Page 67 of Married to a Wicked Duke
Veronica’s cheeks flushed, taken aback by her grandmother’s blatant admission—and her question. It was a complicated question if ever she had heard one. She could not deny that being Frederick’s wife had brought her a sizeable amount of pain; never more so than the way he had closed down on her moments before he had declared his love. But in spite of his coldness, his distance, Frederick Barnes had brought so much to her life. He had brought to life her long-held dreams—and even those she had not known she had had. For that, she would always be grateful.
“No, Grandmother,” she decided. “I am very glad you decided to do so.”
“Good,” said the Dowager Marchioness firmly. “In any case, it was hardly as if I had a choice in the matter. You and Frederick were all over each other in that garden.” She nodded towards the painting of the oak tree. “Right there, if I am not mistaken.”
“Grandmother!” Veronica hissed, her cheeks turning scarlet. She whirled around to see if her father had heard, but much to Veronica’s relief, he had drifted off into another room of the gallery. “We are inpublic.”
“So were you,” the Dowager Marchioness chuckled. “And that was rather the issue.”
Jane giggled.
“I would not laugh if I were you, Jane,” said Gemma with a smile. “You know Grandmother will be coming for you next.”
“Oh no,” Jane said, shaking her head firmly. “Not me. I have learned well enough from the both of you.” She looked at the Dowager Duchess. “You do not need to worry about me, Grandmother. When my Season begins, I shan’t be making the same mistakes as my sisters. You’ll not need to interfere in anything.”
Gemma looked at Veronica and shared a private smile. “It is sweet that she thinks she has a choice in the matter.”
* * *
Frederick took a deep breath and tried to focus. The main gallery was full of guests with champagne glasses in hand, talking amongst themselves as they waited for the presentations to begin. The sound of their chattering and laughter rang in Frederick’s ears.
This gallery was all he had dreamed of and worked towards in the six years since his mother’s death. Today, it had finally come into fruition.
And he could barely concentrate.
His mind was so full of his wife, there was barely room for any other coherent thought. Over and over, he had been circling through the night she had shown him her paintings.
The night he had almost told her he loved her. And then fled like the biggest of cowards.
Frederick cursed himself for his weakness, his cowardice. And for the fact that he had let the opening of the gallery be overshadowed by his tangled feelings for his wife. Still, he hoped that the presentation he was about to make would go some way to showing Veronica how he truly felt about her.
Frederick stepped up in front of the crowd. “Good evening,” he began. “Thank you all for coming.” His gaze traveled around the gathering. He was pleased to see the event had drawn a sizeable crowd. He recognized several friends of his grandmother’s, and young ladies he assumed were friends of his wife, along with peers he had barely exchanged a word with in years—the Earl of Harford among them. He was slightly less pleased to glimpse Lady Juliet Carfield hidden at the back of the crowd beside a man he guessed was her father. Frederick hurriedly turned his attention away from her.
George Roland and the other artists they had commissioned were spread throughout the crowd. Mrs. Lane stood alone on the edge of the group, but there was a shine in her eyes that Frederick recognized as pride. Earlier in the afternoon, she had come to Frederick and thanked him for the tasteful way he had chosen to present her work. Already, several people had commented on the impact of her pieces.
Frederick turned away from Mrs. Lane to glance at Veronica. She was standing close by, with her eyes pulled downwards.
No doubt doing her best not to look at me…The realization filled him with regret.
“This gallery was opened to honor my dear mother, the late Duchess of Brownwood,” he continued. “Art was her passion, and it was her dream to build a place like this; a place that would give up-and-coming artists a chance to build their careers and share their work with the people of London.” He nodded towards the portrait of his mother hanging on the wall close to the entrance. “I hope she would be proud of this place, just as I am.”
He felt a sudden swell of emotion and found himself glancing at Veronica. As though feeling her eyes on him, she looked up, her face lightening. The sight of her smile made Frederick realize just how much he had missed it.
“But there is another very important lady in my life who I wish to honor through this gallery,” he said, forcing himself to keep his voice level. “A lady I could not have done this without. And so, without further ado, I would like to present the final piece in tonight’s collection.” With a flourish, he whipped the cover off the canvas—to reveal a portrait of Lady Juliet Carfield.
ChapterTwenty-Eight
Several patrons gasped, and a stunned murmur rippled through the crowd.
“Stunning,” Veronica heard her father mumble. “Simply stunning.”
Gemma whacked him loudly in the arm.
Veronica stared in horror at the painting. Her entire body began to tremble, and she felt hot tears of rage burning behind her eyes. She stared openly at Frederick, swamped in disbelief. He stood wide-eyed, lips parted, as though waiting for her response.
She looked back at that horrible, hurtful painting. There was Lady Juliet, with her perfect blonde ringlets cascading over her perfect shoulders, an angelic smile on her face and a soft pink gown pooling at her feet. The style was every bit Frederick’s. Veronica recognized the fine brush strokes, the darker color palette of the background, the positioning of the subject. She had no doubt that Frederick had painted the portrait. But she could hardly make sense of why.
Because he is a cruel and hurtful man, whispered the voice inside her head.You knew that the day you met him. The very first moment you heard him speak, he showed you the kind of man he was.
