Page 50 of Doxy for the Ton
Mimi held her breath. Eleanor meant well, but Mimi couldn’t bear the thought of receiving more visitors—ladies to turn their noses up at her, asking questions about her lineage, about the fictional Sir John Rex.
“Would you permit me to draw your likeness?” Eleanor asked.
“I-I don’t understand.”
Eleanor pulled out two books from her basket and flicked through one—a sketchbook, filled with sketches of trees, tree stumps, and portraits. She stopped at a page and ran her fingertips over it to trace the outline of the face depicted there—a strong face with a firm jaw, straight nose, high forehead, and full, sensual lips, framed by a mane of thick, dark hair. Despite the savage strength of his features, the subject stared out from the page with an expression tender enough to melt the hardest of hearts.
Eleanor let out a sigh.
“Is that…?”
“My husband,” the duchess said. “Montague was kind enough to sit for me last week, shortly after we…” She blushed. “It’s howIsee him. He doesn’t always resemble his portrait—which you’ll see when you meet him. He has a rather stern countenance—I confess, I was a little afraid of him at first.”
Mimi stared at the portrait. Anyone would wither under the intensity of that gaze. Doubtless, the tenderness in his eyes was something he gifted only to his wife.
It was the portrait of a man in love.
Eleanor turned to a blank page. Then she pulled a pencil out of her reticule and looked up at Mimi. “Would it be an imposition to add you to my collection?”
Mimi hesitated. Whom would Eleanor depict? Would she draw the doxy, the deceiver masquerading as someone above her station? Or would she draw the bitter, heartbroken creature that Mimi concealed within?
But she couldn’t afford to hurt Eleanor’s feelings, no matter how little she desired to be imprisoned by her pencil. The duchess had befriended her, gifted her with sweets and her father’s silks.
Perhaps that was the mark of true friendship—doing something she didn’t like, to please someone she did.
Eleanor picked up the second book. “I thought, perhaps, if I gifted you this, you might be disposed to sit for me.”
Mimi glanced at the book. “Das Wohltemperirte Clavierby Bach.”
“I know little about music, but my sister Lady Radham assured me that these pieces are within the capabilities of most. I thought you might like to play them, and I recall your saying you had no music. The book’s somewhat careworn, I’m afraid.”
Mimi took the book and turned it over in her hands. The pages were yellowing at the edges and there was a tear in the back cover. But its value was not in the condition of the pages—it was in the fact that someone had noted her love of Bach and sought this out as a gift for her.
It wasn’t the action of a duchess. It was the action of a friend.
Mimi blinked, and moisture stung her eyes.
“Oh, forgive me!” Eleanor said. “I had no right to ask you to sit for me if you don’t wish to.”
Mimi set the music aside and smiled at her friend. “It would be my pleasure.”
“Excellent!” Eleanor said. “I’m afraid I’m not good at knowing how to ask for favors, but my husband encourages me to just tell people what I want. But I can only ask those whom I trust not to judge me for my awkwardness.”
What a strange creature the duchess was—strange enough that a woman of her station would bother with Mimi at all, but Eleanor often seemed ill at ease in her surroundings. Mimi had at first assumed she was uncomfortable because she considered a doxy beneath her. But Eleanor’s frank confessions about her feelings spoke of something else—that she was in greater need of friendship than anyone.
Mimi reached for her teacup then hesitated. “Do you wish me to sit still?”
Eleanor shook her head, her pencil already moving across the page. “No need,” she said. “I want to depictyou. I despise those portraits where the subject was told to pose for the artist. You’re a living, breathing woman—not a statue. Now, ignore my pencil, and tell me about your plans to help the disadvantaged women of the world.”
Mimi took her teacup and relaxed into her chair. At first, she watched Eleanor’s pencil, then found herself ignoring it. The duchess continued the conversation, her gaze only occasionally flicking toward the page.
At length, Eleanor paused and stretched her hands, her knuckles cracking. Then she held the sketch at arm’s length.
“May I see?” Mimi asked.
Eleanor revealed the page, and Mimi caught her breath.
The woman staring back at her had delicate, elfin features and wide, expressive eyes. Her hair framed her face in gentle waves, with stray wisps softening the outline. Her mouth was unsmiling, and her face betrayed no emotion, except her eyes, which revealed a deep yearning.
