Ducal Encounters 03 - Portrait of a Duke

by Wendy Soliman

  “How tiresome.”

  But she was smiling when she finally placed her hand on his sleeve.

  Chapter Twelve

  Nia felt a little dizzy as she walked into the sumptuous dining room on Lord Vincent’s arm. Her light-headedness had nothing to do with the effects of the champagne and everything to do with the intoxicating presence of the elegant predator escorting her into dinner. A hungry alpha male, stalking his prey and then toying with his catch before moving in for…for what precisely?

  Why he chose to amuse himself with someone as unfashionable as her truly baffled Nia. Lord Vincent, she felt perfectly sure, never needed to look far for sophisticated female companionship. Perhaps being at home in Winchester restricted his hunting ground. She happened to be there, available, and had told him she had no expectations of matrimony. Dear God, did he imagine she was cut from the same cloth as Sophia and had made that admission to indicate her availability? She felt hot and cold all over when that possibility occurred to her. But now that she had thought of it, she was unable to imagine why he would not have misinterpreted her candour and decided to act upon it. The living arrangements in their household were rather unorthodox, and she and Sophia were staunch friends.

  Now that she understood what drove him, Nia was unsure whether to be flattered or insulted. And what action could she expect him to take if she permitted that misconception to continue unchecked? She felt heat invade her face, and a tingle of anticipation trickle down her spine. Was she actually considering playing him at his own game?

  Dare she?

  How matters developed between them was up to her because, obviously, she was in complete control of the situation, and of her impulses. She absolutely was!

  “What is so amusing?” he asked as he held her chair for her.

  Damnation, she had not realised he was watching her quite so closely and had observed her wide smile as the foolish, unrealistic nature of her thoughts took hold. To even contemplate pitting her wits against such a master of seduction was extreme folly. She must be sickening for something. It was the only explanation that would account for such giddy contemplation. Nia sighed, thinking it exceedingly unfair that close proximity to Lord Vincent rendered her incapable of rational thought. Infuriatingly, he appeared to be in complete control of himself; insufferable man! Nia glanced around, frantically looking for something, anything, to explain her smile. He was already far too sure of himself and did not need to know the truth.

  “I was wondering if Lord Nathaniel knows quite what he has let himself in for,” she said hastily, watching Sophia working her magic on the youngest Sheridan male. Lord Nathaniel seemed totally absorbed by her. She felt the dark weight of Lord Vincent’s gaze burning into her profile and inwardly groaned. By drawing attention to Sophia’s overt flirting, she had probably just reinforced Lord Vincent’s impression of her.

  “Ah, I see.” His sculpted lips curved upwards as he waited for her to arrange her skirts to her satisfaction before taking the chair beside her. “That would explain it.”

  She hadn’t deceived him for one moment, Nia realised. The task she had set herself to bring him down a peg or two would not be easily achieved, but he was not the only person in the room who did not back away from a challenge. If he continued to stalk her she would remain still, allowed herself to be captured, and then turn the tables on him by declining his advances. Yes, that was what he would do. She owed it to womankind in general to make him aware that not all of her sex were rendered helpless with desire if he deigned to focus his quite disgusting charm in her direction.

  A frisson of awareness warmed her body. He would be a dangerous person to play mind games—or any other type of game—with. Perversely, she also felt perfectly safe with him. To a degree. Endeavouring to untangle her thoughts and feelings was so confusing that a headache threatened. All she knew was that the rebellious side of her character didn’t want to feel safe. In the spirit of private honesty, she was also willing to concede that her proposed course of action was not entirely selfless. Lord Vincent, all lithe muscle and graceful coordination, with his not entirely civilized male aura and cynical view of the world, had turned her meticulously planned existence on its head. Her curiosity was piqued; always a dangerous sign.

  She really would like to have just a little practical knowledge of the subjects she had discussed with Sophia. But would she have the strength to reject his advances before they passed the point of indiscretion? And would he permit her to, even if she found that strength? A smile flirted with his lips as, saying nothing, he toyed with a fork and watched her fight with her conscience. It was as though he understood her confusion and found it diverting. Well, of course he did; on both counts!

  She searched her mind desperately for some innocuous comment that he could not misinterpret, or treat as a challenge. Before she could do so, a loud guffaw of laughter caused heads to turn towards one end of the table. Nia’s heart lurched. Grandpapa was seated beside the duchess, and it was his laughter that had caused all conversation to cease. God forbid that he had launched into a risqué story that had given offence. But amazingly, the duchess was laughing right along with him. Not polite, contained laugher, but the genuine variety that left her eyes moist and her entire body quaking. Lord Vincent cocked his head at Nia, his eyes brimming with infectious good humour.

  “I wonder what that is all about,” he mused.

  “I did warn you,” she replied, doing her very best to look disapproving, but probably failing. “Grandpapa is incorrigible, I’m afraid. I refuse to ask him what he just said because I would much prefer not to know.”

  “If it was inappropriate, my mother doesn’t seem to have taken exception to it.”

  “No.” Nia smiled as she watched the sophisticated lady, mother to six elegant children, in animated conversation with her grandfather. “It often surprises me that not many people take offence at what Grandpapa says to them. I used to think it was because he is famous, and that they excused his frequently indiscreet remarks as artistic eccentricity. But really, you know, he is such a charming raconteur that I doubt many people would be put off by his manner, even if there was nothing special about him.”

  “Which, I hope, means you will stop fretting and enjoy yourself.”

  “Yes, that is what I shall do.” She concentrated on her soup for a moment or two before speaking again. “In which part of this vast house are you thinking of having Grandpapa work on the portrait of the duke?”

  “A very good question. I ought to have thought to show you before we came to table, when it was still full light.”

  “It is Grandpapa who needs to see it.”

  His disconcertingly intelligent gaze rested on her profile for far longer than she was comfortable with. “Is it?” he asked softly.

  He knows! Panic surged through Nia as she stubbornly refused to accept that possibility. “Naturally, I shall view the space with him,” she said, articulating the first words that filtered through her addled brain. “Sometimes, even when he is doing as well as he is today, Grandpapa overlooks fundamental requirements.”

  “That would never do,” he replied, in a mildly hectoring tone, probably intended to make her respond injudiciously. She resisted that temptation. She would never win a battle of words with this practised master of repartee and, with such a contentious subject under discussion, now was not the time to attempt it.

  “No, it most certainly would not,” she said, transferring her attention to Lord Amos, seated on her opposite side, when he addressed a question to her.

  Slowly, Nia began to relax as she observed the casual affection and lack of formality that prevailed between the Sheridan siblings. It must be wonderful to grow up within the confines of such a tight-knit family, Nia thought, feeling a moment’s envy for what she had never known. But then again, she had her grandfather. Always her grandfather had been there; the one constant in her life to gently guide, protect and nurture her. She caught his eye as he glanced down the table, looki
ng to make sure she was all right, just as he had done for as long as she could remember. He probably wasn’t aware he still did so. She smiled at him and his booming voice demanded to know if she was enjoying herself. No one seemed to mind that he had broken just about every social convention by yelling the length of the table. Nia simply smiled and waved to him.

  “It is easy to see why you hold him in such affection,” Lord Vincent said softly. “He is a remarkable gentleman.”

  “Thank you. I think so, but then, I suppose I could be accused of bias.”

  The meal came to an end, and all the gentlemen stood to help the ladies with their chairs as they made to withdraw.

  “Perhaps a servant could show me where you plan for the portrait to be painted so Grandpapa and I can see if it will serve,” she said to Lord Vincent. “There is still some daylight remaining. Hopefully enough for us to be able to judge.”

  “Your grandfather will not take port?”

  “I would prefer it if he did not. It does not agree with him.”

  “Then none of us shall.”

  “Oh no, I could not possibly ask you to—”

  “You are not asking. Come along, Zach,” he said briskly, taking her arm and helping her from her chair. “Miss Trafford and her grandfather have expressed a desire to see the atrium while it is still light.”

  “Perhaps we should all take a look,” the duchess said. “I should be interested to hear your thoughts on the setting myself, Mr. Trafford.”

  “And so you shall, dear lady. So you shall.” Grandpapa offered the duchess his arm. “When did you last have your own portrait painted? Your features, those eyes, would inspire the most exacting of artists to great things.”

  Nia chanced a glance at Lord Vincent to gauge his reaction to his mother being addressed as dear lady. He appeared amused, the duchess didn’t appear to take offence, and no one else seemed to notice.

  Lord Vincent led the way from the dining room, making Nia feel self-conscious because everyone else, trailing behind them, couldn’t fail to notice her hand resting on his arm. She would have liked to remove it, but that would imply there was something improper about a perfectly proper situation. She was far too acutely aware of Lord Vincent’s close proximity, of his disturbingly poised stance and her extreme physical reaction to it. Dear God, if she planned to get the better of him, this was a sorry start indeed. She squared her shoulders and tried to divert herself by looking at her palatial surroundings as Lord Vincent led her through what felt like an endless expanse of richly furnished ante-rooms and corridors.

  Finally they came to a circular open space with a high domed glass ceiling in what must have been the centre of the house. The last of the fading daylight poured through that glass, the subsiding rays of the setting sun filling the space with light and shadow. A small gasp slipped past Nia’s lips. This place was not only an oasis of calm, but an ideal setting for a painter to set about his trade.

  “Perfect!” she breathed, taking a closer look around.

  “I say,” Grandpapa remarked, following Nia and Lord Vincent into the room. “This has possibilities, wouldn’t you say, Nia? Yes indeed, definite possibilities.”

  “Yes, sir, indeed I would.”

  Nia left Lord Vincent’s side and went to stand with her grandfather in the centre of the room. There were tall potted palms, and what appeared to be a miniature orange tree, its fresh citrus aroma filling her senses. There were also tasteful marble busts and vases of flowers spilling from several surfaces. There were just a few items of excellent quality furniture dotted around the edges of the space. Nia thought what a wonderfully peaceful place it would be to sit and reflect, read a book, or simply be alone.

  “Where would you want me to pose?” the duke asked.

  “That depends upon whether you require a formal portrait or something more relaxed,” Grandpapa replied.

  “What do you think?” The duke furrowed his brow and turned towards his mother. “All the previous generations have had formal portraits but I have a hankering for something less austere, especially if these two are to be included,” he added, indicating his wolfhounds. They had appeared from wherever they had been banished to the moment the duke had left the dining room and remained glued to his heels. “Besides, all that sitting around for hours dressed up to the nines would be burdensome.”

  “We must all make sacrifices, big brother,” Lord Amos said, grinning.

  The duke shot him a reproving look. “Easy for you to say. You’re not the one who has to do the posing.”

  “I think you should decide for yourself what you would prefer,” the duchess said. “I just consider it fortunate to have persuaded Mr. Trafford to capture your likeness, no matter what you decide to wear.”

  “In that case,” Nia said, unable to remain silent. “I would suggest a less formal setting. This atrium is not the place for formality.”

  “I am relieved to hear you say so, Miss Trafford,” the duke said, wiping non-existent perspiration from his brow.

  “Grandpapa, what say you that we ask the duke to sit on the end of that daybed, which I am sure is very comfortable and will not be too inconvenient for him. It is low and so his dogs would be able to sit or lie at his feet.”

  Her grandfather did not reply. Instead he stood stock still for a moment, rubbing his chin as he examined the atrium from all angles. Nia had seen him that way on many previous occasions and did not disturb his cogitations. The rest of the party took up positions around the edge of the room and simply watched a genius at work—well, that was how Nia hoped they looked upon her grandfather’s behaviour. They certainly did not speak, or do anything that might distract him. Nia knew his creative imagination would be in full flow. He would be picturing the duke in this setting, trying to decide how best to depict him for posterity.

  Nia was delighted to see the burning desire, a fervent light, glowing in Grandpapa’s increasingly vacant eyes when faced with this unexpected opportunity to do what he did best. Grandpapa muttered something beneath his breath, then grabbed one end of the daybed and moved its position. A footman rushed forward to help him, but Grandpapa waved him aside, just as Nia had known he would. Grandpapa was thinking about the morning light pouring through the eastern side of the dome and how it would reflect upon his sitter. No one attempted to help her grandfather, other than Nia herself, who sat on the end of the bed at his request. They conferred in abbreviated whispers and finally settled upon exactly the right setting for the daybed, at an angle, with the orange tree in the background.

  “That will serve perfectly, Nia my dear,” Grandpapa said.

  “Yes, I believe it will.” Nia turned towards the duke. “If you don’t mind my saying so, Your Grace, I think casual clothing, as though Grandpapa had caught you in the middle of the day when you were not expecting visitors, will give the portrait the desired informal ambience. But we passed through your gallery just now and I did notice it would be a complete break with tradition, so perhaps we could find some middle ground.” Nia stifled a giggle. “It would not do to shock future generations.”

  “Zach excels at shocking people,” Lord Nathaniel remarked.

  “I think you are absolutely right, Miss Trafford,” the duke replied, sending his brother a withering look.

  “Splendid,” Grandpapa said, clapping his hands together. “Perfectly splendid. We shall get to work tomorrow, if that suits you, Your Grace.”

  “I am entirely at your disposal, Trafford, and in your debt, I ought to add.”

  “How so, Your Grace?” Sean asked.

  “We live with continual squabbles going on between the two local villages, whose inhabitants compete for our attention,” the duke replied. “Since Crista joined the family’s ranks, Shawford has been impossibly smug because they claim her as one of theirs.”

  “Sorry, Zach,” Crista said, smiling. “If I had known…”

  The duke waved her apology aside. “Once this portrait is completed, I shall show it off at our mothe
r’s next birthday party, to which all villagers are invited, and brag about you being a Compton man, Trafford.” The duke’s smile was devastating, the man himself arguably the handsomest of all the brothers, and yet Nia could appreciate his charm without being affected by it. The same could not be said about her interaction with Lord Vincent. Just the touch of his hand, or an enticing smile, was sufficient to create a bewildering paradox of pleasure and longing deep within her core.

  “I am sure my grandfather is pleased to be of service to you, Your Grace,” Nia said for him because she could tell by his vague expression that he had retreated to an unreachable place somewhere in the recesses of his mind and was probably not even aware the duke had spoken.

  “If you have seen enough, Mr. Trafford, shall we return to the drawing room for coffee?” the duchess suggested.

  Grandpapa snapped out of his reverie. “Lead the way, my dear.”

  My dear?

  Nia wandered to the window, allowing the rest of the party to leave the room ahead of her. She needed a moment to recover her composure and untangle her muddled reflections. Lord Vincent appeared determined to remain close beside her, and she found his constant company as exhausting as it was exhilarating. She heard the rest of the party’s shoes echoing on the tiled floor as they left the atrium, but sensed one member of it had not gone with them. Damn it, his over-attentiveness was wearing her down.

  She turned to give him a piece of her mind, but the words stalled on her tongue when she observed him leaning one broad shoulder against the door jamb, watching her through unsettlingly intelligent eyes. She wanted to tell him to stop smothering her, perhaps because that prospect was becoming hourly more enticing, but she could hardly order him to leave a room in his own family’s house. Besides, she would probably never find her way back to the drawing room on her own.

  Nia looked away again and stared at the now almost dark garden, feeling breathless, disadvantaged. It was already apparent that she would have to abandon her plan to teach Lord Vincent a lesson. The moment she was alone with him, she completely lost all sense of who she was. He disconcerted her in a manner that was beyond her control, her understanding, and all common sense.