Portrait of My Heart

by Patricia Cabot

  Augustin beamed, clearly pleased by this turn of events. “What a coincidence,” he cried. “Marguerethe and I are going to dinner, as well.” At Maggie’s sharp glance, he looked a trifle hurt. “You remember, surely, Marguerethe? We promised to dine with Lord and Lady Mitchell tonight. And I think, chérie, that if we are to be on time, you must go home now to change. My chaise is downstairs. Are you ready to go?”

  P Maggie, feeling the beginnings of a sharp headache behind her right eye, replied, “Yes, of course, Augustin.” She was careful not to meet Jeremy’s gaze. “Only let me get my wrap—”

  Please, Maggie found herself praying. Please don’t let him say anything to Augustin. Please, don’t let him say anything like ‘I’ll see you back home, then, won’t I, Maggie?’ I’ve got to tell Augustin my own way, in my own time.

  “Well,” Jeremy said, straightening enough to let them pass. “Good night, then.”

  “Bon soir,” Augustin said and, steering Maggie by the elbow, he guided her out into the hall.

  “Good night,” she said, so softly that she doubted Jeremy heard her.

  They were nearly to the stairs, and Maggie was thinking that they were perfectly safe, when Jeremy’s voice rang out down the hall.

  “Oh, and Mags,” he called.

  She froze, one hand on the rickety balustrade, her foot poised and ready to sink down onto the first step.

  “I’ll see you back home, then, won’t I?”

  Chapter 27

  “You are going about this all wrong,” Berangère observed, as she peeled and ate yet another shrimp.

  Across the table, Jeremy sat slumped with his chin in his hand, an elbow by the bowl into which Berangère was tossing the shells from the shrimp she was devouring with an appetite he envied. He himself had not managed, during the course of their dinner, to get more than a couple of whiskies down his gullet. But Berangère had managed to put away a dozen oysters, a tin of caviar, and a meringue. This was their second bowl of shrimp.

  “I’m certainly going about something wrong,” Jeremy agreed bitterly. “I’m sitting in a restaurant I can’t abide with a woman I don’t even know. I spent a fortune on ballet tickets I didn’t use, while the woman I love is off God knows where with a man who is trying to kill me. Yes, I definitely get the impression I’m doing something wrong.”

  Berangère chewed elegantly, swallowed, and reached for her champagne flute. “It was a shame you had to waste the tickets,” she said, after she’d drained her glass. “After you’d gone to the trouble of procuring them. That particular ballet has been sold out for weeks. However did you manage to get tickets to it?”

  Jeremy shrugged carelessly. “Paid a fortune to some bloke on the street.”

  Berangère, watching him, suddenly burst out good-naturedly, “Imbécile.”

  Jeremy blinked at her. “I beg your pardon?”

  “You heard me. Why did you spend a fortune on tickets to the ballet, when Marguerethe does not even care for the ballet?”

  “She doesn’t?” Jeremy looked skeptical. “I thought all women loved the ballet.”

  “Bête,” Berangère accused him. She reached for another shrimp. “Not Marguerethe. She says the sight of all those tiny women standing on their toes makes her feel clumsy as an elephant.” Slipping her fingers beneath the hard shell, she neatly peeled away the seasoned flesh. “Myself, I have always loved the pompe of the ballet. I would have been a very great ballerina, I think. I am very small, and I have very niece feet.” She glanced at him flirtatiously. “Would you like to look at my feet, Jerry?”

  Jeremy blinked at her. Berangère Jacquard was a beautiful woman—more strictly beautiful than Maggie, with her golden hair, porcelain skin, heartbreakingly blue eyes, and pink cupid’s-bow mouth, though not as beautiful as Usha—but then, what woman was? Dainty as a child, Berangère had a figure, he’d realized belatedly, when she’d emerged from her boudoir in evening dress, after insisting that they stop at her flat so that she could change before dinner, that was anything but childish: small but pert breasts, a reed-slim waist, and an extremely fetching backside, emphasized by an insouciant bustle of silk roses. Under any other circumstances, Jeremy would have jumped at an invitation to look at the feet of a woman like Berangère Jacquard.

  Under the present circumstances, however, he’d have as soon accepted an invitation to look at her feet as he would an invitation to another ballet.

  Berangère wasn’t the least offended by his disinterest. In fact, it seemed to delight her.

  “Ah,” she said, popping the shrimp she’d peeled so arduously into her mouth. “I approve.”

  He looked at her miserably. The orchestra had launched into a polka, and on the stage, the dancing girls kicked up their heels and shook out their skirts, showing anyone who cared to look their black velvet garters.

  Something, either the whisky, the noise, or the fact that Maggie was somewhere in London with another man, was giving Jeremy a headache.

  “What did you say?” he asked Berangère.

  “I approve of you,” Berangère said. “For Marguerethe.”

  Jeremy laughed bitterly. “It’s all well and good for you to approve of me, Miss Jacquard. The problem is, Maggie doesn’t approve of me.”

  “That is not the problem, Jerry.”

  Jeremy snorted. “No. The frog-eater’s the problem.”

  Berangère frowned at him disapprovingly. “The problem is not Augustin, either.”

  Jeremy rolled his eyes. “I suppose you’re going to tell me the problem is Usha.”

  “No. The problem is Marguerethe.”

  “Maggie?” He looked at her curiously. “What do you mean?”

  It was Berangère’s turn to roll her eyes. “Mon Dieu! Think a little, Jerry.”

  “Thinking is not my strong suit,” Jeremy told her frankly. “I’m much better at tearing things up with my hands.”

  Berangère glanced down at those large brown hands as they curled around his whisky glass. She cleared her throat uncomfortably. “Yes,” she said. “I can see that. However, we are talking about a love affair right now, not some sort of rebel uprising that needs to be subdued. This wooing of Marguerethe … it needs finesse, not fists.”

  Jeremy stared at her. “Why,” he demanded suspiciously, “would you want to help me win over Maggie?”

  Berangère seemed taken aback by the question. “Why, because Marguerethe is my friend,” she said indignantly.

  “Is she?” Jeremy looked skeptical. “You don’t even call her by her real name.”

  “Non,” Berangère said confidently. “You do not call her by her real name. Marguerethe is her real name, not this ugly sound you make, this Mag-gie.” Berangère shuddered. “Ugh! I have never understood how you English can take a perfectly good name and ruin it beyond—”

  “All right.” Jeremy cut her off before she could launch into another lecture about the superiority of the French culture over the English. He’d already received several such lectures during the course of the evening. “All right. So Maggie’s your friend.”

  “And I want my friends to be happy,” Berangère said with a graceful shrug. “Especially Marguerethe. She is truly the sweetest, most genuine girl I have ever met.” Berangère stabbed irritably at the shrimp on her plate. “She has been most abominably used by her dreadful family. I have walked into that studio and found her weeping—weeping!—at her easel, over the foul way her father and those sisters—bah!—have deserted her, just when she should be happiest, when she is being celebrated for her talent!” Berangère raised her eyes and pierced Jeremy with the intensity of her gaze. “I would like to see Marguerethe happy, if I can,” she said. “And if, in order for her to be happy, she must have you, then I will do all that I can to see that she has you … even if it means I must plot against Marguerethe herself to make that happen.”

  Jeremy found himself blinking at the Frenchwoman once again. In the vehemence with which she expressed herself, she reminded him a li
ttle of his aunt … only Pegeen, he knew very well, had never offered to show her feet to anyone in a restaurant.

  “All right,” he said. “What do you suggest?”

  Berangère’s first suggestion was that he order another bottle of champagne; her glass was empty. Her next suggestion was that he convince Maggie’s family to accept her decision to become a professional portrait painter.

  Jeremy balked at the very idea. “How am I supposed to do that?” he demanded.

  Berangère beamed as the waiter poured more champagne into her glass. “How do I know?” she said, when the waiter had succeeded in his task. “You’re the duke. Cannot you order them to do it?”

  “I most certainly cannot,” Jeremy replied.

  Berangère looked shocked. “Then what good is it, this being a duke, if you cannot make people do what you say?”

  “It isn’t any good,” Jeremy said. “That’s what I’ve been telling people half my life. The whole thing is a joke.”

  “Hmm.” Berangère tapped the side of her champagne flute impatiently. “This is not good. Marguerethe needs her family’s approval, you see. Unlike myself, Marguerethe actually cares what her family thinks about her. This business of theirs of not speaking to her because she has the gall to want to paint for a living … it has been very painful for her. It is my feeling that she clings to Augustin because he was the only person who stood by her when her father issued his—how do you say? Oh, yes—ultimatum. That is why, if you were able to change their minds, she would transfer that gratitude from Augustin to you.”

  “Why?” Jeremy asked.

  Berangère lifted her eyes to the ceiling. “Stupide! Because in order for Marguerethe to stop feeling so indebted to Augustin, she must be made to feel indebted to someone else. Were you to give her back her family, she would realize that you had rendered her a very great service, a service that must be repaid.”

  Jeremy blinked. “All right,” he said. “I’ll do it.” He didn’t know how, but by God, he’d do it. He’d do anything, anything at all. “Any more ideas, Miss Jacquard?” Jeremy inquired.

  Berangère finished off what was left in her glass and set the crystal goblet down again. “Oui. You might propose to her. A girl like Marguerethe, I am sure, would appreciate a marriage proposal, particularly after having made love for the first time.” Berangère eyed him knowingly. “They are very old-fashioned, English girls.”

  Jeremy raised a single dark eyebrow. So Maggie had revealed to this Frenchwoman that she had made love with him already? Good God. He’d had no idea women revealed these kinds of things to one another.

  And hadn’t he asked Maggie to marry him that morning? After reflecting, he thought perhaps he hadn’t. It was so hard to remember. They had made love half a dozen times, and then …

  No. He hadn’t asked. How rude! No wonder she was so put out with him. He glanced at the Frenchwoman. “Done,” he said. “Now may I ask you something, Miss Jacquard?”

  “Of course,” Berangère said, with a regal inclination of her head.

  “What’s the real reason you’re helping me?” He eyed her interestedly. “Is it so that you’ll be able to tell everyone you know that you’re friends with the Duchess of Rawlings?”

  Berangère smiled widely. “But of course!”

  Jeremy smiled back at her. “I suppose,” he said, “that being a duke does have its advantages, then.”

  “Oh, indeed it does, Jerry,” Berangère agreed gravely. “Indeed it does.”

  Chapter 28

  Maggie felt headachy and tired by the time she returned to the house on Park Lane. It was a relief to slip into her own room and close the door—though she’d been a bit surprised at not encountering the duke on the stairs. She hadn’t dared to ask Evers if Jeremy was at home. She did not want to draw further attention to the fact that she was once again spending the night in the house alone with him—or at least, she assumed so.

  Unless, after that unpleasant scene in her studio, Jeremy had found somewhere else to sleep. With the princess, for instance.

  Maggie tried to keep such thoughts resolutely out of her mind. It wasn’t anything to her where Jeremy slept. He could sleep at the foot of Princess Usha’s bed for all she cared. All Maggie wanted to do was brush out her hair—Hill had stuck so many pins in her head in an attempt to hold up the heavy dark mass of curls that her scalp was beginning to throb—and go to bed.

  Alone.

  “Hill?” she called, as she stepped into her bedroom. The fire had been lit, and her bedcovers turned down, but there wasn’t a sign of her maid. Jerry the dog appeared instead, leaping up from the bed pillows and bounding toward Maggie, yapping enthusiastically.

  “Bon soir, Jerry,” Maggie said, stooping to lift the dog and give his ears a good scratching. “Ça va? Has Hill walked you already?” It was clear from the appreciative way the dog had thrown back his head while she petted him that going for a walk was the last thing on his mind. “I see that she has. So where is she, eh? Gossiping belowstairs, I’ll wager.”

  Maggie went to the bell pull at the side of her bed and yanked on it once. Then she sat down at her dressing table, placing Jerry on her lap, and began to remove her elbow-length gloves. She supposed she ought to be grateful Hill wasn’t about. She did not need another lecture about how inappropriate it was for her to remain in the town house without Lord and Lady Edward’s presence. For Evers had assured her, as soon as she’d asked—which she had, the moment he’d greeted her at the front door—that the duke’s aunt and uncle were apparently still in Yorkshire. The butler’s disapproval, though it went unuttered, had been evident in his averted gaze as he took Maggie’s cloak. Evers was no more pleased about the current living situation in the town house than Hill was.

  Another night, Maggie reflected grimly, unchaperoned. Another black mark against her otherwise good name. A fitting end to a perfectly horrid day.

  Maggie frowned as she pulled off her gloves and then started removing her jewelry. Lord, what a dreadful evening she’d had! What had started out as excruciatingly embarrassing had ended up being merely excruciating. Augustin, determined to show her that while the duke may have broken his nose, he could never break his spirit, had insisted upon dragging her from one nightspot to another after dinner, in defiance of both his cotton-packed nostrils and her weariness. Maggie hadn’t even bothered to pretend to be enjoying herself. It was clear it did not matter to Augustin how she felt about the matter. He had made plans to wine and dine her, and he intended to carry them out. He was like a man possessed by the devil … .

  And that devil, Maggie knew very well, was Jeremy Rawlings.

  Not that Maggie blamed Augustin for trying. She quite understood what he was feeling … or at least, she thought she did. It was a humiliating thing, surely, for a man to be struck by another in front of his fiancee. And Augustin hadn’t even been able to fight back, since that single blow had felled him. And then Jeremy had apologized, so Augustin couldn’t even call him out—not that Augustin would have survived a duel with the Duke of Rawlings. No matter what weapon he chose—pistols, blades, or fists—Jeremy was master of them all, and would have made short work of the Frenchman in a fight of any sort.

  Poor, poor Augustin. He had no way of knowing that Jeremy had bested him in another arena as well … and there hadn’t been a single moment all evening when Maggie might have told him about it, either. Well, maybe that wasn’t strictly true. There hadn’t been a single moment when Maggie felt it right to tell him … if there ever was a right time to tell the man to whom one was engaged that one had lost one’s virginity to another.

  And Augustin had seemed to be in such high spirits, speaking excitedly of Maggie’s exhibition on Saturday and his future plans for her career. While this kept Maggie from having to answer any embarrassing questions Augustin might have asked concerning Jeremy’s parting remark earlier in the evening—she was fully prepared to assure him, regardless of the fact that it was untrue, that the duke’s aunt wa
s back from Yorkshire, making it perfectly all right for the two of them to remain in the same house—on the other hand, his blind inattention to what was going on under his very own, albeit broken, nose was a little bit odd. Was it possible that Augustin did not care as much for Maggie as she had allowed herself to believe? Was there a chance that, close friends that they were, that might be all there was to the relationship?

  But no, that would be too much to ask. For Maggie to have been able to part company with Augustin without hurting his feelings at all … . No. Things like that simply did not happen. Twenty-four-carat sapphires did not fall from the sky, handsome young dukes did not forsake princesses for painters, and young women could not break off engagements without causing hurt feelings … .

  That was where Jeremy was. With the princess. It had to be. Jeremy was hardly the kind of man who’d spend a night alone. And since he wasn’t with her, where else could he be? Why, after she’d so been rude to him at her studio, would he even consider spending the night with her, anyway? Maggie certainly hadn’t done anything to make him think he might be welcome in her bed … .

  Which he most definitely was not. She’d prove it, too: Tomorrow, she’d ask Augustin to loan her some money—she’d pay him back from the sales from her exhibition—and she’d move to a hotel. Not the Dorchester, of course. A different hotel. She’d ask Augustin for the name of a decent one. And then she needn’t worry about chaperons or princesses or anything. She’d be on her own, completely on her own, just like in Paris. She’d tell Jeremy he could have his precious princess, for all she cared. It was better that way, she thought. Much better.

  Though she would miss him. Maggie smiled softly to herself, recalling what a shock she’d had that morning, waking in Jeremy’s arms—more than that, waking with Jeremy inside of her! Shocking it had been, but wonderful, too. What would it be like, she wondered, to wake up that way every morning, cocooned in Jeremy’s arms, feeling his sweet breath in her hair? Would it be worth it? she wondered, as she pushed down the pink satin bodice of her gown. Would putting up with all the rigmarole of being a duchess be worth it if she could look forward to waking up every morning in Jeremy’s arms?