The portrait of a duches.., p.6
The Portrait of a Duchess, page 6
This time he did meet her eyes, and oddly, there was pain in them.
“That’s fair. But I want to show you who I am. It’s important to me that you can trust me. That we can trust each other. Otherwise our scheme has no hope of working.”
He was right.
And she wanted five thousand pounds.
She was willing to reserve final judgment until she could glean where his true loyalties lay.
She picked up her wineglass, and this time she did take a sip.
“Well, Rafe, my dear husband, you’d better have a plan for proving you’re what you say.”
He bit his lip, like he was holding back a grin. “Believe me. I do.”
Chapter Eight
Cornelia was smiling at him.
Smiling.
He wanted to get up and skip around the room. It was such a relief to unburden himself, after all these years of knowing how harshly she must judge him. He knew she was still somewhat incredulous. But that smile gave him hope that she might come to know him.
To forgive him.
“I was hoping you might ride out with me tomorrow,” he said. “Rory has arranged interviews with a number of people important to the inner workings of the estate, and I think when you see what we’re trying to achieve, you might be more inclined to trust me. Besides, your insights on our plans for reform would be most welcome.”
She hesitated.
He held his breath. If she said no, it would be much more difficult to win her over. And after that smile, winning her over was all he wanted on this earth.
“I’d be willing to come,” she said slowly. “There’s only one problem.”
“What’s that?”
“I barely remember how to ride.”
He exhaled. That he could fix.
He grinned at her. “How lucky you have a horseman at your disposal.”
“Indeed,” she drawled. “A blessing.”
“I’ll teach you in the morning, if you don’t mind an early start.”
“I love an early morning rendezvous,” she said. She held up a finger. “But I have a condition. If you wish for my help, I’d like yours. I have an idea for your ball. An idea only a true radical would accept.”
She looked at him as though whatever she was about to propose was a test of character.
He would do just about anything to pass it.
“What is it?” he asked.
“I’d like to show my paintings at the masquerade. As a pleasant surprise for your guests.”
It took him a moment to imagine this.
“But that would mean . . .”
She nodded, smiling serenely. “The ball and the exhibition would be one and the same.”
He threw back his head and laughed.
“Cornelia Ludgate, you are a shocking woman.”
It was one thing to hold her exhibition here. It was quite another to trick the better part of high society into attending.
She smiled at him more broadly. “You used to love my wild notions.”
He most certainly had.
“I still do. But how would we carry it off? Not a single proper lord or lady will come to the ball if they know they’ll be confronted with the devil’s own art.”
“We will see that they don’t know until it’s too late. I shall issue invitations to a masquerade exhibition for the same evening as your ball, but hold back the location until the day before. The aristocrats will be none the wiser, and if any of my patrons realize the trick, they’ll likely be amused rather than scandalized.”
It was utterly preposterous, this plan.
He loved it.
The audacity of it.
That fact that she was willing to conspire with him on it, just like in the old days.
He lifted up his wineglass. “To being incorrigible renegades.”
She clinked her glass with his.
He tried not to luxuriate too much in her smile.
“Shall we eat?” he asked.
“Please. All this talk of covert radicalism has left me starving.”
He lifted the lid from an ornately filigreed silver tray.
The pomp of the tray was at odds with the meal that rested on it, which bore little resemblance to the repasts he’d had here when Rosemere was alive. The duke’s staff had prepared as many courses as there were people every night, and hovered to serve them out of dishes polished to such a shine you could see your own reflection as you were served a slice of candied ham. The food was prepared in the French style, doused in fresh butter, studded with currants and sweetmeats and caramel creams.
Rafe liked a lean, simple diet. The ducal table tasted like gout.
And the waste—he hated to think about the waste.
He’d asked the cook to simplify the dishes, and she’d acted like he’d asked her to commit treason.
“How refined,” Cornelia said, eyeing the humble chicken and pile of buttered potatoes. “My uncle would be so proud of his heir.”
“I’m sorry if you desire a more elaborate repast. I’ve been eating goose-fat-drenched veal puddings and the like, or whatever they serve in this damned house, for so many weeks that I won’t be able to sit my horse if it goes on.”
She groaned. “It’s always been that way. Being here is like stepping back in time.”
He knew what she meant. Her uncle had changed nothing in the forty years he’d held the title.
“You know, the moment I became the surprise heir, a few months before the old man’s death, he called me in for a long lecture on the importance of the place’s history, on being—”
“A mere custodian of the title, a mere servant of the crown,” she interrupted, in a strikingly accurate imitation of the duke’s clipped accent.
They both laughed. “Precisely. It struck me as quite apt from a man who distanced himself from his last remaining living family in the name of preserving a symbol he’d inherited as randomly as the color of his eyes.”
He looked at his lap, wondering if he had overstepped in speaking of what Rosemere had done to Cornelia.
But she didn’t seem upset. “Indeed,” she said. “Indeed.”
He decided to venture further.
“If it’s any consolation, he was a miserable, lonely person at the end. It’s sad, the things people will destroy their lives for.”
“Let’s not speak of him,” she said. “I’ll lose my appetite, and I’m very hungry.”
She reached across the table, picked off a crispy piece of skin from the chicken, and popped it in her mouth. She closed her eyes, licking grease from her finger.
“Perfect.”
She’d always liked humble, earthy pleasures. He remembered it from their time together—her satisfaction at a warm fire out of doors on a cold night, or a perfectly yeasted loaf of bread on the table between them at a tavern.
“Odd to eat a simple meal inside this room,” Cornelia said. “I’ve always despised it in here. So cold and formal.”
“It nearly obliterates one’s appetite.”
She smiled. “You know, you’re right.” She picked up the platter of chicken and potatoes and stood. “Let’s eat somewhere else.”
“Wherever you like.”
She tapped her chin. “On the terrace, I think. The weather’s so lovely.”
“But there’s no table,” he said, thinking of her pretty dress.
“Then we shall picnic.”
“How roguish.”
She met his eye. “We always were, weren’t we? Take the cutlery.”
She was bantering with him. Bantering!
He gathered the forks and knives and followed her out of the dark room and through a hallway to the nearest sitting room. She balanced the tray on one hand and unlatched the glass door to the terrace with the other, pushing it open with her hip.
An artist’s dexterity.
She tossed him a smile over her shoulder and marched outside into the evening air, plopping down on the terrace steps, never mind her fine red gown. She put the tray next to her and nodded at the space beside it, gesturing for him to sit.
He obeyed, even though the shallow steps were not exactly accommodating to a man of his height.
“That’s better, isn’t it?” she said, plucking a fork from his hand and using it to spear a potato.
It was. The night was cool and slightly humid in a pleasant way that made the air smell of the lush grass and trees and hedges that surrounded the stone terrace.
“Much better,” he agreed.
She leaned back against a step, her profile lit up in the dimming, golden sunlight.
“So, Rafe, aside from your alleged espionage, what has occupied your life all these years?”
She popped the potato in her mouth and looked at him expectantly as she chewed. He was flattered by her interest. So flattered he could barely summon an answer.
“Horses, mainly,” he attempted, racking his brain for something more interesting to say.
“Ah. Your greatest love.”
Hardly. His life would have been far less complicated if horses were his only passion.
“One of them. Though, of course, there have been others.”
“Are you trying to tell me you have not been faithful to me?” she asked lightly. “How heartbreaking.”
He took a chicken leg with his bare fingers and munched on it. He wasn’t sure why he’d said that. He’d not been thinking of others.
He’d been thinking of her.
“I meant good cheeses, chess, and woodworking, of course,” he quipped. “But yes, there have been love affairs. One must warm one’s bed.”
She laughed. “I’m afraid I’ve been decidedly adulterous as well. It will be quite fertile grounds when we pursue our annulment, my legendary fleet of lovers.”
Hearing her talk of her lovers was making his face grow hot. It was strange, this sudden intimacy. But Cornelia had always been the type to skip the usual courtesies. She was as blunt as they came.
“Have I scandalized you?” she asked, when he could not think of a reply.
“Yes,” he admitted. “I’m a duke now, as you’ll recall. We’re a prim and proper lot.”
She nodded with mock gravity. “I’ll spare your delicate sensibilities the details.”
“Thank you.”
“Tell me,” she said, before he could ask her a question. “How is your family?”
He was touched by her curiosity.
“My father passed away in ’92.”
She reached out and lightly touched his shoulder. “Oh, I’m sorry.”
He shivered at the light pressure of her fingers. “Thank you. He went peacefully in his sleep.”
She lifted her hand away. He missed it.
“And your brother?” she asked.
“He lives in Norfolk with his wife and children. Seven of them.”
“Seven!”
“Indeed. They’re quite adorable, if you like that sort of thing.”
“And you?” she asked.
“Me what?”
“Did you have children?”
He grimaced at the thought of it. “Not to my knowledge. I never wanted them, as much as I like my brother’s. I’m careful about that sort of thing.”
She nodded. “As am I. And I’ve been fortunate.”
She said this solemnly. He knew the unfair burden on women to avoid pregnancy—and how easily the battle was lost. Her friend Seraphina had written an entire treatise on it, published by Jack Willow. He devoured everything she wrote.
“And what of your life?” he asked. “How does a famed painter fill her days?”
She raked her fork along a chicken breast and tore off a hunk of meat. “She paints.”
“I’m excited to see your portraits. I’ve always wanted to attend your exhibitions. I followed them in the papers.”
“So why didn’t you?”
“It would have been discordant with my supposed politics to be seen admiring your work. Raised suspicions.” He paused. “And I assumed you wouldn’t want me there.”
She nodded. “Correct,” she said softly. “You’d not have been welcome, given what I thought of you.”
He took meager comfort in the fact that she said “thought” and not “still think.”
“I know,” he said. “I know.”
He wanted badly to take her hand. He’d give anything to touch her. Instead, he turned his head a bit to look directly into her eyes.
“It hurt, all those years, knowing you believed the worst of me. I wish I could have been honest with you.”
He wasn’t sure how she’d react to this, given her skepticism about his story.
She searched his eyes, her face unreadable.
“That wasn’t the only reason we didn’t speak, Rafe,” she finally said.
He couldn’t help himself. He put a hand on her shoulder.
“I know,” he said, squeezing it. “But I’ve missed you, Cornelia. I’ve missed you so much.”
Her eyes widened and her mouth slackened, like she could not work out what to say in response. She shrugged off his hand.
“I’m sorry,” she said, looking not at him but off in the distance, toward the mazed gardens. Her tone said that the feeling was not mutual, and she did not appreciate his sentimentality.
Fuck.
He’d overstepped. He should have known the weight of the past was too heavy to be dispensed with over a few pleasant words and bites of chicken.
They were not friends. Not yet.
She stood up abruptly and let out a yawn so long and loud it seemed like it was fake. “I’m tired. I think I’ll retire. You can carry in the food?”
He nodded, his cheeks flaming like he was a man thirty years his junior. He was grateful it was nearly dark. He hoped she couldn’t see.
“Sleep well,” he said as lightly as he could. “And meet me in the stable yard at eight. We’ll get you back on a horse.”
Chapter Nine
Cornelia walked quickly to her room, taking the shortcut up the servants’ staircase as Rafe’s words echoed in her mind.
I’ve missed you.
She could not account for why those words made her legs shake.
She had not missed Rafe. She’d taken great care not to think of him at all. But perhaps the effort she’d put into expelling him from her mind was itself a form of longing. For when he’d taken her hand, she’d felt a wave of regret so powerful it was all she could do to flee before she was overtaken by it.
And what a shame. For he was so kind. So easy to talk to. So seductive in his masculine beauty that were he another man, she’d have suggested they retire to the library for an intimate conversation, and would have not hesitated should the mood have led to even more intimate activities.
But with Rafe, she knew where that led.
Some men were free and easy. You could flirt with them, sleep with them—even care for them—without trepidation. Others were intense and passionate. The sort to want to embed you in their lives.
Rafe, unless he’d changed, was the latter. And she did not wish to be embedded in anyone’s life save her own.
Better not to test whether Rafe’s intensity had faded.
Better not to sit beside him beneath a rising moon remembering the past.
She entered the duchess’s chamber and found Lucius on the frilly bed, his face planted in the counterpane so thoroughly she wondered how he breathed.
“You ridiculous creature,” she said, scratching his spine. He looked up at her with an abundance of love that from any other male would send her dashing from the room.
She stripped off her clothes down to her chemise and snuggled up beside him.
Normally she stayed up late to draw, recording her memories of the day in quick sketches that served as a kind of diary. But her impressions of today were dominated by Rafe’s face as he sat across the table and told her of his secret life. His blue eyes flickering as he asked her to trust him. The profile of his brow and jaw as he grinned, speaking of his family.
Safer to go to sleep.
She counted backward by sevens from one thousand to keep her thoughts from wandering to Rafe, and allowed exhaustion to wash over her until she drifted off.
She awoke to a gray, cloudy morning and her cat snoring against her neck.
“I think it’s going to rain, Lu,” she informed him, gently detaching him from her shoulder. “No fine garments for me.”
Lucius, as he was wont, said nothing and went back to sleep.
She put on breeches—the paint-smeared ones she wore when she needed to stand on a ladder and paint the top of a canvas—and an old, scuffed pair of boots. She wrapped her hair in a scarf, put on a wide-brimmed hat, and left the house on foot to walk the trail to the stables.
Rafe looked hale and handsome in the morning light of the practice ring, where he was talking to a horse as though he and the animal were old friends. As a woman who spent much of her time speaking to an indifferent feline, she found this endearing.
She greeted Rafe from behind, tapping his shoulder.
He jumped, prompting her to laugh.
“I didn’t mean to alarm you. Good morning.”
“Breeches, eh?” he said, glancing at her legs. He quickly caught himself and looked away. The classic sign of a man who wanted to stare.
She was flattered. Now that she was approaching forty, she’d begun to feel the waning attention of men who’d once followed her every move with their eyes. She felt more beautiful now than she had at twenty, with her more curvaceous body and the sharper lines of her face. It was nice to be in the company of someone who appeared to agree.
Even if he was, somewhat dangerously, Rafe Goodwood.
“I take it you prefer not to ride sidesaddle?” he asked.
She shuddered. Sidesaddle made her fear for her life.
“I hate perching precariously on the back of a giant animal. I want you to remind me how to properly mount a horse.” She paused. “Again.”
He looked at her long and hard, no doubt remembering the last time he’d taught her that particular skill. It was unwise, perhaps, to prompt that recollection.
Unwise and decidedly delicious.
She rarely felt so sultry at eight in the morning.
“You’re certain?” he asked.
