Page 6 of A Scandalous Kind of Duke

“I knew nothing. I was passing a peddler’s cart and it caught my eye.”

“And still you refuse to believe in magic. Here, look at this.”

She whipped the cloth back off the drawing and directed his attention to where a second mermaid bobbed in the waves, holding an indistinct shape to her mouth.

Juno tapped the shape. “This poor darling is meant to be blowing into a conch shell, but I realized I’d only the vaguest idea what one looks like. And right while I was wondering how to get one as a prop, you were buying this from a peddler.”

“Coincidence.”

“Magic.”

He did not insist. He was frowning at the drawing, suddenly, palpably taut. Surely the near nakedness of the figures would not bother him? What was he— Oh.Oh.

With fresh eyes, Juno saw what she had not seen earlier, what had sailed from her imagination to the page without passing through her conscious mind: the sailor’s raw yearning as he gazed at the mermaid, and— Good heavens, the mermaid! Her expression was fierce with possessive hunger, as she laid desperate claim to a prize she could only destroy.

Even Juno felt a little unsettled by the Muse’s mischief. All that passion! No wonder Leo looked disturbed.

She whirled away and carried the conch shell to her crowded prop cabinet, negotiated a space for it between the porcelain doll and the brass sextant, also gifts from Leo over the years. It seemed to amuse him to present her with whimsical items. Some were fine pieces—the Chinese lacquer box, the Persian chess set, the Genoese globe—but most he picked up from fairs and peddlers and the curiosity shops he poked about in. They cost him mere pennies and were more valuable to her than all the jewels in the realm.

“This drawing is magnificent,” he murmured. “But it’s different.” He jerked his chin at another easel, holding a partly painted portrait of a banker’s wife dandling an infant on her knee. “To your commissioned work, I mean.”

His gaze flicked back and forth between Juno and the sketch, Juno, the sketch, as if trying to find the connection, as if she had pulled some trick and he wished to see how it was done.

An unfamiliar shyness washed over her. How silly. Shyness was for other people, and there was no reason to feel exposed. She certainly wasn’t ashamed of such drawings, any more than she was ashamed of the shadowy corners of her mind from whence they came. Everyone had such corners, even those who insisted they didn’t, and finding the courage to plunder such places was essential for creating art. Of course, one must be careful, especially as a woman. This mermaid drawing was destined for her secret collection, artwork she created only because such images gathered in her mind like storm clouds, until she had to release them or go mad.

But she should never have shown it to him, not to Leo.

Not when the drawing revealed something intimate about her, and he took such care never to reveal anything about himself.

She waved the cloth, as if waving away her discomfort. “There is something you should know about my model for the sailor,” she said brightly.

“I already know he is a very muscular fellow.” Leo’s tone also became jauntier. “Can you guess how I know this?”

“Because you are very observant and pay meticulous attention to detail?”

“Yes. And because he is notably devoid of clothing.” He slid her a sideways look. “Am I to believe you drew such accurate and detailed musculature from your imagination?”

She matched his look coolly. “I have a very vivid imagination.”

He laughed then, and she did too, and their unease vanished from the room like smoke through an open window.

“Drawing nudes again, really.” He tutted at her with mock solemnity. “A grave risk, Juno. Your feeble female brain will explode and they’ll cart you off to Bedlam. ’Tis what happens to women when faced with a nude, you know. Scientific fact.”

“And yet my brain has not exploded. Perhaps I am particularly robust.”

“I fear not. You already exhibit the adverse side effects of drawing nudes: You are not married, you are not tidy, and you talk to your cats.” He nodded at the drawing, more serious now. “Not to mention the risk to your reputation. Your clients will abandon you and Mrs. Prescott will withdraw her patronage. You’ll never be able to show or sell the final work.”

“But I am able to paint it,” she said defiantly, “and that is the point.”

Though it was a shame she could never exhibit such excellent work under her own name, while men displayed similar works with pride. But society had strict notions about what subjects were appropriate for the so-called gentler sex. One could not have London’s art world collapsing in a collective faint at the discovery that a woman actually knew what went on under a person’s clothes.

Moving away from him, Juno untied the scarf protecting her hair. Her curls made a break for freedom; she corralled the mass into a coil and stabbed it with a pair of mismatched combs. The heavy smock soon joined the scarf on their hook. She stretched her arms over her head and breathed deeply. Oh, but that felt good after hours of stillness.

Twisting her spine with a groan of pleasure, she caught Leo watching her. With a curt shake of his head, he looked away and took to leafing through her sketches, all studies for the final drawing. Poor Leo, how he suffered at the sight of her work dresses. The gowns were loose-fitting for ease of movement, in a dark print to hide stains, and made of sturdy cotton to endure for years. They were practical, comfortable, and unavoidably dowdy, an affront to poor Leo’s sensitive eyes.

“Meanwhile,” she said, “I really must warn you about my new model.”

“Who, I gather, is still wandering around your house without his clothes on.”

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