Page 9 of A Picture Is Worth A Thousand Heirs

As if enthralled, he sat perfectly still, his hands resting on his thighs, his eyes glimmering with emotion. When the final notes ceased their reverberations, the very air around them seemed to still in anticipation. Applause, at first polite and reserved, grew louder, coming primarily from Mr. Pratt. “Brava!” he exclaimed.

If Juliana were honest with herself—which, for the most part, she tried to be—she had been infatuated with Mr. Pratt from the moment she met him at Drake’s house party. Handsome and charming, with his long blond hair and sparkling blue eyes, something mysterious had drawn her to him. And although his gallantry in asking her to dance at her come-out ball had been marred by the unfortunate spill of ratafia on her white gown, he had occupied her dreams—both sleeping and awake—for the good part of the last several months.

But at that moment, she saw him with fresh eyes. Not simply an attractive picture with no depth or substance, Mr. Pratt—Victor—was a sensitive man, moved deeply by the beauty around him. And the reality of her discovery slammed into her hard. He was the kind of man she could give her whole heart to.

If only she weren’t a disgraced commoner.

Victor swiped discreetlyat his face, hoping no one noticed the tears forming in his eyes. Thank goodness Father had convinced Mother to stay at home, regretfully missing the event himself. Both had often criticized Victor for wearing his emotions like a badge of honor.

But he simply couldn’t hold it in. He’d forgotten how well Lady Montgomery played. Or perhaps his maudlin mood aligned with the poignant piece. Art in all its forms was his life’s blood, that which fed his spirit and nourished his mind.

He’d been reluctant to attend the musicale, remembering he’d first met Adalyn at one of the Saxtons’ events. Fool that he was, Victor believed they had a connection when he offered to escort her to the National Gallery. Attentive and charming, Adalyn appeared as enamored with him as he was with her. Things were progressing swimmingly, until Lord Nash had shown up with Lady Honoria and joined them. Was that when Nash began his scheme to steal Adalyn away?

Or had it been even sooner? When Victor thought about it, Nash had also been at that musicale. Had his instincts about Adalyn’s interest been that faulty? And if so, how could he trust them?

Victor supposed trying to understand how, when, and why things had gone awry was futile, and although he dreaded attending that evening, hearing Lady Montgomery play had been a balm to his dour mood. Apparently, his sister had her finger on his pulse better than he did. Except . . .

Why had Cilla chosen to sit in the row with Miss Merrick? And to insist they switch places so Victor was right nextto the lady? He suspected Cilla was up to her matchmaking machinations. Ever since she had secured a love match with the good doctor, she’d been hellbent on seeing everyone she cared about equally leg-shackled.

He had a sinking suspicion that she’d even played a part in that scoundrel Lord Nash stealing Miss Lovelace from under Victor’s nose. It would serve Cilla right if Victor let her think she succeeded in her scheme. What harm would it do to play along and flirt with Miss Merrick?

Confident his face was free of any telltale tearstains, he turned toward her. He half expected a delicately raised blond brow at the emotion on his face he was unable to contain.

Instead, sincerity and understanding filled her cornflower-blue eyes, and she placed a hand over her heart. “I don’t believe I’ve ever heard anything so moving. Honoria told me how well Bea played, but I simply wasn’t prepared for...for—that.” She waved a hand toward the piano.

Victor nodded, desperately trying to clear his emotionally clogged throat. “Do you play, Miss Merrick?”

A pretty blush covered her cheeks—a delicate mix of pink and peach against her cream skin. How he’d like to capture that on canvas. “Not well. I’m trying to learn, but I fear I’m hopeless.”

Victor understood the frustration of a novice artist. How many pieces of paper had he crumpled in anger when he couldn’t get the lines of a sketch just so, or an expensive canvas tossed aside when his paints blobbed together rather than blended as he desired? “Practice, Miss Merrick, is an unforgiving mistress, but in the end, the reward is worth it. If your heart is there, the art will follow.”

The audience settled down, and when Cilla rose from her seat, Victor peeked down at the program and noted Cilla was next to perform. “Whose idea was this?” he whispered to Timothy.

His brother-in-law grimaced. “Bea’s. I suspect it’s a latent attempt to punish Priscilla for her scheme involving Ashton. Bea has yet to completely forgive her, even though Priscilla is family now. Hopefully, things will change once...”

Timothy didn’t have to finish his statement. Victor remembered his conversation with Cilla three weeks prior. Children had a way of bringing people together and mending old wounds.

Or setting a finalclosedstamp on one’s heart. Cilla had told him that Adalyn and that scoundrel, Nash, had welcomed a son into their family. The fleeting hope that she might come to her senses about her rake of a husband, and return to England, confessing to Victor her error in rejecting him, flapped its wings and flew out the proverbial window.

People—especially women—rarely ended marriages once children were involved. Even Victor’s mother had returned from her exile in Lincolnshire, and his father was doing his damnedest to repair their marriage.

No. Victor had to face the facts. If he was going to fulfill his duty as heir to the viscountcy and take a bride, he would have to look elsewhere.

According to his mother, Lydia Whyte was the perfect candidate.

But Victor found Lydia like so many other girls of thetonself-centered, shallow, and—boring.

He stole a peek at Miss Merrick. And as he’d done the last time he’d seen her, he unwittingly compared her to Adalyn.

Would he never get the woman out of his mind? She haunted his dreams and now, his waking hours in the form of Miss Merrick. He tried to concentrate on the piece Cilla performed on the flute.

The polite applause that followed Cilla’s performance remained so, not reaching the level of appreciation that LadyMontgomery’s had elicited. Victor leaned over to Miss Merrick and whispered. “I’m sure my sister is relieved that is over.”

Her gloved hand flitted to her mouth, stifling her laugh, but Victor caught the merriment sparkling in her eyes.

“I dare say she did better than I would have.”

“You’re learning the flute as well?” Victor’s surprise mixed with admiration at her generosity.

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