Page 51 of Married to a Wicked Duke
Veronica smiled. “I did, yes”
An excited murmur began to ripple through the classroom.
“Can you teach us how to draw flowers like that?” asked a little girl with two long plaits hanging over her shoulders.
“Of course.” Veronica felt warmth spreading throughout her chest. “Please everyone, take out your colored pencils…”
* * *
Frederick walked slowly through the empty rooms of the gallery. The walls had all been painted in a simple cream-color, so as not to detract from the artwork, and the old townhouse was looking light and airy. It was a dramatic change from the near ruin it had been when he had purchased it.
Today he had brought along the first commissions, including Mrs. Lane’s self-portrait, and a second one of her pieces that was still in the crate it had been delivered in. He would need to think carefully about how and where to display Mrs. Lane’s pieces. When Veronica arrived, he would discuss the matter with her in detail.
Frederick felt his thoughts pulling towards his wife, as they so often did. Her first class at the school would be finishing up now. He smiled to himself, thinking of the bundle of nerves she had been at breakfast that morning. He had no doubt her anxiousness was unwarranted. Veronica was achingly talented, and would be a fine teacher, with her gentle and calming nature. The children would adore her. Of that, he had no doubt. He just wished Veronica had a little more self-confidence.
I am sure I have not been helping in that respect…
Frederick could not deny he had gotten closer to Veronica than he had ever intended. A wife in name only—wasn’t that what he had said? Repeatedly?
And yet each time they had crossed that line, he had been the one to instigate it. Somehow, in the company of his wife, he was prone to impulsive behavior he had little chance of controlling. It had begun just minutes after he had first met her, when he had kissed her so thoughtlessly in his bedchamber at Cambridge. He had been making the same mistake ever since.
And all he could think of doing in the wake of his slip-ups was closing down and treating his wife but nothing with aloof coldness. He knew how confusing his behavior must be for Veronica. How much it must sting her, and how unwanted it must make her feel. Little wonder she was so unsure of herself at times.
But Frederick knew he did not have the strength to be open with her, to tell her of all the bleak and damaging thoughts that were roiling around inside his head. The day he had caught her in his mother’s painting smock, he had come close to telling her everything. And there was a part of him that had wanted to. Desperately.
What would she think of me if she knew?
It was his fault his mother was no longer alive. He had let down the woman who had birthed him, raised him, cared for, and loved him unconditionally. It filled him with unfathomable shame. How could he admit such a thing to his wife?
He heard the front door creak open. Footsteps sounded up the staircase.
“Frederick? Are you here?” Veronica’s voice rang through the empty building like a bell.
“Up here,” he called back.
Veronica appeared at the top of the stairs, her bonnet swinging in her fist. She looked slightly disheveled, with strands of dark hair hanging over her face and a smear of blue on one cheek.
“How was your lesson?” he asked.
Her face broke into that impossibly sunny smile. “Oh Frederick, it was wonderful,” she gushed. “So wonderful. The children… they are such dears. And they were so enthusiastic. So excited. I just felt as though…” she hesitated, as though trying to find the right words, “as though I was exactly where I was supposed to be. I cannot wait until the next lesson.”
Frederick found himself returning her grin. She had that effect, he realized. When she gifted the world that dazzling smile, it was impossible not to reciprocate. “I am very glad to hear it,” he said. “Although I am not surprised at all. I knew you would do a fine job.”
“Thank you.” She took a step toward him, then seemed to change her mind. She set her bonnet down on the arm of the couch they had installed in the corner of the room; the area Veronica had termed the “discussion space.”
She nodded towards the canvases Frederick had leaned up against the wall. “Have you made any decisions about where to place each collection yet?” she asked.
“Not yet. I thought to wait for you. I would like your opinion. About one collection in particular.”
Veronica nodded. “Mrs. Lane’s?”
“Yes.” Frederick had mentioned Mrs. Lane’s change of subject matter to Veronica in passing, but she had not yet seen any of the older woman’s work. There was a part of him that had been reluctant to discuss the pieces with his wife; with her perceptive eye, Veronica would no doubt see how deeply they affected him. And if that happened, Frederick suspected he would wind up sharing far more with her than he wished to.
But now, well, if he wanted her opinion on how to exhibit the works, he would need to show them to her. Mrs. Lane’s new work was incredibly emotive, but also pushed the boundaries of what many might consider “good” art. There would certainly be much discussion around her pieces—and if the response to her work was positive, the exhibition could do wonders for her career. If, indeed, that was what she wanted.
Certainly, when he had first met Mrs. Lane at Lady Hanwell’s salon earlier in the year, she had been open about her aspirations of being a professional artist, despite her unenviable position of being a widowed woman. But now her son was gone… did she still value such things? Frederick knew all too well what grief and regret could do to a person. Knew they had a way of stealing someone’s goals and dreams, and making life seem pointless and devoid of color.
Mrs. Lane was an immensely talented artist. Her work more than deserved to be exhibited, but Frederick also hoped the exhibition would help keep her on the path to her goal of becoming a professional painter. The first step was working out exactly where and how to display her pieces.
