Page 23 of A Scandalous Kind of Duke

Sadness washed over her. She impatiently shook it off. She was no naive fool. She knew how the world worked.

There would be gossip following his betrothal, because there was always gossip about Leo, which meant there would be gossip about her, and Juno did not need gossip of that kind. He was an honorable man, and honor meant guarding his future wife’s reputation. Honor meant putting his wife above her.

Well, never mind. She hadn’t moped when he broke her heart ten years ago, and she most certainly would not mope now.

“Miss Bell.”

Mr. Prescott’s summons cut through her thoughts. The critic had reached his verdict.

Heart pounding, Juno went back to the parlor and clasped her hands nervously. At her side, Beatrice fairly bounced with excitement.

Mr. Prescott’s expression was impassive. “Pandora Trapping Hope,” he said, repeating the artwork’s title like a butler announcing guests at a ball.

At the center of the painting was Pandora, illuminated by the light radiating from a glass jar. Open at her feet was an empty wooden chest, and surrounding her were spring blossoms, holding back the leering, shadowy crowd of miseries and demons released from that infamous box.

“An unusual interpretation of the myth,” Prescott went on. “Most artists choose to depict Pandora giving in to temptation and releasing the evils from the box. Yet you chose to show her after the evils are released, when she manages to hold on to Hope.”

Most artists chose to vilify Pandora; as far as Juno could tell, the gods had set the poor girl up to fail. “That was the part of the myth that most strongly resonated with me,” she said.

He nodded, uninterested. “As usual, my wife’s judgment is sound. This is a superb depiction, as fine as anything in London. You continue to improve,” he added, with a dismissive glance at her earlier works. “I should be happy to suggest this piece to a buyer, and expect it to fetch a fine price.”

Juno tried to stop the smile from conquering her face. “Thank you, sir. You are too kind.”

Her mind raced with arithmetic. What with the sale of this painting, and the fee owing for her full-length portrait of Beatrice, as well as whatever else Beatrice sent her way, why, Juno would berollingin gold this quarter. Well, maybe notrolling, given she was already rolling in bills for her latest deliveries of colors, canvases, and brushes, and Mrs. Kegworth had been waving about a sheaf of household bills. Not to mention the amount owing to the frame maker.

Speaking of which…

She caressed the ornate giltwood frame holding Pandora. “It must not be sold with this frame, however.”

Prescott barely glanced at it. “Seems fine.”

“This one is old. It has … sentimental value.” By which she meant:It has a secret compartment in which are hidden private drawings I do not wish anyone to see.“I’ve ordered a new frame, but it won’t be ready for another week.”

“No matter. You’re unlikely to find a buyer so soon anyway,” Prescott said impatiently, already heading for the door.

* * *

Alone again,Juno tumbled onto the settee with a sigh. Angelica came bounding in and landed on her lap, and together they studied the abandoned teacups.

She reclaimed her cup and lay back to sip at it, staring up at the painting of her darkly beautiful Pandora, illuminated by the glow of Hope.

“Well, my lovely girl,” she said, absently keeping her tepid tea away from Angelica’s nose, “you have done me proud. I have done me proud.”

Her focus shifted past the canvas, to the frame that held it, huge and ornate as was the fashion these days. She thought guiltily of the drawings hidden within.

“The fact that I draw him now and then means nothing,” she told Angelica, who purred loudly in agreement. “And the fact that I keep them means only that…”

What? Nothing. It meant nothing at all.

And as for the mystery of why Leo kept her at a distance? There was no mystery. He must dread her falling in love with him again. How awkward it must be for great men such as himself, having low-born women throwing themselves at his head. He had made it plain ten years ago she was not good enough for him. Good enough for secret walks in the woods. Good enough for a kiss. Not good enough to make her part of his life.

Yet he liked her, she thought defiantly, and he enjoyed visiting her studio. Whatever else, she would never believe they were not friends.

But she would only ever get crumbs from him, and it was a waste of precious time to wish for more. She had always known she could never hold on to Leo, but only enjoy him, the way one enjoyed a sunbeam on a winter’s day, or a cool swim in summer, or a nightingale’s song in the dark.

Let her continue to satisfy herself with the occasional indulgent thought, and the occasional indulgent drawing, after which she would tuck the thoughts back into the shadowy part of her heart, and slide the drawings into the secret compartment in the frame, and carry on.

After all, she was perfectly content with her life.

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