Ducal Encounters 03 - Portrait of a Duke (9 page)

“Don’t worry,” he said, steering her towards a bench where they could watch proceedings. “They look perfectly at home. Besides, Amos would not have put them up if he didn’t think they were capable.”

“No, I suppose he would not.”

“So, Miss Trafford,” he said conversationally as he swished the tails of his coat aside with a practised flip of his wrist and sat beside her. “Tell me more about your family and what brought you to our part of the world.”

Nia could see at once that her nephews were having the time of their young lives. She watched them intently, pretending not to notice Lord Vincent’s indulgent smile. Presumably the boys reminded him of his own carefree youth. She would have enjoyed sharing the moment with him but was confused and a little suspicious about the warmth of her reception here at Winchester Park and did not feel equal to meeting his gaze. She already felt quite disadvantaged enough, was not used to receiving kindness from anyone who did not expect something in return, and was unsure how to respond to him.

Every member of his family appeared to be as gracious and charming as Lord Vincent himself and had taken pains to make her feel welcome. Did they go out of their way to welcome every new neighbour, or was it her grandfather’s reputation that ensured she received special treatment? Nia was unable to decide. His lordship must have told them about their rustic living conditions at Stoneleigh Manor. Their curiosity about the straitened circumstances of a man who a few short years previously had been feted throughout Europe must be piqued. In their position she knew hers would be. Thankfully, they were too well-mannered to ask searching questions.

“Be careful!” Nia clapped a hand over her mouth when Art waved both hands at her, grinning from ear to ear, and almost lost his balance.

Lord Vincent laughed as Art righted himself and paid attention to what Lord Amos was saying to him.

“It’s easy for you to laugh,” she said, rather crossly. “The boys are nothing to you.”

He seemed a little taken aback by her acerbic tone, causing her to regret her hasty words.

“Forgive me,” she said abstractedly. “I am not myself today.”

“No apology is necessary. You have a lot of responsibility. And pardon me for saying so, but you look tired.”

She flashed a wry smile. “Just what a lady needs to hear.”

“You should take better care of yourself.” He transferred his gaze from her to the boys, as though sensing she did not appreciate being scrutinised. “But then, I don’t suppose you get too much time to yourself. Things cannot be easy for you.”

“Not always, but I tell myself frequently that I am luckier than most, if only because I have my grandfather. I cannot recall a time when I have not been with him. Wherever he happened to be living, Sean and I were always there too. Well, until Sean married, and then things changed. But, my point is, we have had the most wonderful times, seen such things; been to so many places and met people from so many different walks of life.” She threw back her head, closed her eyes and smiled at the memories. “No matter what lies ahead for my family, no one can take that away from me.”

“Is your brother Sean older than you?”

“Yes, by five years.” She paused. “I am two and twenty, in case you were wondering but didn’t know how to ask.”

“You never thought to marry yourself?”

“Heavens no, it is too late for that now.”

He looked at her, as though trying to decide if she was serious. Presumably realising that she was, he laughed. “Too late at two and twenty?”

“Certainly. Most young ladies considered themselves to be off the marriage mart by that age, do they not? Besides,” she added, not giving Lord Vincent the opportunity to respond, “I have to look after my grandfather. That is far more important than becoming some man’s chattel. Not that men are throwing themselves at my feet precisely…well, not for reasons I would find acceptable to embrace matrimony.”

“They want you for your connections.” Shades of irritation and disapproval filtered across Lord Vincent’s expression. “What fools!” he added
sotto voce
.

“Everyone who is anyone in the artistic community will do whatever they think necessary to get close to my grandfather.”

“Drake and the flighty young woman I met yesterday? I don’t recall her name.”

“Emily Tilling. Yes, those two. Drake is quite the worst poet it has ever been my misfortune to encounter.”

“My sister Annalise might give you an argument on that score. One of her suitors this past season kept writing the most dreadful verse in praise of her eyes. It drove her demented.”

Nia smiled. “She has my sympathy.”

“Why did your grandfather agree to sponsor Drake if he is so very bad?”

“Grandpapa has earned himself a reputation for giving dedicated young people the opportunity to explore their creativity.”

“He sponsored them?”

“Yes, I suppose that’s what he did, and still does. He had so much trouble getting recognition himself, until a philanthropist took him under his wing. He wanted to return the favour, and has done so many times over. A lot of people now making a living from their art owe their start to my grandfather. When he held an exhibition, he would permit his more talented students to exhibit alongside him. Naturally, that ensured their work was seen by people in a position to acquire it and they were able to move on from there. When his mind started to go, people took the most shameful advantage. That is the only reason I can come up with for his taking Drake under his wing. He used to be a much better judge.”

“What about Miss Tilling? Is she any good?”

“Not good enough to deserve my grandfather’s patronage, and I suspect she knows it. But, he has agreed she can be a part of his next exhibition and I cannot do anything about that.”

“He still intends to exhibit?”

“His landscapes. He cannot do portrait work anymore, for obvious reasons.”

“The sitter would guess at his mental instability?”

“Precisely.” Nia dashed impatiently at an errant tear. “I don’t want his reputation to suffer because he is unwell. I mean, if he had gout, or…oh, I don’t know, some other obvious physical impairment, he would receive universal sympathy. Everyone would say how unfortunate it was that such a brilliant talent had been struck down before his time. But because he is losing his senses, people will just laugh at him and make jokes about all truly gifted artists being a little insane.” She shook her head. “I could not bear that. He is the most giving person I know and does not deserve to be ridiculed.”

“You love him very much,” Lord Vincent said softly.

“More than you could possibly imagine.” She turned towards him, her smile wide and uncontrived. “If you could have known him when he was at the height of his fame, he was so vibrant, so larger than life. He lit up a room just by walking into it, bursting with enthusiasm about something or other. It could be simply the sight of a spring flower blooming.
Look at that, Nia
, he would say.
Only imagine nature creating something quite so beautiful
. And then he would dash off a sketch or a painting of that flower, reproducing its likeness so precisely that it would take my breath away, but he saw nothing remarkable in his talent.”

“I wish I could have known him then.”

“I think you would have enjoyed his society, and he yours.” Nia shook his head. “Now, he barely knows what day of the week it is, or where he is, for that matter. It is as though our roles are reversed. He is now the child and I am the parent.”

“What of your own parents? I hope it is not too painful a subject, but you must have felt their loss terribly.”

“Of course I do not wish them dead…”

“But,” Lord Vincent promoted when her words stalled.

“I saw very little of them. My father managed my grandfather’s affairs and so he and Mama travelled ahead of us most of the time, making arrangements and doing…well, whatever they did to ease Grandpapa’s path. I am still not precisely sure precisely what. Mama was not maternal and my father was remote and unapproachable: as different from his own father, my grandfather, as it is possible for two men to be. The caring and compassion skipped a generation but found a home again in my brother, Sean.”

“And in you,” he said softly.

“Thank you. I like to think so.”

“And I am perfectly sure of it, otherwise you would have given Drake and Miss Tilling their marching orders long since.”

“Don’t think I haven’t considered it.”

“Forgive me, but they do not contribute to the household expenses?”

“Not a penny. They are both near-destitute.”

“Even so, they have seen the deterioration in your grandfather. They ought to have the good manners to leave him in peace.”

“I agree, but it won’t happen. There were several others I did manage to get rid of, but the two that remain are what I can only charitably describe as tenacious, single-minded and—”

“Selfish?”

“Thank you.” Nia nodded. “That is the word I was looking for.”

“My opinion, for what it is worth, is that you should send them on their way, regardless of the fact that they have no means of support. You have given them more hospitality than they had any right to expect, and you do not need the added burden of their welfare.”

“I would, but if I were to do so…” She flapped her hands. “Let us just say that it might create more difficulties than it solved.”

“Ah, of course. I was being obtuse. Far from being grateful for what your family
has
done for them, they might repay you by spreading rumours about your grandfather’s condition.”

“Yes, and I cannot take the risk. I am hopeful that Sean will have made arrangements for Grandpapa’s exhibition to take place sooner rather than later. If it is a success, he will be able to return to Ireland and live out his days there in peace and seclusion.”

“He has property there?”

“Yes, and often speaks about wishing to return to it.”

She could see Lord Vincent wanted to ask why they did not do so immediately, but he did not voice the question, the answer to which must be obvious to him. Their living conditions, Grandpapa’s need for another exhibition, must show they were clean out of funds.

“Miss Tilling can exhibit her ghastly paintings, we can hide Mr. Drake away in a corner where he is least likely to be an inconvenience, and let him drone on with his poetry. After that we shall be free of them.”

“Did your grandfather pass on his artistic talent to your father?”

“No, Papa could barely lift a brush.”

“But you can.”

Nia’s head jerked up. “Why do you say that?”

“Linseed oil, Miss Trafford. The aroma is quite distinctive. And, forgive me, I observed paint beneath your nails yesterday.”

“I mix Grandfather’s paints for him. That is all.”

“You don’t paint yourself?”

She could not look at him. “I have a small talent for it, but nothing compared to Grandpapa’s, obviously.”

“Yes, obviously.”

He sounded as though he did not believe her, which was most ungentlemanly of him, and compelled Nia to justify herself. “Besides, even if I could paint, when would I get the time?”

His gaze, dark and intense, rested on her profile for so long that she began to feel uncomfortable. She experienced an urgent desire to ease the awkwardness by speaking, but words failed her. If this sophisticated, charming, contradictory and infuriatingly self-assured aristocrat thought to discompose her then he did not know her at all. She set her chin and stared stubbornly straight ahead, trying not to grin when it occurred to her that few ladies in her position, alone with an eligible gentleman of Lord Vincent’s ilk, would choose to ignore him. She was rewarded when his deep, throaty chuckle finally broke through the brittle silence.

“I have offended you in some way, Miss Trafford, for which I apologise.”

“You ask too many intrusive questions, my lord,” she replied, still refusing to look at him. “You have no right.”

“If I have been impolite I apologise, but it is all your fault.”

“Once again you lay the blame at my door.” Finally, she deigned to give him her full attention. “How can that possibly be?”

“You interest me.”

She widened her eyes, genuinely surprised. “Good heavens, why?”

He shrugged impossibly broad shoulders. “I wish I knew.”

“There is absolutely nothing about me to hold your interest, other than my family connections.” The familiar feeling of being cultivated for that reason alone washed through her. “Is that what this is about?”

“Now it is my turn to be offended,” he replied softly.

“Yes, that was unjust. I am sorry.”

“As to their being no reason for my interest in you, you are quite wrong about that.”

Nia shook her head. Bandying words with Lord Vincent was not only exhausting but also a game she was unlikely to win. He was too self-assured, his wits too astute, and she struggled to keep pace with him.

“Must you always have the last word?” she demanded crossly.

His smile was annoyingly appealing. Against her will, she found herself responding to it and could not remain angry with him.

“Always,” he said, riveting her with a gaze that made her feel light-headed and almost carefree.

Almost.

She looked away from him and they fell into momentary silence, watching the boys slide from the horse they had been riding and lead it back into the stables beneath Lord Amos’s watchful eye. Naturally, they were chattering away without pausing to draw breath.

“Amos will have them brushing the horse down now, I expect,” Lord Vincent remarked, breaking the edgy silence that had settled about them. Well, edgy for Nia, anyway. Lord Vincent still seemed perfectly relaxed, but then she didn’t imagine anything ever discomposed him for long. “It might take a while. In fact the boys are enjoying themselves so much they will probably make sure it does. I hope you are not in a hurry to be gone.”

“I don’t want to become a burden. I am sure you have better things to do than entertain me. I am perfectly happy to wait here alone for the boys.”

“Nonsense.”

He regarded her with absorption for so long that she reacted to his intense scrutiny somewhere deep within her core. When heat invaded her face it occurred to Nia that he probably knew precisely what he was doing to her; insufferable man! She did not understand it at all, but assumed it would be better to look away from him before she became further embroiled in the silence of shared sensibility. Instead, she continued to drown in the depth of his intelligent eyes, helpless against the raging desire she felt for this compelling, at times confusing and yet always elegant aristocrat. She was unsure whether she was more relieved or disappointed when, with a tiny smile of understanding, he eventually looked away first.