Page 17 of Married to a Wicked Duke
“Your Grace?”
He forced himself not to turn around at the sound of Lady Veronica’s voice.
“It’s rather rubbish, I’m afraid,” he said. “The portrait. I apologize.” He was infuriated with himself. Not because now it seemed unlikely that he and Lady Veronica would win his grandmother’s foolish competition. Oh, he cared little about such things. But there was a part of him that had wanted Veronica to see what he was capable of. Wanted to show her that there was some value to him—at least beyond his dukedom.
Veronica laughed lightly. “Rather rubbish?” Her footsteps clicked across the floorboards towards him and Frederick caught the aroma of something earthy and floral, as though she had been out in the garden. “Oh, Your Grace, it is not rubbish at all. Far from it.”
Frederick snorted. “It’s empty. Soulless. It’s not a real person, you see. Just a figure I conjured up in my imagination. And it shows in the painting. Just look at the eyes. There is nothing behind them. Not a single thing.”
Veronica nodded along, listening patiently. “I see what you are saying,” she said finally, and Frederick was glad she had not just blindly tried to disregard his opinion. “But I do not agree. Those eyes—they allow the viewer to make their own interpretation. You are not simply telling your audience how they must feel, but rather allowing them to work that out on their own.” She smiled. “You know we are always our own worst critics. Especially us artists. We always seek perfection, do we not? And so rarely in life is anything perfect.”
Frederick swallowed heavily, overcome with a sudden, inexplicable rush of emotion. He cleared his throat. “You have been out in the garden?”
“Yes,” said Veronica. “With my father.” She lowered her eyes. “I thought the fresh air would do him good.” She looked back up at him, her bright smile returning. “The garden here is exquisite. Since the moment we arrived, I have been wanting to go out and draw what I saw.”
“It is beautiful,” Frederick agreed. “I enjoyed exploring out there when I was a child. I used to beg my mother and father to bring me up here. I loved it so much more than being in London.” How distant that memory seemed. He nodded towards Lady Veronica’s sketchbook. “May I?”
She hesitated for a fraction of a second, as though overcome with shyness. Then she held it out toward him.
Frederick opened the book, turning through page after page of finely detailed sketches. He recognized the oak tree and the fountain, even a sketch of her father.
“These are quite something,” he said. “You certainly have a talent.”
Veronica’s cheeks reddened. “Nothing like your mother’s talent,” she said. “I enjoyed looking at her landscapes this morning. They are so evocative. I do not think I will ever be able to paint like that.”
“Your style is rather different,” Frederick agreed. “But these are just as good. And look,” he tapped the page containing the image of her father, “this portrait is wonderful. Very lifelike.”
Veronica smiled shyly. “I took your advice to heart, Your Grace. About a portrait being a glimpse into a person’s soul, rather than just their likeness.”
Frederick nodded, looking again at the sketch of the Earl of Volk. Indeed, Veronica had captured a sense of heaviness about him, a sadness behind his eyes that reminded Frederick of himself. He closed the book uncomfortably and held it out to Veronica. “The watercolors ought to be dry now. Would you like to paint the background?”
Veronica nodded. “Of course. Where shall I find you when it is finished?”
“I shall be in the library,” said Frederick.
Veronica nodded. “Very well. I shall see you in a few hours.”
Frederick made his way towards the door, then stopped. He did not wish to go to the library, he realized. For once, he did not crave his own company. “Lady Veronica?”
She looked over her shoulder in surprise. “Yes, Your Grace?”
“Would you mind if I stayed here and watched you work?” The question came out sounding tentative and boyish.
Veronica smiled, her blue eyes shining. “Of course, you may. I would welcome your thoughts.”
As Frederick pulled up a chair and settled in to watch Veronica work, he felt a sense of calmness wash over him that he had not felt in years.
ChapterEight
Carla walked up and down the parlor, examining the row of completed paintings in front of her. Fair to say, she had overestimated the artistic talent of most of the guests at this party.
Optimistically, she had imagined that having the young pairs paint about love might stir up some passion and lead to a few masterpieces. But she was fairly certain an infant could have produced better work than most of these disasters.
One canvas displayed what she assumed was supposed to be a self-portrait, although she could not for the life of her determine which of the guests it was supposed to be. Another contained a rather lewd interpretation of love that she suspected its artists had completed on a dare, with the protection of the paintings’ anonymity.
Only one piece stood out: a lone figure overlooking a wild, windblown seascape, a look of wonder in his eyes. She had no doubt who had painted it.
“Well,” said Pippa from the armchair behind her, “I do not imagine you will have any difficulty deciding on a winner.” She smoothed the fur of her brown and white terrier who was curled up in her lap and chewing its own leg.
