Chapter Nine
Two weeks later
Ophelia flung a hand over her face and contemplated her future. Convent or deadheading roses? It was like déjà vu all over again. She shivered and rolled over in bed, burying her face in her pillows. One dark night on a terrace and the convent was most certainly now a defunct option, and deadheading roses had already had her scuttling back to London as fast as the carriage wheels could take her.
Once Raphael found out about their fathers’ tangled pasts, he would want nothing to do with her. Why would he ever believe the Weatherop side of the story over his own family history? The truth was so easily distorted with casual branding and lies.
Not that the past should matter. Ophelia didn’t blame Raphael for his father’s actions. Why should she? Wasn’t it the case that sometimes people revolted against their upbringing? Take herself, for instance. Twenty years of confined, proper, boring behavior, and one sniff at the chance of excitement and she’d kicked over the traces and run a seduction campaign so deadly and simple that a courtesan would have been proud.
All along, she’d told herself that it would be so simple to let it all go after the excitement palled, after the chase finished, the tumble concluded, and the spurning began, to which her heart would be immune.
She rolled onto her side. Of course, her heart wasn’t immune. As she’d set her trap so neatly for him, she hadn’t realized that she’d placed herself in the cage instead.
She longed now for the tumble. For the chase to continue. But it was inevitable that since he had already completed her portrait, the chase was over without her realizing. He’d moved her straight into the tumble stage. I want to paint you alone wearing just your blue dress. He didn’t want to paint her at all, merely move on to the next mechanical step before he threw her out like all the other women. But that revelation came sooner than expected. After all, he’d made no effort to contact her in the two weeks since she’d walked out of Barden Hall, heart torn asunder.
Ophelia stared at her bedside table. She’d carefully teased apart the ball she’d made of Raphael’s portrait. His dark eyes stared at her. She hadn’t got them quite right. In the drawing, they were calm, assessing. But the last time she’d seen him, they had been warm brown swirls, pleading with her. She shivered to think what they would look like now.
Ophelia put out a hand and pushed the portrait to the floor. What Mr. Russell had said was true. Raphael’s spurned lovers would hang on to portraits of him as if they were gold. But for her, a portrait wasn’t enough. Braving the cold outside the covers, she scooped the picture from the floor and flung it into the flames of the bedroom fire. Raphael’s dark curls burnt first, then the flames licked away at the rest of his face. A demon in the flames. It seemed fitting.
Goodbye excitement, Ophelia mouthed. Goodbye love.
Love? Oh no.
Despondently, Ophelia started the mechanical motions of getting up and preparing for the day, sure that it would be like all the rest, dull as ditchwater.
At mid-morning, the callers started to arrive. Older ladies escorted by their handsome sons, many of whom Ophelia had danced with in her brief, brazen week of attracting attention at the London soirees.
Her aunt received the visitors with graciousness and familiarity, which surprised Ophelia. Had Aunt Amelia known what her niece was up to?
“Good morning, Lady Sutton,” Amelia said, greeting the latest visitor in the hall.
Ophelia peeked into the drawing room. At least five sets of mamas and sons, seated on the small set of sofas and chairs, fidgeted and chatted.
“Pshaw!” the lady said to Amelia. “We used to know each other as Sally and Millie. Can’t believe we should change now.”
“But it’s been such a long time,” Amelia murmured, glancing back at Ophelia.
“Yes,” said Lady Sutton briskly. “And that was my fault. As it was for all those other ninnies you’ve probably got piled up in your drawing room at this moment.”
Ophelia watched the surprise bloom on her aunt’s face.
“It was?” her aunt said.
“Of course, it was. We were all too busy trying to entrap our husbands to realize what was going on underneath our noses. Of course, it provided a complete distraction for the ton, that stupid debacle between your brother and the atrocious Lord Barden.”
“It did?”
“Yes. We debs could get away with a lot. And let me tell you, these men don’t come easy when you’re trying to get them to make you their wife! My dear Charlie spent weeks concentrating on a horse race when he should have been paying attention to me. Of course, you just have to give them a little time and a push in the right direction and often they wake up.”
“You do?” Amelia seemed so taken aback by the lady’s outpouring that she’d abandoned speech.
Ophelia stepped forward to rescue her. “Please, could I take your pelisse?”
Lady Sutton surveyed her up and down with a squint. “Looks like your brother, Millie,” she said brusquely to Amelia. She turned back to Ophelia. “Been hearing some interesting things about you.” She bent forward. “My Sebastian is infatuated with you.” Lady Sutton jabbed her hand over her shoulder to where a tall, gangly youth lurked. “When he told me that he’d danced with the Whelp of the Wolf of Weatherop Wold, the name rang such a bell, I just knew I had to pay you and your aunt a visit. Didn’t even know you were in town!”
“But—Sally, I’ve always been here!” Amelia protested.
Lady Sutton turned back to Amelia. “Of course, you have. But I haven’t. Up and down to Charlie’s estates, having children. It’s been a whirl of activity.” She shrugged. “And so our paths haven’t crossed again until now.” She leaned forward. “Do you know what I thought? I wanted to catch up with a dear old friend that I hadn’t seen in a long time, and whom I’d thought of often but hadn’t had the time to catch up with.”
“I thought the scandal had drawn everyone away.”
“Oh, they all know it wasn’t your brother Weatherop’s fault. Lord Barden had a chip on his shoulder the size of the moon. When you both disappeared, we thought you’d found a man and settled down.” Lady Sutton’s eyes narrowed. “Wasn’t there somebody…a Mr. Roq-Marten?”
Ophelia gasped—so there had been someone! It wasn’t just the Weatherop-Barden debacle that had chased her aunt’s suitors away—or had it?
Amelia blanched. “He went back to France.”
For the first time, Lady Sutton stepped forward and embraced Amelia. “Oh Millie, I’m so sorry, I thought you had left with him.”
She released Amelia and stepped back. “I’ve got to admit, though, I was looking to hear a bit more about the romance between your niece and the current, gorgeous Lord Barden.”
Amelia shot Ophelia another quick glance. “How do you know about that?”
Lady Sutton waved her hand airily. “Oh, you know. The ton talks. I heard something else recently, too. Apparently, he’s having a competition with his friend Mr. Russell at that Club he’s taken to frequenting. The London Lonely Hearts Social Club, or something like that.” She paused theatrically and looked directly at Ophelia. “Did you listen to what I was saying, gel, about men? I do hope you have been taking note.” With that, she swept Amelia away and into the chattering throng in the drawing room, her son following dutifully behind.
Ophelia braced herself against the hall table. Did you listen? Of course, she bloody listened. But Ophelia was a lost cause.
Raphael was having a competition with Bertie. A competition to see whose heart they could break next? Ophelia’s mind raced. Who would Raphael pick? Would it be the forward and beautiful Athena? Or the upstart Minerva? A sickness rose in her stomach. She leant forward on the table and gulped at the air.
“Excuse me?”
Ophelia pasted a smile on her face. Benjamin Concard loomed in the open doorway, accompanied by a small woman with twinkling eyes. Ophelia waved her hand at the drawing room, feeling too sick to speak.
Benjamin stepped forward. “No, actually, we have a message for you.”
“I beg your pardon?”
Benjamin shuffled his feet. “My father, on behalf of Lord Barden and Mr. Russell, would like to invite you to join them at the London Lonely Hearts Social Club this afternoon.”
Ophelia clutched at her middle. Was Raphael toying with her? Was this the ton’s idea of a joke? Was this some strange form of revenge?
Benjamin swallowed. “Apparently, your attendance is necessary and important.”
Chapter Ten
The atmosphere in the small room in the London Lonely Hearts Social Club was tense. Raphael flinched as Bertie elbowed him in the side.
“Stand up straight, man. Don’t let them see you afraid.”
“I’m not afraid. I’m merely apprehensive.”
“That she won’t understand? Or that she won’t accept?”
“Both.”
“You know, I’m pretty sure she’ll understand. She has this remarkable ability to pick out the little things. She left that beetle painting with me when she left for your class. I was stacking it against the wall when Lord Haverstock saw it and asked what it was called. I named it The Fruit Bowl. Blow me, if he didn’t want to buy it for an outrageous sum! He said it appealed to his sense of the absurd. He said…” Bertie paused, “it represented a more physical and life-like representation of life than any allegorical painting could ever do.”
Raphael let his breath out slowly. “She’s not bad at painting, is she?”
Bertie slid him a sideways look. “With a bit of tuition, she would rival you or I.” He continued thoughtfully, “You know, I’ve been thinking about setting up as a dealer, as well as a painter. It would even out my earnings should I ever miss out on a commission.” He shrugged. “I’ve got the contacts…”
Raphael ignored the people who continued to fill the room behind them. “I’m sorry about the Carina commission. I couldn’t do anything about it.”
Bertie unfolded his arms. “I should apologize, too. I only saw what I wanted to see. It was your lady who said something that made me question what I thought.”
Raphael frowned. “What did she say?”
Bertie reddened. “She said she thought that you hadn’t had an affair with the King’s mistress. Of course, I didn’t care about the affair—”
“I still did her portrait.”
“Yes, but the portrait and the affair were so bound up hand in hand. It was all so sudden.”
“I can’t talk about it.”
“Don’t worry. Miles told me. I threatened him.”
“Gods, when?”
“After that ball. Where your lady called him the Incorrigible Ingram. It shook him a little.”
“What did he tell you?”
“That the Prince Regent was bankrupt—”
“Bertie! Shhhhh!”
But Bertie continued, his only concession to Raphael’s glare a slightly lower voice. “—and that he was applying to parliament for more funds, but they wouldn’t give it to him.”
Raphael risked a look behind him, thankful for two easels that formed a barrier between them and the seated crowd.
Bertie carried on relentlessly, his voice murmuring in Raphael’s left ear. “The rumors are that they are going to force old Prinny into marriage with some German royalty. He has to publicly renounce his motherly mistresses, and what better way than for one of them to have an affair with a renowned…” Bertie hesitated.
Raphael turned slowly. “Lothario?” he said hoarsely. “A man who chooses his women indiscriminately?”
“Yes. I should have realized it was all a farce. I know you. Without Miles’ coercion, and with your sense of duty, you would never have stolen a commission from me.” Bertie paused. “You’re lucky. For the first time, a woman that you actually want believes in you.”
“I thought she did,” Raphael muttered. “But the past has an ugly habit of rearing its head.”
Bertie flicked a glance over his shoulder. “She’s here. Just arrived. On the front row.”
Raphael tried to stop himself from turning around, but he couldn’t. His need to see her was too great.
She sat, back straight, staring straight ahead. Although she wore neither bright blue nor drab black, merely the softest turquoise, to Raphael, it seemed that the light floated around her.
This was the reason he’d been unable to describe her to everyone he met. Reducing a person to brown hair, small nose, and pointy chin did no justice to the whole form. How could anyone listen to him describe how the sun’s rays kissed her face, or how her fingers curved in her palm, and not know who he meant?
That, in the dark, she still made his nerves twitch and his stomach knot?
He watched as Ophelia glanced down the row of people seated in the room and her eyes widened as she took in the guests he’d specially invited for the occasion.
“Lord Concard,” he said in a loud voice. “Please, could I ask you to stand and explain the proceedings?”
“Of course, Lord Barden. I would be delighted.”
Lord Concard’s son helped the older man to his feet. The gentleman tottered slightly before walking stiffly to the center of the room in front of the easels.
“I must say,” he started in a gravelly voice, “when Lord Barden contacted me, I was surprised. You might say that there has been some bad feeling between our houses for some time. However, as time passes and the players die, it becomes apparent that the sins and weaknesses of the fathers do not need to be continued in their offspring.” He cleared his throat and swayed a little before his son caught him under the arm. “From what my son tells me, knowledge of the ill-will between us is barely acknowledged in the London ton now, which seems strange, as for us older ones, and for some in the provinces, it is as new as if it happened yesterday. Perhaps as you get older, you engage less with the present and more with the past.” Lord Concard’s son patted his hand. “Yes, all right. In light of my own past, I have come to judge the results of a painting competition between two friends who parted ways when they should have supported each other. Let the competition begin.” Lord Concard leant more heavily on his son as the younger Concard guided him back to his seat.
“What are the rules?” a man asked from the audience. “What is the prize?”
Lord Concard stopped. “Ah, yes. I forgot. Like in life, there are no rules. Like in life, the prize is whatever the painters most desire it to be. But there is a time limit. Twenty minutes, starting now.”
The audience rustled as Lord Concard sat down heavily and Raphael and Bertie took their places in front of the waiting canvases. Raphael knew it wasn’t what the crowd expected. He closed his eyes and readied his brush. He could already hear Bertie starting on his canvas. He had no idea what Bertie was doing. All that mattered was that he had Ophelia behind him, and he had his brush in his hand.
“When’s he going to start painting?” he heard from the audience. It jolted him into action. Starting with blues, yellows, silk and sunlight, he started to paint.
The audience started out quiet, but Raphael was conscious that minute by minute, they were starting to mutter. Did they remark upon his painting or Bertie’s? He was dimly aware that occasionally a shadow appeared at his arm and then withdraw quietly before it was replaced by another. Gradually, the shadows started to comment. Mostly starting with, “I don’t understand, what does it mean?” which he ignored. It was only when he heard a particularly bent shadow breathing shallowly that he realized Lord Concard had come to stand at his shoulder. The man’s hand pressed heavily on his free arm for a moment before he left wordlessly.
It seemed only minutes later that he heard Lord Concard’s voice, “Your time is up.”
Raphael let the brush fall to the palette. His eyes searched out Ophelia’s. For the first time, he noticed the small, fine-boned woman seated beside her, who bore a superficial resemblance to Ophelia. The woman patted Ophelia’s hand in a bemused way, though
she had a look of understanding on her face.
“There has been a last-minute change to the competition.” Lord Concard cleared his throat. “A judge has been nominated. Miss Weatherop, if you would be so kind as to step up to the front to judge the paintings.”
Raphael shivered as she stood up. Her skin had turned a dusky pink. She stepped forward haltingly, ignoring his gaze.
She went first to Bertie’s painting. For the first time, Raphael could see what his friend had painted.
Raphael bowed his head. His friend had achieved the insurmountable. He’d created a portrait of Raphael himself, head bent in concentration, brush to a pale canvas unseen in the portrait. For once, though, he didn’t rise to anger. He was no longer afraid of what would happen to the painting. He was no longer afraid of the future.
He waited for Ophelia to speak. She didn’t. Instead, she stepped closer to look at his painting, standing tantalizingly near.
He heard her light intake of breath. Did she understand what the painting meant?
She didn’t give him any relief. Instead, she moved away to stand beside Lord Concard.
“As the judge of this competition, I have undertaken to decide the winner.” Ophelia took a breath. “I am afraid, in this case, I cannot.”
The roar of the audience almost outdid the explosion of noise in Raphael’s head. He’d failed. His life spread out in front of him, bleak and desolate.
His eyes felt like lead as they lifted to meet her steady gaze. Then, like the sunshine, she smiled.
Quiet gradually fell on the audience.
“With regards to Mr. Russell, I believe he has already won his heart’s desire. I once heard him say that he wished to paint the most coveted portrait in England. At the time, I’m sure he believed that Carina, the Prince Regent’s friend, was the most admired commission. However, an accepted portrait of a man who refused to be painted is surely worth more than any royal commission.”
“By gods, she’s right,” Bertie said quietly. “This will make my fortune.”
Beautiful Beast (The Marriage Maker Book 36) Page 7
