Page 22 of A Scandalous Kind of Duke

“Yes,” Juno said. “I know.”

A moment later, in marched Mr. Prescott, London’s foremost art critic. Mr. Prescott’s compact form was clad in black, his reserved manner a stark contrast to his young wife’s colorful exuberance. He too stopped short at the sight of Leo.

“Dammerton,” said Prescott.

“Prescott,” said Dammerton.

Having thus reminded each other of their names, they fell into the silence of two men who disagreed on nearly every topic and chose to say nothing rather than risk a quarrel. Then, with a curt nod, Mr. Prescott peeled away to subject the wall of paintings to his fearsome scrutiny, with Juno left to introduce Beatrice to the duke.

“Mr. Prescott has come to examine Miss Bell’s new painting of Pandora,” Beatrice said to Leo, her eyes shining. “I have told him of its excellence, and if he agrees with my assessment, he might even find a buyer.”

Excitement and trepidation waltzed along Juno’s spine. Mr. Prescott’s expression remained impassive as he brandished his quizzing glass at her work. Every artist in London clamored for Prescott’s attention, every buyer sought his advice. He tended to ignore London’s small circle of women artists, but Juno had secured the patronage of his wife, a coup that was working in her favor today.

Leo, naturally, remained unimpressed. “The great critic himself,” he murmured.

“Behave!” Juno mouthed at him, and a conspiratorial smile curled the edges of his lips.

Oh, she did enjoy Leo’s smiles, the way his eyes took on that playful glint, the way he spoke without saying a word. What about his future bride, she wondered: Did that lady enjoy his secret smiles, his subtle looks? Did she know how to kindle that light in his eyes?

What a foolish thought. All his acquaintances would know; Juno was no one special.

“Bringing Miss Bell’s work to the attention of London is an important part of my role as her patroness,” Beatrice was telling Leo. “She has completed the most marvelous portrait of me. Marvelous thanks to her skill, that is. I’m sure I make a very poor subject!”

Beatrice Prescott, with her eye-catching prettiness, could never make a poor subject; Leo gallantly murmured something to that effect.

Perhaps encouraged by his compliment, Beatrice continued. “Indeed, I am unveiling the portrait two days from now, during a garden party held especially to introduce Miss Bell to the finest art lovers in society. Only a modest garden party, but everyone who enjoys art is welcome. Perhaps, Your Grace, if you have no other claims on your time…”

Her eyes were wide and expectant, the invitation plain in her voice. Prescott shot his wife a quelling look at her impertinence, but Leo’s expression didn’t change.

“What an excellent endeavor,” he said, politely sidestepping her invitation. “I wish you every success.” He inclined his head. “Mrs. Prescott. Prescott. Miss Bell.”

Having once again reminded everyone of their names, Leo strolled out of Juno’s parlor without a backward glance.

* * *

No sooner hadLeo disappeared than Beatrice, beaming, clapped like a child.

“How exciting! I wondered if I might ever encounter him here, and there he was! A duke! Oh, how impertinent he must think me. But wouldn’t it be wonderful if he did come to our garden party?”

Prescott fired an irritated look at his wife, who grinned at Juno.

“Prescott’s wearing his grumpy face. Let us leave him in peace, while you show me what wonders you’re working on now.”

Poor Beatrice. How she longed for attention from the peerage. She was determined to establish herself as a grand patroness of the arts, but despite winning over art-loving ladies in the gentry, peeresses continued to ignore her. From the day she and Juno became friendly, Beatrice had been dropping hints: Would her friend the Marchioness of Hardbury be around? Might her acquaintance the Duke of Dammerton call? Unfortunately for Beatrice, Juno had no sway over the comings and goings of her friends. Besides, while she knew her connections were part of what attracted Beatrice, she refused to use her friends that way.

In the studio, Beatrice lowered her voice. “I caught a glimpse of Dammerton at a ball last night. Can you guess which lady he was flirting with? None other than Miss Susannah Macey. Do you know her, Juno?”

“No,” said Juno.

“Well. Her father is heir to the Earl of Renshaw, and she has twenty-five thousand pounds. They say the duke is courting her, but then he is always courting someone. It’s a wonder anyone can keep up. Has he spoken of it, Juno? Will he marry Miss Macey?”

“I couldn’t say,” she said. “We don’t speak of such matters.”

“No, of course. He would reserve such matters for his intimates.”

Miss Susannah Macey. Now Juno had a name. And no doubt the unknown Miss Macey was perfectly lovely. Perhaps Juno would meet her one day. Perhaps Leo would bring his new duchess here and he would say, “This is Miss Bell, whom I first met years ago when we—”

Silly Juno. He would never introduce her to his wife. He would never bring his wife here. In a flash, she understood his odd manner: He had called today to tell her he would never call on her again.

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