Page 31 of Married to a Wicked Duke
Gemma slid an arm around her shoulder and pulled her into a tight embrace. “Things will get better,” she said, “I promise. And right now, you can put all your energy into painting the orphans the most beautiful mural you possibly can.” She nodded at the bag of supplies Veronica had brought with her from her new studio. “I see you have come prepared.”
Veronica closed her eyes, her thoughts drawn involuntarily back to the moment she and the Duke had shared in her studio. The moment before he had shut down and everything had changed. She pushed the thought away. Gemma was right: painting the mural was an amazing opportunity. She was not going to taint it by thinking about her cold and capricious husband—not even for a second.
* * *
“Grandmother,” said Frederick, as the Dowager Duchess sat down at the breakfast table, “I was not expecting to see you this morning. I thought you would be tucked up in bed with a raging headache.”
His grandmother glided past his comment. In spite of yesterday’s drunken antics, she looked impossibly sprightly this morning. Frederick found himself faintly envious. A headache was already beginning to thump behind his eyes, though he suspected that he was more wrought by guilt over the way he had spoken to Veronica last night than by the excesses of the wedding breakfast.
“What did you do?” his grandmother asked pointedly.
Frederick raised his eyebrows. “What do you mean?”
She raised her neat grey eyebrows as she spread her toast with marmalade. “I have been informed that the Duchess has left the house already. She has gone to be with her sister. I can only assume that means you did something to upset her.”
Frederick felt something sink inside him. He had hoped for the chance to apologize to his wife this morning. Not that he had any intention of changing his mind about the nature of their marriage—no, it was for the best that he and Veronica kept as far away from each other as possible.
Nonetheless, he was annoyed at his grandmother’s insinuation that Veronica’s leaving had been his fault.
Never mind that it is an entirely accurate guess.
“Why do you assume I did something to upset her?” he asked tautly. “Perhaps she just wished to spend time with her sister.”
The Dowager Duchess snorted. “Because I’m no fool, Frederick. And I know you.” Her tone softened. “What happened?”
Frederick stared into his teacup, not bringing it to his lips.
Whatdidhappen?
The truth was, he had been afraid. When he and Veronica had been dealing with their drunken grandmothers, and had ended up in fits of laughter, Frederick had felt lighter than he had in years. So close to happy that it had terrified him. And that bright smile of Veronica’s… It was a smile that reminded him of one he had seen before, many years ago. A smile he had brought to the face of a young girl who had been hurting. Frederick did not remember her name, nor the circumstances of their meeting. But he had never forgotten that smile.
“It’s as bright as the sun,”he remembered telling her—and that had only made her beam brighter.
At the sight of such warmth, on his own wife’s face, Frederick had felt his insides beginning to thaw. And when he had seen the joy on her face at the sight of her studio, he had been moments away from pulling her into his arms and whisking her off to his bedchamber to consummate their marriage.
But that could never be. Opening his damaged heart was far too dangerous. Because if it was dealt another blow, he was not sure he would survive it.
To his grandmother, he said, “I did not want a wife. And you thrust one upon me anyway. What did you imagine might happen? That I would suddenly change into a warm and affectionate man?”
His grandmother gave him a knowing smile that managed to infuriate him. She took another bite of her toast and chewed neatly. “That would not be a sudden change, my dear. Because I know full well that that is who you are deep inside.” She reached across the table and covered his wrist with her soft, wrinkled hand. “I know this is difficult for you, Frederick. But it is not easy for your wife either. Do not make it any harder for her than it needs to be.”
He closed his eyes. He knew his grandmother was right. As far as Veronica was concerned, he needed to do better. True, theirs would never be a real marriage. And she would never have the loving husband she longed for. But he could at least be civil. Perhaps even kind. He nodded acceptingly. “I shall try.”
* * *
After breakfast, Frederick made a hasty escape to his study. On his way, he collected a pile of old books he had put aside in the library, to be donated to the orphan’s school. He placed the stack of books on his desk and looked down at the silver tray containing the morning mail. He took the first letter from the pile with interest. It was from his family’s lawyer. After he himself had had no luck in finding an appropriate venue for the gallery, Frederick had asked the man to keep an eye and ear out for any suitable premises. He tore the letter open impatiently. As he began to read, he felt his heart quicken slightly.
Your Grace,
You will be pleased to hear I have found a venue I believe will be most suitable for your project. It is a disused townhouse in Covent Garden, close to the theatres, and thus in the heart of the city’s artistic district.
Frederick found himself smiling. Hosting the gallery in an old house had been his idea; it would give the project a unique and homely feel. But so far, he had been unable to find anything suitable. Each property he visited was either too big, or too small, or in an unsuitable location. But a townhouse in Covent Garden sounded perfect. He tossed down the letter and rang for his valet to prepare the coach, ignoring the rest of the mail.
* * *
The house was perfect. Intimate, yet with enough rooms to present a variety of different collections. Close to the city center in a bustling and artistic area. It was everything his mother would have wanted. Frederick turned in a slow circle, imagining the walls hung with paintings: both his mother’s work and new artists’ as well.
This gallery would launch the careers of London’s talented new painters. He would provide opportunities for those talented artists who were otherwise unable to get a start in the industry. Artists like his mother, who had struggled under the weight of societal expectations.
