Portrait of My Heart

by Patricia Cabot

  She knew she was being ridiculous. She had no right to feel jealous. She had turned down his proposal, thereby cutting off any right she might have to feel possessive toward him.

  And it was ridiculous to suppose that, in spite of her rejection, he might remain faithful to her. Ridiculous and unrealistic. The Duke of Rawlings was a virile man … more than virile; an almost unearthly specimen of the human male. He had, like all males, needs. These needs, since she’d given up her right to cater to them, would necessarily be met by someone.

  And so it was childish of her to suppose that he was not seeing someone else … perhaps even making love to someone else. Perhaps even proposing to someone else, and getting accepted this time. There was every possibility he’d return from India with a bride in tow, a submissive little bride who’d make an excellent duchess because she was interested in the kind of things that interested duchesses, like clothing and jewels and who was married to whom and who was sleeping with whom. Whereas the only knowledge that Maggie could have brought to the marriage would have been a love of art and a particularly detailed familiarity with the habits of bichon frises.

  But sometimes—not very often—Maggie allowed herself to fantasize about what might have been: What if she’d accepted Jeremy’s marriage proposal? What if she’d gone with him to Gretna Green? What if she’d thrown caution to the wind and allowed him to make love to her that night in her bedroom?

  These were thoughts Maggie hardly dared let herself entertain … primarily because they made her feel a little short of breath. The thought of Jeremy Rawlings’s naked body pressing against hers filled her with a longing so intense she generally had to put Jerry the dog on his leash and take him outside for a brisk walk.

  Something, Maggie knew, was very wrong with her for even thinking thoughts of this kind.

  And instead of getting better over the years, it only got worse. Because as Maggie’s painting skills increased, her classes became more advanced, until she was placed in private tutorials with actual live models, all of whom were unclothed, and some of whom were male. Given, for the first time in her life, a good long look at the male physique only increased the frequency of Maggie’s fantasies about Jeremy. Did he, she often caught herself wondering, have as broad a chest as Philippe, their gesture model? Was he as muscular all over as Etienne, the model in her anatomy class? Did Jeremy’s inguinal ligaments have as much definition as Gérard’s? And of course, she was often horrified to find herself wondering about Jeremy’s genitalia, comparing them with that of models she’d painted, and wondering if they were as large, as dark, as thickly haired … .

  She supposed she was obsessed. Other girls in the school were obsessed with men—their lovers, their fiancés, the man who delivered their milk in the morning, the waiter at the cafe on the corner—and talked of them incessantly. Berangère Jacquard, who, after her set down by Madame Bonheur, actually became rather friendly toward Maggie, talked of nothing but men. In fact, Maggie was just about the only girl at Madame’s studio who didn’t talk about men. Jeremy’s name never once left her lips, not in five years. What was the point in talking about him? She had lost him, in a moment of childish fear, fear of the unknown, fear of losing control. A girl as cowardly as Maggie considered herself to be didn’t deserve a second chance, and so she didn’t expect one. Never, in five years, did it occur to Maggie that Jeremy had been serious when he’d asked her to contact him if she changed her mind about marrying him. No man, once rejected, would consider risking his heart a second time on the same object. Maggie didn’t know much about men, but she at least knew that.

  But just because she never spoke of him didn’t mean she never thought of him. On the contrary. She never stopped thinking of him. It was a rare day, in fact, that round about mid-morning, she didn’t lay down her paintbrush and think to herself, Lord, it’s nearly eleven o’clock, and I’ve thought of nothing all day but Jeremy! And that thought was always accompanied by so much pain and regret that she continued to think of little else until sleep overtook her at bedtime.

  So when she woke that morning to find Jeremy sitting on the edge of her bed, Maggie had been more than just a little surprised. Her initial shock hadn’t been so much over Jeremy’s altered looks. Those had been startling, it was true. But the fact that he was there at all had been what jarred her most. Why was Jeremy Rawlings sitting on her bed? He had forgotten all about her, hadn’t he? He hadn’t spared her a passing thought in five years. Why now, when there could be nothing between them, had he chosen to reappear in her life?

  To give credit where credit was due, she supposed Jeremy could have had no way of knowing she’d taken up residency in his home. Surely, had he known, he’d have had the tact to avoid her … especially considering the fact that he had brought the Star of Jaipur home with him. But perhaps he’d been carried away with the excitement of being among friends again. Yes, that was it. They were old friends, that was all. Very old friends.

  It was for that reason, she was prepared to explain, that she had named her dog after him. Because he was a good, old friend. It certainly hadn’t been because thoughts of him rarely, if ever, left her. It certainly wasn’t because he had, that day five years earlier, seared an image into her memory that she’d been unable to shake ever since. It wasn’t because Jeremy Rawlings had become her definition of the ideal man, and no man, not even her own fiance, could ever match—

  It was at that moment, sitting at the breakfast table, waiting for Jeremy to put in an appearance, that Maggie remembered Augustin.

  Good God! Her fiancé! She had forgotten her fiance!

  Well, that cinched it. Maggie was deranged. Reserve a room in Bedlam, because Maggie was on her way. She had sat in the wee hours of the morning, chatting with a man who had once proposed to her, and she had completely forgotten the fact that she was engaged to someone else. Not just forgotten the fact that she was engaged, but forgotten all about the man himself! Oh, Lord. She was the most ungrateful, unappreciative girl in the entire world. What could she have been thinking, sitting there with Jeremy in her nightdress while Augustin, the man to whom she was engaged, was sleeping just a few city blocks away?

  But the fact that she was undeserving of Augustin’s attentions wasn’t quite as important as the fact that she had completely forgotten to mention his existence to Jeremy. Not that she fancied Jeremy would care. Certainly not! Why, he had the Star of Jaipur! But she ought to have said something … .

  Well, it was a dilemma easily remedied. She’d simply casually announce it over breakfast, along with her explanation of her dog’s name. Yes, that was it. Jeremy, I named my dog after you because you’re a dear old friend, and by the way, did you know I’m engaged to be married? Pass the butter, will you?

  But when Jeremy did not appear at the breakfast table by ten o’clock, a half hour before Maggie’s first appointment of the day, she became irritated. She wanted to tell him about Augustin while her courage was still high. Where was he? A consultation with Evers proved highly unsatisfactory. According to the butler, His Grace was still sleeping. Subtle questioning as to the whereabouts of the Star of Jaipur were equally unsatisfactory. According to Evers, only one bedroom besides her own was currently being utilized. Since she felt sure Jeremy wouldn’t put the Star of Jaipur up in a hotel, she could only assume he was sharing his own bedroom with her. Well, that might explain, she supposed, why Jeremy was sleeping so late. Had he gone straight from her room to …

  She felt nauseous just thinking about it.

  So instead of thinking about it, she gathered her things and took the omnibus to her first appointment, a consultation with Lord and Lady Chettenhouse, who wanted to commission a portrait of their eldest daughter, a rather spoiled little society miss. A gown, pose, and sum were agreed upon within an hour, and Maggie was back at the house on Park Lane by noon … only to learn that the duke was still sleeping.

  Biting back a resentful remark, Maggie had a long lunch, dallied as long as she could in her ro
om before finally admitting she was acting like a fool, then took another omnibus to her studio. There she put in five solid hours of painting, hardly once thinking about her nocturnal visitor. It was only after she laid down her paintbrush and flexed her sore arm that she wondered if Jeremy was finally awake. Shutting up her studio for the night, Maggie returned to the house on Park Lane, preparing herself the entire way for an unpleasant interview with its owner. She was wearing a blue tartan day dress, with a long ruffled train and a tight bodice that ended in a point just over her abdomen. She didn’t, she knew, look particularly smart, but then, she didn’t look dowdy, either. At least her hair was up. It would be the first time Jeremy had ever seen her with her hair up. If it would just stay up during the course of their interview, all would be well.

  What she hadn’t thought to prepare herself for was an interview with the duke’s mistress. But that’s exactly who she found standing in the foyer when she threw open the front door.

  Chapter 14

  The Star of Jaipur, Maggie saw at once, was everything that she had most feared: petite, exotic, and beautiful. In fact, standing next to her, Maggie felt like an ungainly cow.

  It wasn’t just that the Indian princess had the largest, darkest eyes Maggie had ever seen. It wasn’t just that, even swathed in a cloak of ermine and velvet, she looked dainty enough to sit in the palm of Maggie’s hand. It wasn’t just that her feet, peeping out from beneath the hem of her pink silk sari, were shod in jeweled slippers, or that the fingers she slipped out of her furred muff were heavy with rubies and emeralds.

  Oh, no, the Star of Jaipur had to smile at her as she came blowing in from outside. A sweet, gentle smile that caused Maggie to stumble over her own train and nearly upset a vase of half-blown roses that rested on a tiny marble-topped table just inside the door.

  Lord, Maggie thought miserably, as she held on to the table for support. Did she have to be beautiful and nice, too?

  “Excuse me,” said a soft, masculine voice from behind her. The English was accented, but quite good, nonetheless. “But are you unwell?”

  Maggie took a deep breath. She was going to live through this, she told herself. This was not going to kill her. All she needed to do was utter a few pleasantries, go up those stairs, and then …

  Start packing. Because she could not live in this house a second longer.

  Maggie turned, slowly, and found herself looking up at a slim, but very tall, brown-skinned man, who wore on his head a scarlet little hat with a tassel in the crown. He was smooth-shaven, with an intelligent face, that, though not handsome, was nevertheless pleasing. Though Maggie could not have begun to guess his age, she suspected he was younger than he seemed.

  Somehow, Maggie managed to smile at him. “I’m quite well,” she said. “You merely startled me.”

  “Ah!” The man smiled and nodded, then turned to say something incomprehensible to the Star of Jaipur. The language he spoke was lilting and melodic, with no guttural sounds whatsoever. Hearing it put Maggie in mind of the games she and Jeremy had played as children, of the way the wind had sounded in summertime, as it rustled through the treetops on the Rawlings estate.

  When the Star of Jaipur responded in the same language, something in her soft, fluty voice caused the hairs on Maggie’s arms to stand up beneath her sleeves. When she was through speaking, the Indian man turned to Maggie and said kindly, “Allow me to make introductions, please. This is the Princess Usha Rajput of Rajasthan. I am her interpreter, Sanjay. The princess wishes you to know that you are welcome in her home. She wonders if you have come to see herself, or the colonel.”

  “In her …” Maggie’s voice trailed off. Good God. This was worse than she’d ever imagined. Jeremy actually intended to marry this … this … woman. It had been one thing when they’d all assumed he’d merely keep her, like a pet. But evidently, he intended to marry her. Or at least that was the impression the princess herself seemed to be under. Unless … unless they were married already!

  “Um,” Maggie stammered. “Actually, neither. You see, I’ve been staying here—”

  “Ah,” the little man cried. “You are a servant? Very good! We need someone to take our wraps.” He indicated the princess’s heavy, ermine-trimmed cloak, and his own cape, of the same scarlet as his cap. “The man who opened the door to us was very rude. He told us, wait here, and then he disappeared. We have not seen him for some minutes. The princess grows tired of waiting and wishes to sit down.”

  Maggie nodded, feeling as if there were a bee buzzing inside of her skull, trying to get out. She could not, in her wildest imaginings, have ever envisioned quite so awkward a situation. She supposed that Evers, opening the door to this couple, had felt the same. Otherwise, why would he have simply left them there in the foyer? A well-trained butler simply did not leave guests waiting in the foyer. He saw them either comfortably seated, or he turned them away. He did not, however, leave them standing in the hallway.

  But Maggie could not blame Evers. She quite understood his feelings. It was all simply too much for an ordinary Englishman—or woman—to bear. For the maharajah of Rajasthan, the supreme power of that province—outside of Her Majesty, of course—to have presented his own niece as a reward for heroism—And for Jeremy to have accepted that reward!—was beyond all comprehension.

  Maggie was glad it had been so long since luncheon. Otherwise, she might have lost what she’d eaten right then and there.

  Instead, however, she did what any decent British citizen ought to have done: She swallowed the sour taste in her mouth and said, as graciously as possible, “If you will follow me, I’ll show you to the drawing room. And of course, I’ll be happy to take your wraps.”

  The Indian man beamed at her. “Thank you,” Sanjay said. “Thank you very much. We have traveled a long way, and are very tired. And I am afraid the cold here is not what we are used to. It is quite wearing.”

  Maggie smiled—though she feared that smile was terribly sickly. “I’ll see that someone brings you some tea straightaway, then.”

  And then she turned, and threw open the doors to the drawing room.

  It took her only a few minutes to see that the princess and her translator were settled comfortably. When it appeared that all their needs—save the tea, which Maggie rang for—had been attended to, she took her leave. It was only as Maggie was leaving that the princess reached out and seized her hand.

  Looking down at the lovely, upturned face, Maggie could see, with perfect clarity, why Jeremy had not said no to the maharajah’s offer. The Star of Jaipur was aptly named. Besides her large, hypnotic eyes, the princess had been blessed with a perfectly bow-shaped mouth, skin the color of hazelnuts, long ebony hair, and a figure as lithe and as fine-boned as a dancer’s. Two of her would have fit easily into Maggie’s corset. Though his aunt would object, of course—Pegeen had been very vocal in her disapproval of the maharajah’s beneficence, calling him, perhaps not incorrectly, a peddler of human flesh—Jeremy had surely found a perfect duchess for Rawlings, one who would not shame the heavy diamond tiara that came with the title.

  The princess hung on to Maggie’s gloved hand for a few moments, while she spoke rapidly in what Maggie assumed was Hindustani. When she finished her little speech, Sanjay translated: “The Princess Usha wishes you to know that your kindness will not go unrewarded. For the generosity you have shown us this evening, you will always be a valued member of Her Highness’s personal staff. She wishes to know the extent of your experience as a lady’s maid, and whether or not you can read.”

  It took Maggie a full minute before she could summon up a reply. When she did, she was pleased she managed to do so without laughing … or vomiting.

  “I’m extremely flattered,” Maggie said slowly, “however, I am not a servant, merely a guest in this house. I do hope you have a pleasant evening, but now I really must retire to my own room.”

  Without waiting for the princess’s reply, she turned and hurried away. All she wanted was to f
lee to the sanctuary of her own room. But of course, no sooner had she reached it, than her maid, Hill, bustled out from the dressing room, a white satin evening gown in her hands.

  “There you are,” she said, just as Maggie threw herself dramatically across the bed, preparing to burst into a storm of tears. “You’re late. You’ve only a few minutes to get changed.”

  “Changed?” Maggie echoed dejectedly. “Changed for what?”

  “Lord and Lady Althorpe’s cotillion.” Hill shook her head. “Really, Miss Margaret. Is that skull of yours forever in the clouds?”

  Maggie gasped. “Oh, Lord, no! I’d completely forgotten!”

  The cotillion! What an idiot she was! She had fussed at Augustin for weeks, fearful that Lady Althorpe would forget to issue her an invitation to this all-important society event. Every matron in town would be in attendance, along with their unmarried daughters, and they’d all of them get a glance at the portrait Maggie had just completed of Cordelia Althorpe, in whose honor her parents were hosting the cotillion. Maggie would never have a better chance to gain introductions to the sort of people who’d be most likely to commission portraits from a painter like herself. If she could win over Lord and Lady Althorpe’s rich, influential friends, she might never want for money again!

  “Oh!” she cried, rolling over, and heading straight for her dressing table. How in the world was she going to cry out her troubles when she had to prepare for a ball? “Oh, Hill,” she cried, to her maid’s reflection in the large gilt-framed mirror that hung above the dressing table. “I’d completely forgotten!”

  “Well, fortunately, Mr. de Veygoux didn’t. He’ll be here in half an hour to pick you up. Least, that’s the message he left earlier this afternoon. Come on, now, and get out of those things. We’ve got a lot of work to do, if we’re to make you presentable by the time he gets here.”

  Heaving a sigh, Maggie slumped forward, burying her head in her arms. “Oh, Hill,” she said. “You can’t even begin to imagine the day I’ve had.”