Page 56 of Married to a Wicked Duke
Mary hesitated. “Are you certain?”
“Of course.” Veronica smiled. “Please, go home and rest. You deserve it.”
Mary bobbed a curtsey. “Very well, madam. I shall see you at your next lesson.”
Mary’s footsteps click-clacked down the passage and Veronica turned her attention back to the children’s mess. Far from what Mary had suggested, Veronica was more than happy to tidy the classroom herself—what point was there in wanting to make the most of her privilege and give back to the world if she then made others tidy up after her and her wayward students?
Besides, cleaning the classroom helped keep her mind off other things. Well, one other thing in particular.
It had been two days since she and Frederick had finally consummated their marriage. And while Veronica appreciated her husband’s openness about where they now stood, she could not help but wonder if perhaps he was not being entirely honest—with himself.
“I can never give you love,”he had said.“I am just not that kind of man. Truly, I do not think I am capable of such things anymore.”
Since she had learned about his mother’s terrible death, Veronica had come to understand a little more of what was going on inside her husband’s head. Losing a mother was painful enough; she could barely fathom what it must be like for Frederick to have lost the former Duchess in that way. Now, she understood a little more of why he saw the world so bleakly—and perhaps why he saw himself as so underserving of love and happiness. She knew he held himself responsible for his mother’s suicide, and that left a deep ache in her chest—one she longed to take away.
If only he would let me.
But she also felt certain that Frederick did have it in him to love again. Hewasthat kind of man—at least he could be. She had seen his warm, caring side on more than one occasion. But whether he had it in him to loveher… well, that remained to be seen.
A knock at the door pulled Veronica away from her dangerous thoughts. She hurried to open it, grateful she had been interrupted before her mind took her to places she knew she ought not go.
“Good day, Your Grace.” The man standing in the doorway of the classroom was a stranger. He looked to be perhaps thirty, with an overgrown mop of dark hair and intense blue eyes. Stubble darkened his sharp chin, and his simple, faded clothes suggested he was of a much lower class than herself. “I do hope I am not interrupting anything.”
Oh, just my own musings about whether my husband will ever love me…
Veronica smiled. “No, not at all.”
“My name is George Roland,” said the man. “I wondered if I might have a moment of your time?”
“Of course. Please come in.” Veronica waved him into the classroom, which was still overrun with half-finished paintings and puddles of dirty water. “I apologize for the mess. I am afraid my students went a little wild this afternoon.”
Mr. Roland shook his head. “Not at all.” He smiled at her. “I’ve five children at home; I am more than used to a little chaos.” As he stepped into the classroom, Veronica realized he was carrying a small canvas with him, wrapped in a simple brown cloth to protect it.
Veronica nodded towards it. “You are an artist?”
“Yes, Your Grace. I confess that is why I am here.” Mr. Roland shuffled his weight between his feet, his free hand tapping edgily against his upper thigh. “I have heard of the gallery you and your husband are opening. In particular, I have heard you are willing to take a chance on artists who have not yet made a name for themselves.”
“That is correct,” said Veronica. She nodded towards the wrapped canvas. “Is this your work?”
“Yes, Your Grace.” He lowered his eyes shyly.
“Would you like to show it to me?”
“Yes, Your Grace.” Fumbling with the cord tied around the cloth to keep it in place, Mr. Roland slowly unwrapped the canvas. He hesitated for a moment before turning it to face Veronica.
“Oh,” she murmured, “goodness.”
Like her husband, Mr. Roland was a portrait painter, and the canvas before her depicted a young child of about four or five with her back to the viewer. She was dancing down a narrow cobbled alley, her vibrant yellow dress making her stand out against her bleak gray surroundings. The girl peeked over her shoulder, revealing a cheeky smile—and plenty of her personality. The painting was so lifelike the child seemed to leap from the canvas.
“Is this your daughter?” Veronica asked.
Mr. Roland smiled. “Yes. That’s Lucy. My children are a great source of inspiration for me.” He gave her a hopeful look. “I wonder if you might consider her portrait for your gallery?”
Veronica nodded. “Indeed. Have you other pieces?”
“Oh yes.” Mr. Roland nodded enthusiastically. “I have a number of them. Or I could create something new, or…” He wrung his hands together, then dug them into his pockets, as though to stop himself fidgeting.
“May I take this piece home?” asked Veronica. “I would like to discuss the matter with the Duke before I give you an answer.”
