Ducal Encounters 03 - Portrait of a Duke (22 page)

No, he would be safe enough. But the deal with Lord Barrington might have to be the last one. If Trafford was intimate with influential dukes, it was too dangerous to continue. It was unfortunate, but greed had seen better men than the forger scuppered.

Nia tried not to resent the fact that there were more problems than usual calling for her attention at Stoneleigh Manor the following morning. Short of sleep, all she really wanted to do was set off for the Park so her grandfather could make a start on the duke’s portrait. Sophia had sent word to say he was bright-eyed and lucid that morning but Nia knew that situation could change at any moment. Time was of the essence.

“Annie, where are the boys? Have they had their breakfast yet?”

“I’m not too sure, miss.”

Nia strove for patience. Annie could be strong-willed and sometimes seemed to forget she was there to serve them; not the other way around. “Well, find them, if you please, as quickly as you can.”

“I need a word, Miss Trafford,” Mr. Drake said as he strode into the kitchen, a room which to her particular knowledge he had never before ventured into.

“Not now, Mr. Drake.”

“I’m sorry, but it cannot wait.”

“What is so important?” Nia, aware that he would not leave until he had had his say, impatiently pushed the hair back from her face, the ribbon holding it back having already come undone. She should have taken a few minutes to put her hair up properly, but there always seemed to be something more important to do with her time. Besides, even when she did dress her hair, it never stayed in place, so there seemed little point. She reached up and hastily retied the ribbon a little more securely.

Mr. Drake glanced around the kitchen, looking as though he wanted to ask Hannah and Beth to leave their domain. Nia almost wished he would attempt it: she could do with a diversion. But his common sense, such as it was, prevailed and he did not do so. Instead, he turned away from them and spoke to Nia in a lowered voice.

“About our recent discussion,” he said. “Have you had an opportunity to give it more consideration?”

Nia planted her clenched fists on her hips and looked at him askance. “
That
is what is so urgent? I have already said all I have to say to you on the matter, and I think it best forgotten.”

“Forgotten?” He offered her a superior smirk. “Dining with our aristocratic neighbours has turned your head and given you improbable ideas.”

“I would thank you to remember to whom you are speaking,” Nia replied stiffly, holding on to her temper…somehow.

“I mean no offence, but I am older than you and do not like to see your head turned in such a manner. The likes of the Sheridans are above our station, you know.”

“
Our
station, Mr. Drake? You make it sound as though there is a connection between us, which there most decidedly is not.”

“You do not know what you are saying.” His insistence that he knew better than her on every subject was tiresome. “Nor do you realise quite how much you have come to rely on my advice. I cannot allow you to get carried away with unrealistic expectations. What sort of protector would that make me?”

The man was deluded, but before Nia could tell him so, he spoke again.

“Do you think it wise to risk having your grandfather paint the duke’s portrait? You know very well it will be a disaster.”

Pondering upon Lord Vincent’s marked attentions of the night before had kept her awake for far too long. She was tired, on edge, and Mr. Drake had chosen an unfortunate time to become proprietorial.

“Mind your own business!” she said no longer attempting to be civil, for which Mr. Drake had no one but himself to blame.

Nia glanced through the window and was relieved to see Annie returning with the boys. Her nephews, no respecters of private conversations, would put an end to Mr. Drake’s nonsense. If he continued to plague her with further fictitious declarations of undying love, she
would
ask him to leave the house, no longer caring if he spread word about her grandfather’s condition. Even so, a tiny part of her still wondered why he was suddenly so very anxious to become engaged to her. He had not shown her any particular attention before they had come to Winchester, being too wrapped up in himself and his dreary poetry to care about anyone else. But now he seemed desperate to prevent her from becoming intimate with the Sheridans.

“You
are
my business, my dear. It is simply that you are not yet ready to acknowledge how close, how dependent upon one another we have become over the months.” Nia shook her head, astonished that Drake actually seemed to believe what he said. “You and I are made for one another and my only desire is to protect and care for you.”

“And I have already told you that I don’t require your protection.” He opened his mouth as though to protest, but she sliced her hand through the air to silence him. Enough was enough! She had tried to be civil, but if he was not prepared to take a polite
no
for an answer then she would speak plain. “As far as I am concerned, you are with us under sufferance, Mr. Drake, and if you continue to make a nuisance of yourself then I shall ask you to leave.”

He sent her a superior smile and slowly shook his head. “You cannot possibly be serious.”

“My advice is not to put my resolve to the test.” She brushed past him. “Now, you really must excuse me.”

She had the satisfaction of seeing his mouth hang open as she finally shocked him into silence. Then, with an angry hiss, he turned on his heel and left the kitchen. She had no time to dwell upon the incident before the boys barrelled into the room. They were covered from head to foot in wet mud and were closely followed by Ruff, who was just as muddy.

“What the devil—”

“We decided to help you, Aunt Nia, by pulling the weeds from the pond—”

“You did say yesterday that it needed to be cleaned up—”

“And it’s difficult for the tadpoles—”

“They have no space to swim about.”

“But I fell in,” Art said, looking woebegone.

Nia expelled a deep sigh. “So I see.”

“Ruff tried to rescue him and I had to rescue them both,” Leo explained.

“Take all three of them out to the pump, Annie, and get them clean,” Nia said, shaking her head. “I shall fetch them some clean clothes, although why I bother…”

Miss Tilling popped her head around the door. “Is there to be any breakfast this morning?” she demanded to know.

“If you care to make it yourself,” Nia snapped.

Miss Tilling sniffed with disdain. “I merely asked a civil question. Really, Miss Trafford, I cannot account for your sour moods recently.”

“Don’t feel obliged to remain with us if you find them disagreeable.”

“Mr. Trafford needs me. I cannot let him down.”

Nia shared an exasperated glance with Hannah, and didn’t bother to make any response.

“Sorry, Nia,” Sean said, bounding into the kitchen. “I overslept. Oh lord,” he added, espying his mud-caked sons through the window and wincing.

“They were trying to help, apparently,” Nia said, dredging up a smile from somewhere.

“They always mean well.” Sean grinned also. “I’ll fetch them some clean clothes.”

“Thank you.”

Finally, boys and dog were clean and Sean had plans to keep them occupied all day, first with lessons and then with work in the grounds that hopefully would not include another ducking in the pond. Sophia appeared with her grandfather’s painting supplies and they were ready to leave for the Park a mere hour later than planned.

Nia had hoped that their evening at the Park would leave her grandfather disinclined to take to his studio when they arrived home to continue his nocturnal painting. No such luck and he headed straight for it the moment they got back. Desperately tired, her mind addled after hours of bandying words with Lord Vincent, Nia had almost taken Sophia up on her offer to bear him company in her stead. Almost. Sophia already did too much and Nia would not exploit her good nature for selfish reasons.

The price for sticking to her guns was a feeling of total exhaustion. She needed her wits about her if she was to play Lord Vincent at the game he appeared determined to engage her in: a game to which he had not had the courtesy to explain the rules. But this morning her mind felt dull, her body lethargic. She had dark circles beneath her eyes and was almost too tired to drive Ned. Lord Vincent had not only agitated her passions but had also unbalanced her well-organised world with his charming manners, wicked smile and persuasively convincing words.

To say nothing of his lips, and that confounded kiss.

Even when her grandfather quit his painting and she had been free to retire, sleep eluded her because she couldn’t stop thinking about that kiss, and the most extraordinary effect it had had upon her. Well, now that she was awake, after a fashion, she was perfectly capable of dismissing it from her mind as easily as she planned to dismiss Lord Vincent himself from her conscious thoughts. She would put all her energies into ensuring her grandfather felt comfortable, had everything he required to hand, and then she would fade into the background; read a book, close her eyes for a few minutes—no one would notice—take a walk in the grounds…no, not that. Lord Vincent might track her down if she ventured outside alone.

If his lordship chose to watch Grandpapa at work, there was nothing she could do to prevent him. But that did not mean she had to speak with him. Quite what she was so afraid of, Nia could not have said. But she was sensible enough to accept that she was out of her depth when it came to Lord Vincent. He had woken something inside of her, some deep yearning she had not previously been acquainted with, and the strength of her feelings frightened her. For once, she wanted to forget her responsibilities, the duty she owed to her grandfather and the rest of her family, and explore those yearnings.

But she did not, could not, take that risk.

Their arrival at the Park brought her mental perambulations to a halt and she was forced to pay attention. What the Sheridan groom who stepped forward to take Ned’s head thought of their means of transportation, she did not care to speculate. She accepted the hand of another groom who helped her to alight and collected up Grandpapa’s supplies beneath Nia’s watchful eye.

The Sheridans’ rather intimidating butler showed them into the atrium. Coffee was offered, the butler told them the duke would be with them in a moment, and then left them alone. Grandpapa set up his easel, and Nia moved the end of the daybed several times according to his direction. Thank the lord that he appeared to be functioning at full capacity—at least for now.

Excitement at this commission pushed aside some of her tiredness. It was some months since Grandpapa last painted a portrait and she could tell he was full of enthusiasm to indulge his first love. Whenever he displayed such fervour, the results were usually outstanding. Although she had warned the duke not to expect too much, she desperately wanted the portrait to be a success; for her grandfather’s sake as much as anything else. His condition was worsening and she was unsure if his talent would survive the loss of his wits. Was it instinctive or did it require a rational brain to produce his masterpieces? No one seemed to know, but Nia nervously accepted she would soon discover the answer for herself.

“There we are, Nia,” Grandpapa said, sipping at his coffee as he cast a critical eye over the arrangements they had made in the atrium. “That ought to do splendidly.”

As soon as the duke arrived and was seated to Grandpapa’s satisfaction, he would dash off several charcoal sketches of his grace before outlining the portrait proper with a soft pencil. He would refer to his sketches for direction as frequently as he looked at the duke in person, always trusting the first impressions he captured in those sketches.

“Good morning.” The duke joined them, his dogs at his heels, and smiled as he offered Grandpapa his hand. “I hope I have not kept you waiting. Always, something seems to occur that requires my attention at the most inconvenient times. Good morning to you, Miss Trafford.”

“Good morning, Your Grace,” Nia replied for them both.

“Will I do?” he asked.

The duke was wearing tight-fitting inexpressibles, shiny hessians and a loose shirt, no neckcloth, waistcoat or coat. His hair was tousled, as though windblown. He looked as though he had just dismounted from his horse and entered the house after a lengthy period out of doors, bringing fresh air and explosive energy with him. If Grandpapa could capture that natural elegance on canvas, if he could somehow depict the ease, grace and charm with which the duke had assumed the position he had been born to occupy then the project would be a resounding success. It was a challenge that would have any artist worth his salt salivating with anticipation, mainly because the duke was such an unusual and interesting person. It would be a difficult commission to get exactly right, but Nia had every confidence in her grandfather’s ability to do just that; provided he did not suffer a relapse, of course. It would be interesting to see if the project stirred memories of happier days.

With the eye of an artist and the heart of a woman, Nia could appreciate His Grace’s masculine beauty without being unduly affected by it. All that taut flesh over hard, rippling muscle didn’t make her heart flutter. He was very attractive, with natural presence and disconcerting poise. She could well understand why he was pursued with such determination by ladies from all walks of life whenever he showed himself in society. Such would be the lot of any single gentleman in his position. He would be a perfect match for her friend Frankie, Nia thought; Frankie who hadn’t an obsequious bone in her body and proved it by constantly taking issue with His Grace if he happened to say something she disagreed with. Nia had noticed her do so on several occasions the previous night and she suspected that the duke found her attitude refreshing. It must be terribly trying for him to have people toadying to him everywhere he went. Nia almost felt sympathy for him.

Nia had supposed Lord Vincent would be here to greet them since the portrait had been his idea and wondered where he was hiding himself. Not that she wanted to see him. After participating so enthusiastically in that kiss, she was absolutely sure she was not ready to face him, and probably never would be. At the same time, she was anxious to get this initial meeting over with so they could put the matter behind them and meet in future without embarrassment. Not that
he
would be embarrassed. He probably made a habit of kissing willing females when he had nothing better to do with his time. He was certainly very proficient at it.