Page 51 of The Duke Undone

Kate pounded her leg again. The girl was going to come out in bruises. “If only I’d seen the picture! I would have warned you. You could have disguised him.”

“Painted on a beard? Flattened his nose?” Lucy laughed as she imagined possibilities, all hopeless. The import of Kate’s words struck her and she narrowed her eyes. “You know him by sight, then?”

Now it was Kate’s turn to sigh. “Not all of my notebooks are for sketching. I keep a meticulous log of every lord in the British Isles. The penniless ones I avoid like the plague. They’re desperate to marry me for my money and can prove dreadfully persistent. The rich ones think I’m a good bit of fun and treat me with perfect indifference, if they notice me at all. The Duke of Weston is rich as sin, so I’ve observed him across dance floors without fear.”

“The life of an heiress,” Lucy murmured.

Kate scowled. “It has its dangers. Last summer, I tripped and fell into a rosebush escaping Lord Chatterton. I nearly lost an eye, and he didn’t stop proposing. I’ve never passed two words with Weston. He’s hard to miss, though, with the women stuck all over him like burrs.”

Lucy blinked at this image.

“You don’t fancy him, of course.” Kate didn’t phrase it as a question. “He’s not very bright. They never are, the second sons who get packed off to the colonies. I heard he got sent down from Oxford for failing all of his preliminary exams. But he’s a hero! I can’t understand it. Brunelleschi is a hero, for inventing perspective. And whoever first thought of grating carrots into a cake—she’s a hero. Riding around on a horse and shooting at people isn’t heroism. It’s criminal stupidity.”

Lucy felt heat flood her face. Dear God. This urge to gainsay Kate—she had to stuff it down. She’d be lumped among the hopeful duchesses in a heartbeat, never to regain Kate’s favor. Of course she didn’t fancy the Duke of Weston! The idea was absurd. She ducked her head to hide her blush. Kate didn’t seem to notice. She seemed lost in her own thoughts.

“He’s a fine subject for a painting, I’ll give him that,” Kate said. “His mother was an Italian, or a Greek. I think a Greek. Adelaide didn’t get to see the picture? She’d have loved it, I’m sure.”

Lucy seized on this opening.

“Adelaide? Are you on a first-name basis with Mrs. Forbes?”

Kate grinned. “I ran into her at the British Museum. She was with Redcliffe Davis, but she’s mad to sit for me. Maybe I’ll put her in the Forest of Arden. She wants something Arthurian, but there’s too much comedy in her face.” She shrugged. “I can’t think of it until I’ve readied my submissions anyway. I’m so close!”

As soon as the words passed her lips, she looked stricken. The wind flattened her hair against her forehead, making her gray eyes seem larger.

“Don’t you dare apologize,” said Lucy, smiling. “This year will be a triumph for you. You’re going to exhibit at Grosvenor and the Academy. You should be excited. I’m excited for you.”

Lately, Kate had been downplaying her achievements. Lucy preferred it when she crowed. Kate’s recent carefulness, born of an awareness that Lucy had less cause to celebrate, only served to draw attention to the disparity.

“No more secrets,” said Lucy. “But no more kid gloves either.”

Kate understood.

“It’s not pity, I swear it,” she said. “I know I’ve been awkward. Dammit, I just think of how much time I have at my disposal, while you . . .”

Lucy was shaking her head.

“Use your time well,” she said. “Paint thrilling pictures without apology.”

“That’s good.” Kate laughed. She sounded relieved. “We should add that. No apologies for our unapologetic pictures!”

Lucy laughed too. “The men certainly aren’t wasting their time saying sorry.”

“Some of them should be,” Kate muttered. “That is a different story.” She gave herself a little shake and glared at Lucy—not with anger; with determination. “You will exhibit,” she said.

Lucy shivered as the wind picked up. If she could settle her thoughts, focus, put aside her fears about eviction, keep jobbing out the petticoats to Megan Cosgrave, maybe she had a chance.

Kate seemed to read her thoughts.

“No one will lay a finger on your house. Weston will talk to Lord So-and-so, whatever his name is, the chairman of the Board of Works, and that will be that.” She nodded with assurance. “The jobbery is too blatant to ignore.”

Her grin was back, wide and mischievous. “It was brilliant how you threatened Weston. Nude cards! I’m inspired by your wickedness.”

Lucy cocked her brow at what she hoped was a wicked angle.

“I try,” she said modestly. When she’d reached the part of her narration in which she charged Weston’s town house and appalled him with imminent lithographic humiliation, Kate had interrupted her with a howl of delight that drowned out the conclusion of the episode.

It was better that Kate believe she’d routed Weston, bent him to her will. Their actual agreement had been far too friendly.