Chapter 1
Mayfair, London
1819
“Must we, Mother?” Rachel barely held back the annoyance and upset in her voice. “Is a painting of methatessential?”
Her mother, Mary Hampton, the Duchess of Hurstmere, stood to her side as Rachel’s maid, Jane Colton, finished with coifing Rachel’s hair. Tall and solemn, her mother’s dark-clad figure made her look more like a nun than a Duchess of England.
“Yes, my daughter, it is,” Lady Mary said.
Always my daughter, never my name, dear, or darling. Would it mortally harm you, Mother, to be a bit affectionate?
But that was how it was the Hampton House; it was as empty of affection as the ton was with compassion. She could not remember the last time her mother and father were affectionate to the other. As she had grown, she was sure that they had never been affectionate with each other.
The most emotion Rachel had seen with her parents was when they were in church, and then, that emotion was only religious reverence.
Jane slid the last pin into her hair, and she stood away for Rachel to see. Her thick black hair was pinned away from her face but cascaded around her shoulders in waves. The simple hairdo bared her alabaster skin and making her vivid blue eyes stand out like beacons.
She stood, feeling the entire length of her demure dark blue dress brush the tips of her shoes. Her arms were encased in full-sleeves, and her bodice, high and fastened up to her neck, made her slender form look like she was covered with a bed sheet twisted into a shapeless mockery of a dress.
The few times she had attended the ton’s affairs, Rachel’s cheeks had never stopped burning bright with humiliation. Against the new fashionable and elegant silk and satin gowns the other ladies wore, she looked like an odd stack of rose-colored velvet monstrosity with enough cloth to dress three.
The one time she had timidly mentioned it to her mother, Lady Mary had sniffed at it,“Silk, my daughter is the cloth of Cyprians and seductresses. You will not touch such a sinful cloth as long as I am alive.”
Rachel had learned not to ask for or ever yearn for finery or luxurious items. And she could accept that, but as the years had passed, she had grown with the deep-set fear that she would wake up one day and feel empty, passionless, and stoical as her parents.
What about her husband? The very one her parents were set on having her wed to by the end of the year? Would he be as apathetic as her parents? Could she live with such a man and snuff out the passion she had fought so hard to hide and hold onto inside her.
A soft knock came on the door, and while her mother turned, Rachel still peered in the mirror.
“The painter is here, Your Grace,” a maid said anxiously from the doorway. “Mr. William Smith is in the foyer waiting for you.”
“Thank you,” Lady Mary nodded curtly. “Now, come along, my daughter. You have your sitting now.”
Meekly, Rachel followed her mother from the room through the bare corridors and down the sweeping staircase. She kept a few steps behind her mother to mutter her discontentment about this whole sitting. The feeling that her parents were selfish in making a portrait that would stand in her place rested heavily on her heart.
Halfway down the staircase, Rachel caught sight of the man there—and nearly lost her step.
Mr. Smith was tall but not gangly, broad-shouldered, lean of hip, messy curly brown hair flying pell-mell around his face. His clothing was clean but worn…and odd clothes. A bright blue neck cloth stuck out from his baggy grey shirt with an odd patch of green cloth over his heart tucked into similarly loose maroon buff trousers.
As she neared, she saw the clean structure of his broad cheekbones and square jaw, and his bright green orbs glowed from his oval eyes. His eyes latched on her face and never moved.
“Ah, Mister Smith,” her mother greeted.
He gave an ostentatious bow, one Rachel believed would have been more fitted to the Prince Regent than her parents. “I am honored to be summoned by you, Your Grace. How may this humble artist serve you?”
Lady Mary looked pleased. “I have summoned you to paint my daughter’s portrait. I have been told that you are the best in London, what with having painted the Duchess Scarbrough’s daughter and the nephew of the French Dauphin?”
“Yes, Your Grace,” he nodded.
“Good,” Lady Mary said. “I want something even better than that one. Rachel, come and greet Mr. Smith.”
A flash of irritation and resentment ran through Rachel’s heart; she felt as if her mother were treating her as a pawn in a game of one-upmanship. Obediently, though, she came to her mother’s side and stood there.
Mr. Smith's gaze ran from the top of her head to the tips of her dress’ hem, and for the first time under such a look, Rachel shivered. Before she could say a word, he bowed to her, “Lady Hampton, I am incredibly pleased to meet you. ‘Tis true; your beauty should be immortalized on canvas. If only my modest talent can do your lovely image justice.”
Oddly, Rachel did not feel that he was currying favor with her. His words did not carry the sly undertone trickery or brownnosing; it could be that he was as eccentric as his clothes. She blushed. “I am delighted to meet you, as well, Mr. Smith.”
