“He married Sophia,” Georgie finished for her.
They all giggled.
“So he is bound to stay on—”
“—and paint Rowena, and then—”
“—marry one of us,” they finished in unison, with a burst of happy giggles.
“Well, I sincerely hope it may be so,” Georgie said.
“Perhaps he will like you the best,” Charlotte said. “Some men particularly like hair like yours.”
“Red, you mean?”
“Auburn!” the sisters said in unison.
“Your hair is so pretty,” Maria said, with a heavy sigh.
Georgie was struck by the sudden memory of Henry running his hands through her tresses, smiling at her fondly. “Such beautiful hair to drive a man wild,” he had always said, and then he would scoop her into his arms and press kisses onto her lips, her cheeks, her neck…
“Dinner is served, your grace,” Froggett intoned.
Georgie shivered as she tidied her embroidery into her work bag and followed the others into the dining room. These memories of Henry usually only haunted her at night, but sometimes a chance remark would cause one to sweep across her with nerve-shattering intensity. If only he had not been taken from her so soon!
She was so disorientated that she crept into the first seat she saw without thinking. Usually, her position as the lowest of those present ensured her a humble seat in the middle of the table, but owing to their diminished numbers and the duke having summoned both Augusta and Maria to be his dining companions, there was a free seat very close to the duchess. From there, Georgie had a clear view of Mr Chamberlain.
The duchess had his attention first, but then Charlotte, who was on his other side, leaned eagerly towards him for her turn. Georgie could understand the enthusiasm, for Charlotte was thirty-two now and eligible bachelors were becoming thin on the ground. She was fast heading into the territory of widowers and crusty retired colonels and the like. Mr Chamberlain, with a lithe body, cat-like green eyes and, she now noticed, a roguish smile on his lips, was a most attractive man. He was expensively dressed, too, which put him firmly into the eligible category.
Charlotte started by asking about his family.
“I have three brothers and three sisters,” he said, with a ready smile. “They are all older than me, by quite a margin.”
“And are they all married?” Charlotte said sweetly.
“They are indeed.”
Which begged the question. “But… you are not?”
“Not yet.” There was a long pause, and perhaps Charlotte held her breath. “I have the great good fortune to be recently betrothed to the Lady Patience Torbuck,” he said, and the pride in his voice was palpable.
Charlotte exhaled slowly, then said, “Torbuck? We know Lord Daniel Torbuck. He wanted to marry Sophia, but she turned him down.”
“Indeed?” he said without interest. “Lady Patience has several brothers.”
That seemed to dispose neatly of Lord Daniel. Charlotte asked with equal lack of enthusiasm about Lady Patience, allowing him the opportunity to describe her perfections at dispiriting length. Charlotte wilted visibly under this catalogue of beauty, wealth and endless accomplishments. The lady played three instruments and spoke four languages, sang like an angel, naturally, and as for her skills with pen or needle, they had to be seen to be believed. At the end of this recitation, Charlotte was glad to turn back to her plate and leave the visitor to the duchess.
“I have not yet heard,” the duchess began, “what pretext Mr Goodenough gave for bringing you here.”
“I was invited to paint a portrait of Mrs Richard Merrington,” he said, “which would be no great hardship,” he added, looking across the table to where Rowena sat.
“Indeed, she is the very image of her great-aunt, his grace’s first wife. Her portrait hangs in the library, so you will be able to see the likeness. Have you painted many—? Oh!” She gave a great squeak that silenced the entire table, all eyes turnedin her direction. “You areLanceChamberlain! You painted the Princess Amelia! I should have guessed.”
“I did indeed have that privilege,” he said.
“Oh, my goodness, but you arefamousfor your portraits. I was about to ask, you see, whether you had ever painted one before when I realised. How very foolish of me.”
From the far end of the table, the duke boomed, “Lance? Is that short for Lancelyn?”
