Four hours later, she was still wondering.
Maggie’s feet, in high-heeled satin slippers, were beginning to hurt. Her cheeks were definitely sore from the smile she’d forced herself to wear throughout the evening, and her right hand ached from having been squeezed by so many eager arts enthusiasts. While on the one hand, it was very pleasant to stand there and hear how talented everyone thought her, Maggie really only cared what one person thought, and he had yet to show his face.
Was he really not coming? She had been so crushed at his sudden departure from London. Her only comfort had been the information Hill had provided, about the note from Rawlings Manor. Surely a visit to his family was called for, even necessary. But to be gone from her so long …
But he had left only the day before! What was the matter with her? She was like a lovelorn schoolgirl, mooning after her first beau. So what if he didn’t return in time for the opening of her exhibition? So what if he didn’t return at all? There would be other men, surely … .
But an inner voice had been whispering to her all night, and that inner voice said, No. There would be only one man. Only Jeremy.
It turned out she’d been wrong when she’d told herself that no one would venture from their warm hearths in order to look at a bunch of “pretty pitchers.” Her exhibition had attracted dozens—maybe even scores—of art patrons, none of whom seemed to mind the inclement weather. A pretty hired girl took their wraps as they entered the gallery, and gave them each a numbered disc with which their cloaks could later be retrieved. But since Augustin had seen to it that champagne flowed freely, and baked oysters and mushroom tarts were passed around on silver trays, not many who entered seemed eager to leave. Less than an hour after the reception began, red velvet ribbons had been pinned to the wall beside more than half of Maggie’s uncommissioned works, indicating that they’d been sold.
But though toward eight o’clock, Maggie had shaken hands with over a hundred people, none of them the person for whom she’d been waiting. Supposing he didn’t come? The gallery closed in an hour, and then she was being whisked off somewhere for a celebratory supper with Augustin and his friends. Not that she’d be able to eat, when all she could think about was Jeremy. How was he going to react to the news that she was no longer engaged? Would he propose to her a second time? Was it presumptuous of her to think that he would? Ought she to propose to him this time? She supposed that would only be fair. After all, she’d already turned him down once … .
But was she that sure? Was she truly convinced that she could make him happy? What did it matter? He wasn’t coming. Something had happened. Maggie was certain something had happened. Maybe the train to Yorkshire had crashed. Or his curricle had overturned. Maybe this man, this mysterious killer who had been stalking him since his return from India, had finally managed to injure him seriously, and even now Jeremy was tossing about in some hospital bed, feverishly calling her name. Maggie, seizing a glass of champagne from a passing tray, downed it in a single gulp at the thought.
Then an even worse idea occurred to her. What if, she wondered, accepting another glass of champagne from a portly man with a monocle, who was effusively comparing her painting style to that of the Impressionists, once at Rawlings, Jeremy came to his senses, and realized that Maggie really would make a dreadful duchess? What if he was, right this very moment, reuniting with the Princess Usha, who was too beautiful to do anything but act as hostess in such a gracious dwelling as Rawlirigs Manor?
Maggie finished off her second champagne. No, that wouldn’t happen. He loved her. She was sure of it. Five years, five years, he’d waited for her. Well, she could wait for him for one night. One night wouldn’t kill her.
Except …
Except that now that she was free, she wanted to tell him. She wanted to tell everyone. This haughty-looking woman, shaking her hand. Maggie wanted to say to her, “Thank you very much, ma’am, for admiring my paintings, and did you know that I’m in love with the seventeenth Duke of Rawlings? You didn’t? Well, it’s true.”
But with an effort, she managed to restrain herself. Even when people complimented her on the exhibition and then asked, curiously, as nearly everyone did, “And the portrait of that dark-haired young man. Who is he?”
At first Maggie had been horrified. She had specifically asked Mr. Corman to remove that painting. She caught his arm as he rushed about, drawing up sales slips and, her heart in her throat, begged him to take it down. But the young man had very gently extricated himself, plucking at her gloved fingers while saying, in a soothing voice, “But honestly, miss, it’s the best of the lot. I listed it as not for sale, but I simply couldn’t take it down. It really is a wonderful painting.”
It seemed as if Mr. Corman wasn’t the only one who thought so, either. Nearly everyone, including the art critic from The Times, commented upon it. And when Maggie wouldn’t tell anyone the name of the subject, the buzz about it only grew. Only the Mitchells, with whom Maggie had attended the Althorpe cotillion, recognized the portrait, much to Maggie’s chagrin.
“But isn’t that—” Lady Mitchell had gasped, and even her yawning husband had raised an eyebrow.
“I say, de Veygoux,” he drawled. “That’s the fellow who squashed your nose t’other night. What are you about, letting a portrait of him hang in your place?”
To his credit, Augustin, who had been too busy to notice the portrait before the opening began, laughed off Lord Mitchell’s teasing. And later, during a brief lull in the stream of well-wishers, Augustin was able to take Maggie by the arm and rebuke her, good-humoredly, for never having shown him the painting before.
“Though it’s probably a good thing you didn’t,” he admitted, in French. “For one look at it, and I’d have known right away there was never any hope for me.”
Maggie, blushing profusely, tried to apologize, but Augustin shushed her.
“Nonsense,” he said. “It’s a wonderful painting. If you ever do consent to sell it, please consider allowing me the honor of purchasing it. It might be restful to look upon of an evening, when I get to feeling too full of myself.”
Maggie had been far too embarrassed to reply. It was bad enough to have all of her works on display for public perusal. She did not need to have her emotions on display, as well. But the two seemed to go hand in hand. Unlike Berangère, Maggie had never been able to keep from putting a little of herself into each painting she completed, so that her relationship with her work was highly personal. Each painting was almost like a child to her, and she could not see any one of them sold without suffering a little pang of remorse.
She was watching with regret as Mr. Corman pinned a red velvet ribbon to one of her landscapes when a familiar voice purred, “Bon soir, princesse,” behind her. Maggie turned her head, and smiled at Berangère, who, as usual, was looking breathtakingly elegant, this time in a low-cut evening gown of purple velvet.
“Quite a crowd your Monsieur de Veygoux has managed to draw up for you, princesse,” Berangère observed, from behind an ostrich-plumed fan. “And they’re buying, too! You must be pleased.”
Maggie accepted a third glass of champagne, this one offered to her by one of the hired waiters. “Oh, I’m very pleased,” she said, sipping the effervescent liquid, but hardly tasting it. “But he isn’t my Monsieur de Veygoux anymore.”
Berangère lowered the fan in what Maggie knew very well was feigned surprise. “Non? Mon Dieu! But how did that come about, princesse? Did he find out about you and le duc diabolique?”
“No, he did not,” Maggie said. Noticing that the Mitchells were quite close by, she took Berangère’s arm and steered her toward a less populated area of the gallery, inclining her head so that she could speak into the Frenchwoman’s shell-like ear. “You know very well what happened, Berangère. There’s no use playing the innocent with me. You deliberately seduced Augustin last night!”
Berangère didn’t even attempt to deny it. She only lifted her clear blue eyes and asked, meekly
, “Are you very angry with me, princesse?”
“I will be,” Maggie said severely, “if you hurt him.”
“Hurt him?” Berangère tossed her head so that some of her golden curls bounced. “Pfui! I like that! I have performed the most intimate service imaginable for you, and you have the nerve to accuse me of—”
“I mean it, Berangère,” Maggie said sternly. “Augustin is smitten with you. You must be gentle with him. He isn’t like the other men you play with. He’s sensitive.”
Berangère raised her expressive eyes to the ceiling. “Pfui!” she said again. “Sensitive! And what am I, I ask you?”
“Insensitive,” Maggie replied, without hesitation. “And you’re wrong. I’m very grateful to you.”
“Are you?” Berangère beamed. “I am glad, princesse. I knew you would not approve of my methods—you never do—but I was so tired of seeing ma pauvre princesse looking sad. I had to do something. And you know, I quite like your Augustin. Did you know he is red-haired all over?” Berangère raised her eyebrows meaningfully, and Maggie, embarrassed, let out a nervous laugh. Fortunately, Berangère quickly changed the subject. “Now, where is your Jerry? How did he take the news that you are free, eh?”
Maggie frowned. She was beginning to regret the third glass of champagne. Perhaps she ought to try a baked oyster. “He, um, doesn’t know yet.”
“Doesn’t know?” Berangère snapped her fan shut and pointed it at Maggie’s nose. “Now who is playing with whom? Marguerethe, you must tell him. Now that there is no more fiance, it is time for you decide. Do you want the duke, or do you not?”
Maggie’s mouth dropped open. “Oh, Berangère, of course I want him! Only—”
“Don’t.” Berangère held up a slim hand, palm facing outward. “Do not tell me how undeserving you are, and what a duchesse terrible you’d make. I am tired of hearing it. He thinks you would be a good duchess, and that is all that matters.”
Maggie didn’t agree with her high-spirited friend, but that was beside the point. Miserably, she looked for a place to sit down. Only every chair was occupied, as were all of the velvet-cushioned benches scattered about the gallery. “Berangère, I haven’t had a chance to tell him because I haven’t seen him. He went back to Yorkshire for some reason, and he hasn’t yet returned. And the truth is … well, I don’t know if he ever will.”
“Hasn’t yet returned?” Berangère’s slender eyebrows raised to their limit. “Ah. He must have met with some resistance, then … .”
Maggie, giving up her search for a seat, turned her head to stare down at the Frenchwoman. “Resistance?” she echoed. “What do you mean, he must have met with some resistance?”
Berangère snapped open her fan and began to wave it energetically, looking everywhere but up at Maggie. “Where is that boy with the champagne? I am parched! It is too warm in here, do you not think so?”
“Berangère,” Maggie said warningly, but she didn’t have a chance to continue, since Augustin suddenly seized her arm.
“Marguerethe,” he cried, not even noticing Berangère in his excitement. “Marguerethe, he is here! He is here at last!”
Maggie’s heart seemed to roll over in her chest. She caught her breath, and slowly turned her head in the direction that Augustin was pointing. She really had had too much to drink. She felt the pressure of his fingers encircling her bare arm, and was conscious that beside her, Berangère had frozen, her fan in mid-sweep, and yet for a moment, it was as if she stood alone in the room. The noisy crowd, which was thick with bustles and black coattails, fell silent all at once, and then seemed to part, as if by some unseen hand. And then a man was approaching her, a tall man, his head held high, a knowing smile on his face … .
But it wasn’t Jeremy. It was a man Maggie had seen somewhere before, but it wasn’t Jeremy. Maggie’s heart, which had stuttered, suddenly began its normal rhythm again. She exhaled and, feeling a little sick, tried to wrench her arm from Augustin’s grasp. His fingers were cutting off the blood circulation to her hand.
“Nom de Dieu,” she heard Berangère breathe. “It is the Prince of Wales!”
Maggie glanced at the man once more, and realized that Berangère was right. It was the Prince of Wales. A large man, with a sizable belly swelling behind a white satin waistcoat, he was dressed as if to go to the theater, but had condescended to make a stop along his way. Hanging on to his arm was a woman Maggie also recognized, although she was not, by any stretch of the imagination, the Princess of Wales. Not unless the Princess of Wales had suddenly developed an affinity for face paint and marabou feathers, both of which this woman wore in profusion.
“I knew he would come,” Maggie heard Augustin hiss triumphantly beside her. “I knew it! The queen is looking for a portrait artist to render her grandchildren. Marguerethe, it could only be you. In all of England, no one paints portraits as you do! Oh, this is the best day of my life. The best!”
Maggie could not say the same. Her disappointment, coupled with her nausea, was profound. She had been quite certain, when Augustin had called, “He’s here!” that the he in question had been Jeremy. Where was he? And what had Berangere been talking about, when she’d said—
“Ah, Mr. dee Vaygoo.” The prince stopped in front of Augustin, still smiling benignly. “What a delightful gallery you have, sir. And such a delightful exhibition.”
Augustin stood with his mouth hanging open for a second or two, and then, when a sly pinch from Berangère brought him round again, hastily bowed at the waist.
“T-thank you, Your Royal Highness,” he stammered. “Thank you very much. I can’t tell you what an honor—”
“And is this Miss Herbert?” The prince grinned down at Berangère. “I have heard much about your talent, my dear, but may I say, your beauty exceeds your skill with a paintbrush.”
Without so much as blinking, Berangère dropped into the prettiest curtsy imaginable and said, her long eyelashes lowered coquettishly, “Merci beaucoup, Your Highness. But you flatter me. I am not the artist.” Berangère straightened and, seeing that Maggie had been trying to slink behind her, hoping no one would notice her, stepped quickly out of the way and said, giving Maggie a firm push forward, “This is Mademoiselle Herbert, Your Highness”
Maggie staggered a step or two forward, then, completely mortified, dipped her knees perfunctorily, hoping they would not give out entirely beneath her. “Your Royal Highness,” she said, to the floor. Her cheeks, she could tell, were blazing with embarrassment.
“Ah!” Smiling broadly, the Prince of Wales extended a dimpled hand, and Maggie, looking up, saw that he expected her to place hers in it. She did so, marveling at the softness of the fingers of the heir to the throne. “My dear, you are as pretty as any of your pictures.”
Maggie, wishing very much that the floor would open and swallow her into it, murmured, “Thank you, sir.”
“Tell me now,” the prince went on, still grasping her hand. “Who is this young man with the flashing eyes that you’ve rendered so admirably?”
Confused, Maggie lifted her eyes and was horrified to see that they were standing beneath the portrait of Jeremy. Her throat suddenly dry as sand, Maggie croaked, “Oh. That’s … that’s the seventeenth Duke of Rawlings.”
The Prince of Wales raised his eyebrows. “Is it now?” To his lady companion, he said, “That’d be Edward Rawlings’s nephew, Bella, the one who caused all that commotion in Jaipur.”
“Ah,” said Bella, parting her heavily made-up lips to reveal a set of startlingly yellow, and not very straight, teeth. “He’s very good-looking.”
The prince wasn’t paying any attention to her, though. “Tell me,” he said to Maggie, though he was squinting at the canvas before him. “These horses here, in the background. Are they supposed to be grays?”
Maggie leaned forward to squint with him. “Yes, sir,” she said, after a minute. “They are.”
“Damn!” The prince abruptly straightened, dropping her hand as if she’d
singed him. “Those are the grays old Edward Rawlings won from me, Bella! The matched geldings!”
“Are they?” Bella asked, without interest.
“I loved those horses,” the prince said mournfully. Then, looking as if something had just occurred to him, he said to Maggie, “Tell me something, my dear. Do you ever paint pictures of animals? You know, dogs and things?”
Maggie, most of her nausea having dissipated with the prince’s interest in Jeremy’s portrait, couldn’t help smiling. She knew exactly what was coming. “Yes, sir,” she said. “Quite often, as a matter of fact.”
“Splendid!” The prince clapped his hands together. “Then do you think you could paint a portrait of this truly exquisite mare I purchased last week? Such a beauty, she is, black all over. Named her Midnight, as a matter of fact. Do you think you could do that for me, Miss Herbert?”
“I would be honored, sir,” Maggie said, gravely bowing her head, though her bare shoulders twitched a little with merriment.
“Excellent!” Beaming, the prince winked at Augustin. “Quite a girl you have there, dee Vaygoo. Quite a girl. Send her round on Monday morning, would you? Might even introduce ’er to Mother.” Turning, the Prince of Wales extended his arm toward his companion. “I am exceedingly glad we took the trouble to stop by, aren’t you, Bella?”
Bella smiled her terrible smile again, and then the prince led her away, as gently as if she were as light as the feathers with which her gown was trimmed, and might blow away at any moment.
No sooner was the Prince of Wales out of earshot than Augustin threw his arms around Maggie and, to her very great surprise, lifted her into the air, spinning her around as if she too were made from nothing but marabou down.
“Marguerethe!” he cried excitedly. “Marguerethe, do you know what this means?”
Maggie, dizzy, seized Augustin’s shoulders and cried, “Put me down! Oh, God, Augustin, put me down, before I’m sick.”
Augustin obliged her, but did not release his hold on her waist. “Marguerethe, this is the best day of my life! Do you realize what this means? It means that finally, after years of trying, the de Veygoux family can claim to be purveyors of art to the queen of England herself! Have you any idea how much that is going to mean to the business, to my family back in Paris? Mon Dieu, I’ve got to cable them right away!”
Portrait of My Heart Page 33