idea.”
The poor young lady had no notion of good ton and needed to be guided. Also, it wasn’t the kind of place he could imagine Denford attending, duke or not. And, of course, not Oliver Bream. Penniless artists—he felt certain Bream was not one of the rich Sir Joshua Reynolds breed of painter—did not attend exclusive assemblies of the haut ton. “I shall come with my carriage at nine, if that suits.”
Miss Brotherton looked at her cousin, who nodded. “Nine o’clock Wednesday,” he repeated before taking most punctilious leave of all, whether they deserved it or not. He, at least, knew how to behave.
Chapter 3
A couple of hours later, four painters were enjoying the rapidly dwindling contents of Robert’s wine cellar and arguing about art and the common man, one of their favorite subjects. Since Caro’s round dining table had been chosen to encourage group conversation, Cynthia and Anne were able to follow the debate, to the pleasure of the artists, who always enjoyed an audience.
Caro turned to the Duke of Denford. She was a little concerned about his attentions to the countess. Not that she wasn’t fond of the duke, who had been until very recently Julian Fortescue, one of Robert T
ownsend’s oldest friends. Caro had nothing against Cynthia’s having a little flirtation, since her husband was abroad on an extended diplomatic mission. Windermere had behaved badly, very badly. In Caro’s estimation, he deserved little consideration. But Julian was a strong draft for a young lady who had, until lately, lived all her life in the country. Caro didn’t trust him one inch.
It was a shame Oliver had recovered from his passion for Cynthia so quickly. He was a gentle soul and would never place her in a situation she was too unworldly to manage. He was, in fact, the perfect candidate for a fledgling career as a flirt. Caro intended that Windermere, when he returned, would find a very different wife from the naïve girl he’d callously wed and abandoned.
“Did you come here today to see Cynthia?” she asked.
Denford knew just what she was up to. “Playing the mother hen, Caro?” he asked.
“Cynthia’s naught but a chick, and you are a big bad fox.”
He leaned in, his mouth inches from her ear. “I could be persuaded to turn my wicked attentions elsewhere. Remind me again why I’ve never seduced you.”
A great many women found Julian irresistible, but she’d never been one of them. “Perhaps because neither of us was interested.”
“I don’t think that can be the reason. I’m always interested.”
“Until a year ago, I was married to your close friend.”
“No, I don’t think that’s it.”
Caro rolled her eyes.
“You deserved better than you had from Robert,” he said, no longer teasing.
“I won’t hear a word against him,” she protested.
“You never will,” he replied.
“I was happy with him. I loved him.” Doubtless Julian, who regarded her with the keen observation he accorded everything, especially a picture he wanted to buy, had noticed that she didn’t say Robert loved her. It wouldn’t have been a lie. Robert had loved her, almost until the end. By the end, he’d loved nothing except the shake of the dice, the turn of the next card.
The Importance of Being Wicked Page 3
