Page 21 of A Picture Is Worth A Thousand Heirs

The imprint displayed a dragon clutching arrows in one clawed limb. A crown perched on its head, and flames shot from its nostrils.

Victor plucked it from the tray. Sliding his finger underneath, he broke it and opened the missive. His whole body came to attention when he read the contents.

“What is it?” Cilla asked.

“The Duke of Burwood has summoned me.” His lips tugged upward. Not only would the request provide reason to defy his mother’s admonition to avoid the duke’s household, but the nature of the invitation promised an opportunity to pull Victor from his miserable doldrums.

“Find a polite reason to decline,” his mother said.

“Mother!” Cilla’s voice rose. “Don’t listen to her, Victor.”

“Aurelia.” Father frosted Mother with a glare. “I don’t know what you have against Burwood, nor do I care. One does notdismiss a summons from a duke. Victor and Burwood are of the same age. It will be good for our son to have a strong ally and friend when he assumes the title at my death.”

Once more, Victor viewed his father with fresh eyes. Something was most definitely wrong.

Victor rose. “I have no intention of listening to Mother. This”—he waved the missive—“is an invitation for an interview to paint their family portraits.”

With that bit of news, his mother was the one to throw herself back against the sofa with a groan. “Why must you pursue that messy pastime? As your father has pointed out, you are the heir to a viscountcy, goodness’ sakes.”

“Oh, Honoria must have been impressed with your knowledge of painting techniques when we all visited the National Gallery two years ago.” Cillawouldhave to remind him. He had been the one to escort Miss Lovelace with Cilla as a chaperone, only to have Nash force himself into their company.

The cad had actually been courting Honoria before he turned his sights to Miss Lovelace and began his campaign to steal her away. Victor shot his sister a narrow-eyed glower. Lucky for her she was expecting his first niece or nephew.

Focusing on that happy thought, Victor wondered what truly had precipitated the duke’s summons. Even though he’d not found an opportunity to subtly remind her during the eventful ride in Hyde Park, would it be too much to hope that Juliana played a part? He smiled at the possibility. “If you would excuse me, the duke awaits.”

CHAPTER 7

After returning to his bachelor apartment where he kept a small studio, Victor searched through drawings and smaller canvasses to provide samples of his work. His hand hovered over one of the sketches he had done of Adalyn, her likeness squeezing his heart and, in turn, reminding him how much Juliana looked like her. He placed it aside, not wishing to draw questions from the duke.

Instead, he selected a few renderings he’d done while sitting in the park, capturing little snippets of people’s lives as they went about their business. He chose two completed canvasses—a still life to demonstrate his brush technique and a small portrait of Cilla he’d completed and planned to give Timothy on their wedding anniversary—and wrapped them carefully.

During the brief carriage ride, he ran his hands lovingly over the satchel containing his art. What a coup it would be to be awarded the privilege of being portraitist to a duke, and his skin tingled with anticipation.

But what if Burwood found his work lacking? Victor spiraled with doubt, imagining the disappointment in the duke’s eyes as he gazed upon what Victor thought of as his masterpiece. Evenworse, what if the duke found his work to be ordinary, lacking any sort of originality or spark of the unique?

The crushing weight of failure paralyzed him, and Victor nearly pounded on the carriage roof to have the driver return him home.

How could anyone understand what his art meant to him? How he poured his very soul into each and every piece. To be criticized. Ridiculed. Made to feel less than.

Victor’s throat tightened, and he forced down the lump of fear that had formed.

Although his painting master praised his work, did he really have the audacity to believe he could dare consider himself to be among such exemplary company as Thomas Lawrence, portrait artist of kings?

Before he could raise his hand and give the roof a soundthump,the carriage pulled to a stop before the duke’s London mansion. Victor wiped his sweaty palms on his trousers, took a deep breath, and exited. His knuckles white as he gripped the satchel’s handle, Victor strode toward the front door.

Victor’s mind shot back to Juliana’s come-out ball. If anyone understood the fear of not measuring up, she would, and Victor secretly hoped she would be a participant in the interview.

The butler greeted him, taking his card and showing him to an empty parlor.

“I shall inform His and Her Grace of your arrival. Would you care for refreshment?” the butler asked.

Victor’s stomach roiled at the suggestion. “No. Thank you.”

Left alone to wait, Victor rotated between pacing, gazing out the window, sitting on a comfortable wingback chair, and inspecting the paintings hung on the walls—spending considerably more time on the last activity.

In fact, he’d been inspecting a portrait of a surly looking man when the duke entered. “My grandfather.”

Victor spun at the duke’s words.

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