Page 68 of Married to a Wicked Duke
And yet, she had chosen to ignore all those warnings. She had allowed herself to believe there was a good man hiding beneath his cold façade. And yes, there was no point denying it: she had let herself fall in love.
Now, just as she had once feared he would, he had torn her heart to pieces.
Veronica whirled around and raced out of the room. She could hear Gemma and her grandmother calling after her, but she did not look back. Of all people, she could not face them: not Gemma with her blissful, loving marriage; and certainly not her grandmother, who had deigned to marry her to this cruel and heartless man.
She charged down the passageway, past the collections she and Frederick had so carefully collated. Footsteps thundered behind her, but she did not turn around. She raced out the back door into the narrow alleyway behind the house. The door had barely closed behind her before it flew open again and her husband charged out into the lane.
Veronica was wrong. It was not Gemma or her grandmother she least wanted to face. It was this man. She glared at him, tears streaming down her face.
“How could you?” she managed. “After all we have been through? And after all the work I have done for this place. Is this how you choose to repay me? I have never been more humiliated in my entire life!”
“Veronica—” Frederick reached for her, but she pulled away sharply.
“Was this your plan all along?” she demanded. “To lure me into thinking you cared for me, and that you wished me to be a part of your gallery? Was this how you planned to get back at me for becoming your wife against your will?”
“Veronica—”
“And to do such a thing withherof all people! How long were the two of you planning this? Was she in our house, Frederick? Was she in your studio?” Her eyes widened with horror. “Was this what you were painting that night you hid your work from me? Is that why you did not wish for me to see it? Were you painting a portrait ofherright before you made love to me?” Her cheeks burned. “Or whatever in hell it was that you did? Because it certainly does not seem as though it was l—”
“Veronica.” Frederick gripped her shoulders and looked her squarely in the eye. “Listen to me. That is not my painting. I knew nothing about that. I swear it.”
Veronica shrugged out of his grip and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “You expect me to believe that? I know your style, Frederick. I know what your work looks like. Andthatis your painting.”
“No,” he said firmly. “No, it’s not.” He scrubbed a hand across his jaw. “Do you really think me capable of something so cruel and hurtful?”
Veronica was silent.
Frederick let out his breath. “So you do, then. I see.” He shook his head. “I suppose I cannot be surprised you would think such things of me. I know I have treated you badly in the past. But I was trying to change, Veronica. I really was.” He lowered his eyes. “I know I have not been so successful at it.”
Veronica sniffed. “I thought you were changing too. I thought you were truly coming to care for me. And yet…” She faded out, because the tiniest hint of doubt was beginning to creep into her mind. How she wanted to believe Frederick was innocent.
No. She would not do it. She was not a foolish, naïve young child anymore. And she was also an accomplished artist. She recognized a painter’s style when she saw it. Especially when that painter was her husband.
Frederick’s jaw tightened. “If you are not going to trust me, then I suppose I will just have to prove to you that I did not paint that portrait,” he said tautly.
Veronica folded her arms across her chest in a gesture of self-preservation. “And how exactly do you plan to do that?”
“I don’t know,” Frederick admitted. “But I shall. Somehow. It is too important not to.”
* * *
Frederick marched back into the gallery, anger and frustration burning under his skin. He had no thought of how that horrible portrait had found its way onto his easel—or what had happened to the portrait of his wife he had spent so many hours crafting. All he knew was that he had to find a way to fix this. And fast.
Back in the main gallery, the crowd was buzzing with chatter.Gossip, Frederick thought sickly.About me, and Veronica, and damn Lady Juliet…
He turned to face the gathering. He felt old shame beginning to resurface. The shame he remembered from those terrible days when rumors about his mother had circled endlessly through theton. Of all things, this was not the way he wanted to honor his mother; with yet another truthless scandal. Back then, he had not done enough to silence the rumors. Had not done enough to protect his mother. To save her.
But now he had the chance to see that the same thing did not happen to his wife. He would not let Veronica be harmed by such hurtful rumors. He was going to do everything he could to see that this mess was fixed as quickly as possible. And that not a single word of it made it outside the walls of this gallery.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he began, “it seems there has been a small mix-up. I apologize.” Frederick forced himself to meet the eyes of the people in the crowd. The artists he had commissioned, whose finely crafted work had just been so cruelly upstaged. Veronica’s sister, the Duchess of Larsen, who seemed to perpetually want to tear his eyes out—and never more so than right now. And he forced himself to meet the gaze of Lady Juliet Carfield, who was standing at the back of the group with a tiny smile on her lips.
“I am doing my best to rectify the mistake,” Frederick continued, “and I hope the presentation will continue shortly. In the meantime, please make your way through the gallery and enjoy the collections collated by the Duchess and me.”
The crowd broke into fresh murmurs, and Frederick made a beeline for Lady Juliet. “We need to speak,” he hissed.
She fluttered her lashes. “Are you certain that is a good idea, Your Grace? In light of this… mix-up, as you say, I suspect it may reflect poorly on you if we were seen speaking together.” She looked past him at the portrait of herself, a smile flickering on her lips. “Whyever would you paint such a thing? And whyever would you present it here of all places?” She twittered with laughter. “You must not think much of your wife, Your Grace.”
“I hadnothingto do with that cursed painting,” Frederick hissed. “As you well know. Where is the portrait of the Duchess?”
