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The shouting tapered off, and Lavinia and Miss Coover presented themselves.
“Thank you, Miss Coover.” Yardley pressed her hand. “Painter, dressmaker, chemist.” He bowed. “A true Renaissance woman.”
“A miracle worker as well, if he ends up painting a plausible horse.” Lavinia beamed at Anthony. A good row, and her brush with death, had buoyed her spirits.
Then they were gone, the Yardleys, his dear old friends, letting themselves out. He braced himself against the doorframe, then wheeled around to face Miss Coover, who did not shrink.
“Time for my lesson,” he said.
Chapter Seven
The Duke of Weston gave the appearance of sauntering. Certainly, he seemed unhurried as he moved down the hall, one hand in his trouser pocket.
Lucy walked quickly to keep abreast of him, too quickly. Her bag banged her side and her heart pounded. If she must sprint to match his step, so be it.
She refused to trip along behind, like a muddy child.
Despite her efforts, Weston crested the landing in the lead. She panted as she surged up the final steps. The upstairs hall was no less grand than the one below. Weston opened the door to a study, richly, if somberly, furnished. When the door clicked shut behind them, lock turning, she jumped. Her breath sawed in and out noisily. He seemed not to notice.
“Let there be light,” he said. He prowled through the room, turning up the lamps. While he did so, she walked to the semicircle of chairs drawn close to the fire and set down her bag, staring at its lumpy contours. Strange—to draw strength from an old bag! But the sight was familiar. Stabilizing. Her breathing slowed.
Suddenly, he was beside her, laying his large fingers on the stem of a lamp on the mantel. The delicacy of the gesture caused her to suck her lower lip between her teeth and bite down hard.
Good God. She’d forgotten the effect of his proximity. Downstairs, buffered by Miss Yardley and her unctuous father, she’d achieved a kind of detachment. Gone in a heartbeat.
As the light strengthened, she looked away so she wouldn’t have to watch the shadows slide into the hollows beneath his cheekbones.
This would be hard enough. She could not allow her brain to soften.
“Now we can begin,” he said. “I’ve given up on horses. I have a new idea for my first painting.”
She looked at him and wished she hadn’t. The lamplight loved the stark bones of his face. Just as she’d imagined.
“Oh,” he said softly, when she failed to respond. “You’re not here to give me a drawing lesson. Then, may I ask, what are you doing in my . . . gilded warehouse?”
He was smiling, an untrustworthy smile.
She should have gone to the George and Dragon. At least then she might have had the satisfaction of drawing blood. One punch square on Purcell’s nose before anyone guessed her intent. It wouldn’t have fixed anything. But it would have felt good, and Purcell, at least, couldn’t make her life any worse.
Purcell couldn’t get her expelled from the Royal Academy.
Her nerves felt as though they were being wound around a bobbin.
“You’re interested in the housing question,” she said.
Not what he was expecting. One eyebrow lifted.
“Painter, dressmaker, chemist. What else? Suffragist? Reformer?”
He was toying idly with something in his pocket. She caught the glimmer of gold. This was not the moment to trade appellations.
Philistine, idiot, drunkard.
She hid her frown, plowing on. “You gave a speech on the necessity of a royal commission to inquire into housing conditions, overcrowding and its remedies.”
“I don’t give speeches. That would have been Weston the elder. My father.”
She stared at him, aghast. She could see the pulse beating steadily in his throat. Hers felt scattered all through her body, ticking at different tempos. Of course. It wasn’t this Duke of Weston quoted at length in the Times. If she’d been thinking clearly, she would have realized. He observed her confusion with curiosity.
