Page 22 of A Scarred Wallflower for the Duke
“If you do not mind,” he said to his sister as they walked. He kept his voice low, but Vincent was close enough to make his words out. “I will need your help with the ledgers in a moment. There is something I cannot figure out.”
Georgina helps the Viscount with his ledgers?
Vincent felt a smile on his lips. In a way, he was not surprised. From what he knew of Lord Thomson and Miss Lydia, Georgina was twice as sharp as her siblings put together. He could hardly imagine the dithering young man he had just sat through a berating from being capable of managing his own finances. Georgina, however… He could just imagine her being the one to keep the household running.
Why was there something so attractive about that? He had been raised to believe that a lady’s job was to be quiet and submissive; to not venture near her husband’s business—or her brother’s. Indeed, his one request to his mother all those years ago was that his future wife be obedient.
If he thought about it for even a second, Vincent could see the uncomfortable truth: When he had asked his mother for an obedient wife, he had not truly believed he would ever have to marry. There had been a part of him, buried not so deeply, that had assumed he would never make it to thirty. After all, few men in his family did. Certainly, none made it as far as forty. And so he had not put any thought into what he wanted his future wife to be. An obedient wife seemed to be what all men of the ton sought, so why should he not be the same?
And look where that has led me…
How would things be different if he had thought more carefully about what he wanted in a wife? Or indeed, if he had not been so dismissive of the task, and had sought a bride himself, instead of simply asking his mother to do so on his behalf? Might there be any chance he could be courting Georgina Wyatt, instead of her sister?
Vincent knew the answer, and it was an uncomfortable one. No one in his family would ever accept Georgina as his Duchess. No one in thetonwould accept it either. She simply did not match their ideals of perfection. Vincent clenched his hands into fists, seized by a sudden pull of anger.
Lord Thomson clicked open the door of the sitting room. In the center of the room, two paintings sat drying on their easels. The acrid smell of paint still hung in the air.
The Viscount’s shoes clicked loudly as he made his way across the room to examine the paintings. “Ah,” he said, gesturing to Lydia’s portrait. “She is beautiful, is she not, Your Grace? The artist has done a fine job of capturing her essence.”
Vincent smiled thinly. Lydia gazed back at him from upon the canvas, smiling and angelic, with golden curls about her face. Her cheeks were rosy, her features perfectly in proportion. Vincent had to admit the portrait was a good representation, but it left him feeling hollow. Perhaps it was just the thought of being shackled to someone as impossibly perfect as Lydia Wyatt for the rest of his life.
He forced a smile. “The artist has captured her well, yes,” he told Lord Thomson.
Vincent moved across the room, eager to see Georgina’s portrait. At the sight of it, Lord Thomson clapped his hands together. “Ah, lovely.” He turned to look over his shoulder at his sister, who had retreated to the back of the room. Vincent had never seen her act in such a shy and reserved manner before. “The artist has done a fine job, don’t you think?”
“Yes,” Georgina said thinly. “He is a very talented artist.” She lowered her eyes.
Vincent stared at the painting. And rage flared inside him. Because this image on the canvas, it was not Georgina Wyatt. The lady staring back at him had Georgina’s sharp blue eyes and soft waves of brown hair, but that was where the similarities ended. The creature in the painting was flawless, with creamy, unblemished skin, and a perfectly symmetrical face. She had the same beatific smile as Lydia—an expression he had never once seen on the fiery and sharp-tongued Georgina.
“Well,” Lord Thomson said before Vincent could open his mouth to express his displeasure. “I am sure we have kept Miss Lydia waiting long enough. Shall I see you downstairs, Your Grace?”
Vincent smiled stiffly. “Do not trouble yourself, Thompson. I can find my way downstairs with no trouble. I believe you and Miss Wyatt have work to do.” He was unable to help a fleeting glance in Georgina’s direction.
Lord Thomson hesitated. He chewed his lip, clearly embarrassed at having been overheard asking for his sister’s assistance. “Very well,” he said finally. “As you wish.” And off he went out of the room, his shoes click-clacking steadily. Georgina made to follow, but Vincent grabbed her wrist, tugging him back toward him gently.
“What are you doing?” she hissed. “My brother will—”
“Are you truly satisfied with this?” he hissed, gesturing wildly at the portrait.
Georgina’s eyebrows rose, as though taken aback at his fervor. “To be truthful, Your Grace, I really have no strong feelings about the painting at all. Our grandmother insisted we did this, but I am just glad it is over.” She tugged her arm free of his grip.
“Youshouldhave strong feelings about it,” he said sharply. “This isnotyou.”
“Well.” Georgina shifted awkwardly from one foot to the other, overcome again by the shyness he had seen from her moments ago. “My grandmother likes perfection. I am sure she instructed the artist to paint me in such a way. As what I could have been.”
The anger in Vincent’s chest intensified. “That is not right.” He folded his arms. “You ought to insist on having it redone. By a more talented artist this time.”
Georgina let out a short laugh, but there was no humor in it. “Why does it bother you so? It means nothing. My grandmother just wants a portrait to hang on the wall in which I look like every other lady in the ton.”
“It bothers me because—” Vincent dropped his voice suddenly, realizing his anger was causing him to get carried away. “Because you arenotlike all the other ladies in theton. You do not act like them. You do not speak like them.” Impulsively, he took a step toward her, grabbing both her hands and squeezing them. “You do not look like them. And all those things are what makes you so special.”
Georgina let out her breath, and at once Vincent feared he had gone too far. He had spoken without thinking, and his words had come out sounding far more intimate than he had intended. He could see her eyes tugging downward with shame.
“There is nothing special about me,” she murmured.
Vincent felt his chest tighten at her words. His palm moved up to cup her face. His thumb traced a gentle line across her cheek, and for a moment, Georgina’s eyelids fluttered closed. “You are wrong,” he said, his voice low and husky. “You could not be more wrong.”
To hell with going too far. To hell with sounding too intimate. He did not care. He just wanted to take away a little of that self-loathing he could see in Georgina’s eyes.
