Page 28 of A Picture Is Worth A Thousand Heirs

So perhaps it wasn’t a woman’s appearance, but a man’s fragile pride that was the issue.

Naturally, there were exceptions. Drake and Honoria, for one. Mutual respect and common interests created a bond between them that had survived years of separation and protests from Honoria’s father. Mother and Father were another, and because Mother had always been the intelligent, thoughtful woman she was, Juliana supposed Drake’s father had also appreciated Mother for more than her beauty.

Considering further, Juliana admitted shemayhave been too harsh in her judgment, and that how a man viewed women depended on the man himself rather than on the nature of his sex as a whole.

And if thatwasthe case, could Victor Pratt be the type of man to give a common-born half-sister of a duke more than a passing glance?

She dearly hoped so.

CHAPTER 9

At the desk in his bachelor apartments, Victor worked diligently, filling out the details of the sketches he had started at the duke’s the day before. True, the initial lines were little more than an outline to capture the overall shape of Juliana’s face, but Davies’s remark that the sketches wererudimentaryhad galled. The man obviously had no understanding of the drawing process. And—Victor assured himself—if Davies had paid the least bit of attention, he would have noticed the detail with which Victor had captured the expression in Juliana’s eyes.

He sat back, assessing his work. Many attributed the quote,The eyes are windows to the soulto Shakespeare, and although Victor appreciated the man’s wit and skill with the pen, he was more likely to believe it had been Da Vinci who had coined the phrase and Shakespeare had merely adopted it, recognizing its truth and beauty.

Because they were the words of an artist.

Regardless of the phrase’s origin, Victor acknowledged the truth it held. Eyes brought a portrait to life and provided the viewer a glimpse into who the subject was.

Worry slithered in as he examined the fleshed-out drawings, and he reached inside the desk drawer and removed the sketches he’d made of Adalyn, comparing them to those of Juliana.

Had he inadvertently given Juliana Adalyn’s nose or the way her lips parted as if pulling in a breath filled with wonder? Drawn from memory, the image of Adalyn gazed back at him. Gauzy material draped around her shoulders, dipping down seductively and revealing a little more cleavage than was decent.

He had added that detail strictly from his imagination, never having seen Adalyn in anything other than modest attire. Although there had been that gown with the enticing décolletage she’d worn the night she rejected him.

Oh, why did he have to think about that horrible night when the world crashed down on him? The pity in her eyes as he tried to make his proposal crushed his heart anew. How could he have been so blind? Again, he chastised himself for misinterpreting her politeness for interest.

Not expecting company and asking his valet not to disturb him, Victor startled at the knock on the door. “Yes?”

Tierney, who also served as Victor’s butler, opened the door. “Apologies, sir, but your mother and Miss Whyte insist on seeing you.”

“Out of my way, Tierney.” Victor’s mother pushed the poor man aside, striding in as if she paid the rents. Lydia followed behind her, the cat-that-got-into-the-cream expression on her face triggering alarms in Victor’s head.

He quickly shuffled the drawings under his sketchpad and rose. “Why are you here, Mother?” His alarm grew at his mother’s somber expression. Had something happened to his father? And was Lydia’s smug expression from the belief she could leg-shackle Victor and become the next viscountess?

“Is Father well?” Victor choked out the words, fearful of his mother’s answer.

She blinked. “Your father?” She batted a dismissive hand. “How should I know? He hides from me in his study when he’s not at Lords or at White’s. I only see him when you or Priscilla call.”

No wonder. He couldn’t blame his father one bit. Mother was fortunate Father allowed her to return to London from her exile in Lincolnshire.

“No. I’m concerned about you, my dear. Miss Whyte and I have come to pull you away from this dreary place.” She gazed around at his tidy studio,tsk-tskingand running a gloved finger over a perfectly clean table. His rooms weren’t palatial, but they gave him the space he needed to breathe.

“I’m busy, Mother. I have an appointment this afternoon with the duke, and I must prepare.”

“Which duke?” Speaking of windows to the soul, the gleam in Lydia’s eyes became predatory.

“Burwood. I was awarded the position as their portraitist. I’m beginning with his sister, Miss Merrick.” He placed a hand over the sketchpad, sliding it to more adequately cover the sketches.

Lydia’s gaze followed his movement, while his mother gave an exaggerated sigh and said, “Why a duke needs a portrait of a commoner is a mystery.”

“Miss Merrick is Burwood’s sister, and she is a lovely young lady.”

Fear flashed in his mother’s eyes. “Half-sister, Victor.Herfather, unlike the duke’s, was a commoner. You would do well to remember that.”

With an emphasized sway to her hips, Lydia glided up to him, reminding him of a viper he’d seen once in Italy. She laid a gloved hand on his arm and batted her eyes. At least she didn’t wield that damned fan. “Don’t fuss with your mother, Victor. Come, let’s go to Gunter’s for ices. You have plenty of time to get to your appointment with the duke.”

Using his thumb and a forefinger, Victor removed Lydia’s hand from his person. “No. What don’t you understand about the fact that I still have work to do to prepare? I have no time for ices at Gunter’s.” Unless it was to take Miss Merrick there.

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