Page 4 of A Picture Is Worth A Thousand Heirs

What?“I’m afraid I don’t understand.” He truly didn’t.

“You saidthis evening. As opposed to when? Other than my brother’s house party last summer, I don’t remember enjoying your acquaintance.”

“You have a literal mind, Miss Merrick. I simply meant?—”

“Fear not, Mr. Pratt. Apparently, even my attempts at humor are falling flat today.” She winced. “A poor choice of words, that.”

Victor chuckled at her honesty.

She quirked a blond brow at him.

“Don’t misunderstand, Miss Merrick. I was not laughing at you, butwithyou. I admire a woman who doesn’t take herself too seriously.”

A genuine smile crossed her lips, and Victor found he liked her smile, too.

“I understand you are an artist, sir.”

“I dabble,” Victor said, his interest piquing at his favorite subject.

She smiled again. Yes, he definitely liked her smile. “You’re being modest, I fear. Honoria says you are quite knowledgeable. Now that he’s a duke, Drake has mentioned getting portraits painted for the family. Perhaps you could recommend an artist or apply for the task yourself?”

Oh, what a coup that would be to paint the portraits of a duke and his family. “I would be happy to offer my assistance in whatever way Burwood sees fit.”

“I will be sure to relay your offer to my brother, sir.”

When the dance ended, Victor was pleased he’d—for once—listened to his sister and asked Miss Merrick to dance, finding both a new friend and, even more hopefully, an opportunity to apply his skills.

Eager to get to know her better, Victor bowed and said, “Would you care for some refreshment, Miss Merrick? Some lemonade or ratafia to quench your thirst?”

Her eyes sparkled. Yes. Definitely cornflower-blue. “I would love that, Mr. Pratt, and although my brother finds ratafia too sweet, I adore it.”

Victor escorted her to the refreshment table, requesting one glass of ratafia and one of lemonade. As a gentleman should, he took the ratafia from the footman and turned to hand it to Miss Merrick. A sharp bump to his arm thrusted it forward, and the ratafia splashed from the glass, the red liquid landing in the most unfortunate area on Miss Merrick’s white gown.

Prepared to deliver a sharp setdown to whomever had bumped him, Victor spun on his heel only to discover no one behind him. No. Wait. Several feet away, Lydia Whyte chatted with her mother. Lady Whyte’s gaze darted in his direction, her eyes widening as she tapped Lydia on the arm—with her fan, of course—and nodded in Victor’s and Miss Merrick’s direction.

“Sir. Sir.” The footman’s call pulled him back to his faux pas.

Poor Miss Merrick stood motionless, staring at the red stain spreading like a watered-down blob of paint.

Victor snatched the serviette from the footman’s hand but paused before attempting to blot the liquid. “Um.” Poised in front of Miss Merrick’s abdomen, the serviette dangled from Victor’s fingers.

“Oh, dear,” Lydia said, appearing by his side, her voice flush with pity. “What unfortunate timing, Miss Merrick.” The glint in Lydia’s eyes gave her away. “May I assist?”

“No.” Miss Merrick plucked the serviette from Victor’s fingers, but due to the location of the stain, even she hesitated to dab at the liquid.

Gasps from around the room drew the Duchess of Burwood’s attention, and she and Mrs. Merrick raced to Miss Merrick’s side. “What happened?” Mrs. Merrick asked, while the duchess, Honoria, wrapped an arm around Miss Merrick’s shoulders.

“It’s my fault,” Victor admitted. “The glass of ratafia...someone bumped me.” Victor shot a glance toward Lydia, who adopted an innocent expression.

Tears welled in Miss Merrick’s eyes, dulling the cornflower color to a duskier steel-blue. “If you would excuse me, Mr. Pratt.”

As Mrs. Merrick and the duchess whisked Miss Merrick away, Lydia tapped him with that damnable fan. “Pity. Miss Merrick seems to have experienced a series of unfortunate events today.”

And although Victor’s heart went out to Miss Merrick, all he could think about was he’d probably lost his chance at gaining the ear of—and perhaps a commission for portraits from—a duke. Not to mention Miss Merrick’s friendship.

At that moment, he wasn’t sure which pained him more.

CHAPTER 2

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