Circle of Family

by Mia Ross

“I must work,” she told herself again and again as she ran up the three flights of stairs. In her room, she swept the contents littering the one small table onto the unmade bed and dragged the table closer to the window.

  She would begin by trying to draw the duke from memory. Her fingers flew across the sketchpad. Sometimes she pressed so hard on the charcoal that it crumbled and she threw the piece aside and rummaged through her cloth bag for another.

  It was his eyes that came back to her first. That incredible sadness that seemed to lurk there even when he was smiling. She used broad strokes to create the forehead, the ridge of dark brows that sheltered the eyes. And then the eyes themselves—deep-set, piercing, shadowed by a fan of lashes.

  Page after page she filled with her attempts to capture that unique expressive feature. The light softened into dusk. The street below quieted, the traffic reduced to only the occasional passing carriage. And now she worked in the dark, blindly, each stroke of the charcoal accompanied by a prayer that she might indeed be gifted enough to succeed in this. That the duke would see her work as worthy.

  Chapter Nine

  Jeanne arrived at the duke’s home armed with her sketchbook and a more than ample supply of charcoal. She followed Charles to the solarium where the butler assisted her in positioning the wrought-iron garden chair in the best light. And then she waited. And waited.

  After half an hour she began to lose patience. Charles arrived with a tea tray and the duke’s apologies for the delay. Three-quarters of an hour after that Jeanne was considering whether or not she should simply pack up and leave. “A bit of common courtesy, surely,” she fumed as she threw supplies into her canvas satchel and ripped off the smock she always wore to protect her clothing from smudges of pastel or charcoal.

  “You’re quite right, Miss Witherspoon.”

  She whirled around. He was wearing riding clothes, his hair wind-tousled, his skin rouged by the elements.

  “You were riding?” She could not control her temper. Duke or no duke, he had taken her time and he had taken her for granted.

  “I ride every morning,” he said, moving closer as if to prevent her from leaving. In these casual clothes he was even more handsome than he’d been in formal wear. He really was the most attractive man she’d ever met.

  “Well, perhaps you might keep your riding engagement in mind before making another appointment,” she grumbled.

  “And if I told you the horse of my companion broke away and I had to take chase?”

  His companion. He had a companion? “We can do this another time, your grace,” she said. “Clearly your morning has taken an unexpected turn. I’ll just see myself out.”

  “Do you have another engagement before lunch?”

  “No, but...”

  “Nor do I.” He sat down in the chair. “It appears, Miss Witherspoon, that we have the rest of the morning. How shall we begin?”

  Jeanne was speechless. Were all men so self-assured? So oblivious to the fact that a woman’s time had value regardless of whether or not she had formal plans? Gabriel Hunter had made such assumptions and now here was this man—this duke...

  He arched an eyebrow and smiled. “I’ve upset you and I apologize.”

  Jeanne weighed her options. She could leave in a fit of pique and never know if she might have made her name as a true artist. Or she could stay, make the sketches and hope he saw enough in them to assign her the task of painting his portrait. “Not at all,” she said sweetly as she opened her sketchpad to a fresh sheet and laid it aside while she put on her smock.

  “What are these?” He had picked up the sketchbook and turned the pages back to the beginning—to the sketches she had done the evening before. “When did you do these?” he asked as he slowly turned the pages.

  “I did them from memory. It’s an exercise I use before a session. Please, they aren’t meant for others. Just something I do, like a musician practicing scales.”

  “And yet they are quite remarkable. It’s a bit like looking in a mirror.”

  “Oh, no, your grace. They are all wrong.” She leaned over his shoulder and pointed. “See, the forehead is too pronounced and the...” He turned and looked up at her and she realized that their faces were but a breath apart. She stepped away and finished buttoning her smock. “They are not right,” she said.

  “Do not belittle your talent, Jeanne. God has blessed you with a very special gift and there is nothing to be gained by denigrating that blessing.”

  Jeanne. She thought no one had ever uttered her name with more respect or more genuine admiration than he had.

  “You are very kind to say so, your grace.”

  “August,” he corrected. “We seem destined to spend a great many hours together, Jeanne, and I do hope those hours will evolve into a deep friendship. I would prefer not to stand on ceremony, if that is all right with you.”

  “Yes. That would be lovely—August.”

  Chapter Ten

  August. The name suited him. Like the calendar month, he was in the fullness of his life. There was a power and certainty in his movements, a confidence without arrogance in the way he spoke with others regardless of their station in life, and a sense that he understood all too well that life was fleeting.

  Jeanne’s charcoal seemed to move with a mind of its own. Her strokes had never been so sure. She felt a sense of exhilaration and had to restrain herself from pouring out her pure joy by laughing.

  “What is it?” August asked, his own mouth twitching with amusement. “You look as if you have just learned the most delicious secret.”

  “It’s coming so freely—the work. It doesn’t always happen that way. And you really must stop watching me so intently, your—August. You would hardly want your portrait to appear as if you were boring holes into the viewer.” She caught herself and added, “If I am fortunate enough to paint you, of course.”

  He waved a hand and shifted in the small chair. “The decision to accept my commission for a portrait is already in your hands.”

  For the first time since she’d begun sketching, Jeanne’s hand paused. “You are offering me a commission?”

  “Assuming I can meet your price,” August replied. “What is your fee, Jeanne?”

  Jeanne hesitated. Regardless of what Yves had said, the idea of charging for her work was still so foreign to her. And where was she to work? Once the sketches were done, surely the duke would expect her to work from those. He was a busy man and could hardly afford to spend hours sitting for a portrait. Besides, if August became a paying customer then could they still be friends? Her father had always advised against doing business with friends.

  “Now I have insulted you,” August said. “I apologize.”

  “Not at all. It’s just that my accommodations are quite cramped. I’ll need to find studio space in which to work and supplies and...”

  “You could work here. There are any number of spaces on the property that might fill the bill. As for supplies, give Charles a list and he will make sure they are at your disposal.”

  “You are too generous, August.”

  “I enjoy encouraging talented people, Jeanne. Will you indulge me?”

  Somehow he had taken a potentially awkward moment and turned it into a situation where she appeared to be doing him the favor. “Very well, but...”

  “No. You have agreed and that’s the end of it.” He crossed and then uncrossed and stretched his long legs encased in fitted riding boots and jodhpurs.

  Jeanne set her charcoal and pad down and flexed her cramped fingers. “Are you uncomfortable? Well, of course you are. That chair is meant for a momentary respite, not posing for over an hour—dear me, where has the morning gone?” She began gathering her supplies and preparing to leave.

  “Someone should paint you, Jeanne.” He was s
tanding quite close to her. So close that she felt his breath stir a tendril of her hair when he spoke. Then he took her hand and started for the door. “Come, I want to show you something.”

  Chapter Eleven

  The painting August showed her took her breath away. A young girl gathering firewood with her grandfather looked up and directly into the eyes of any observer. It was mesmerizing.

  “Not a portrait in the formal sense,” August said, “and yet I feel as if I could tell you whole tales of this girl and the life she’s led.”

  “Exactly,” Jeanne whispered as she moved closer to the work to study the artist’s brushstroke, learn how such clarity was possible. “Oh, August, it’s so wonderful. I could happily spend the day here studying it in every light.”

  “It reminds me of your work, Jeanne. You have that same ability to capture the inner light of your subject. How do you do that? You know very little of me and yet in your sketches—even those you did from memory—it’s as if you have seen into the very core of my thoughts and fears.”

  Jeanne laughed to stem her embarrassment at his compliments. “Oh, August, what have you to fear? Look around you. You are surrounded by beauty and people who admire you and...”

  “Things are not always as they seem.”

  Jeanne sobered. She knew all too well how life could have all the outward appearances of everything being all right while underneath... “No, they are not.” She turned her attention back to the painting. “Do you mind if I stay here for a bit and study the work?”

  “Stay as long as you wish. Unfortunately I have another engagement.”

  Ah, yes, the companion whose horse had bolted. Jeanne quelled a sudden rush of jealousy. “Of course. Shall I...shall we...”

  He spoke at the same moment. “Hopefully my niece has recovered from the fright of her runaway horse. I promised to take her to lunch. Tomorrow, then? At the same time? And I promise not to be late.”

  His smile had the power to make any woman’s heart skip a beat. He was the kind of man who would turn heads if he were a dockworker or farmer. And yet it was not his outward appearance that drew Jeanne to him. It was his innate kindness and the aura of loneliness and isolation that seemed to surround him. She could empathize with that because despite her bravado, Jeanne felt keenly that something was missing in her life.

  “Jeanne?”

  She realized that she had not responded to his question. “Tomorrow. Yes.”

  “And we can begin the painting?”

  “Oh, surely you’ll need more sketches. You’ll want to consider the work of others. You’ll...”

  He frowned. “I want you, Jeanne. I thought we were decided on that.”

  “Yes, but...” Unable to find the words she needed, she fanned the air with one hand as if clearing a space so she could illustrate her concerns.

  August caught her hand and stilled it. “Never be afraid of the talent God has given you, Jeanne. It is His gift to you and He expects you to make use of it to the fullest.”

  The parable of the man given one talent and the man given ten flashed through Jeanne’s brain. One of them had wasted his gift while the other... She smiled up at the duke who was still observing her closely. “I shall not waste my talent, August. I only hope that you—and God—will be pleased with the effort.”

  He was still holding her hand, his thumb tracing a pattern over her fingers. Suddenly and without warning he raised her fingers to his lips and kissed them. “Tomorrow, then,” he murmured and hurried away.

  Jeanne stood riveted to the spot where he had left her, her hand still throbbing with the warmth of his touch, the unexpected pleasure of his kiss. “Tomorrow,” she murmured as she watched him go.

  Chapter Twelve

  For the next two weeks Jeanne settled happily into a routine that involved appearing at the duke’s home every morning, working on the portrait until noon and sharing lunch in the studio or solarium. Afterward August always left to attend some business matter or the other while Jeanne returned to the studio.

  By the time she returned home, she was pleasantly exhausted and eager to tell Yves about her day with the duke.

  “Did you know that he once sailed around the world?” she gushed one evening. “Can you imagine?”

  “Has he spoken at all about his late fiancée?”

  “Not really.” Jeanne’s defenses went on alert. It was the one area the duke refused to discuss even though Jeanne had told him all about her relationship with Gabriel Hunter. Whenever she broached the subject, he would dismiss it with some platitude like, “She was troubled.” Or, “She led a difficult life.”

  “Do you want to know what is said about the betrothal and the lady’s unfortunate demise?”

  “I won’t stoop to gossip,” she replied archly.

  “Hardly gossip. There was a court inquiry. The details were widely reported.”

  Jeanne hesitated, but her curiosity got the better of her. “Well, in that case...”

  Yves grinned. “Admit it. The man has charmed you and you want to know everything about him.”

  “I will admit that I may have misjudged him in the beginning. I am so used to men who are interested in me only as an attractive partner with whom to impress their friends. August is different.”

  “If you say so.”

  “All right, tell me the facts as you know them.”

  Yves leaned forward and lowered his voice. “The duke and his bride-to-be went for a sail on the Rhine. As I mentioned before, she and her family were related on the Austrian-Hungarian side of the duke’s lineage.”

  “They went for a sail and what happened?”

  “She drowned.”

  “How? Surely there were precautions taken—the crew? August?”

  “There was no crew and she jumped when August wasn’t looking. At least that was his report to the authorities.” Yves shrugged.

  “Perhaps she simply fell.”

  “Her body was recovered with bags of stones tied to her waist and in her pockets.”

  “You cannot possibly think that August would deliberately...”

  “Ah, now we come to the gossip. Do you want to hear it or not?”

  Jeanne squeezed her eyes closed. In her youth she had been guilty of spreading gossip about others. It was only when her father’s business failed and she found herself and her family the objects of that nasty practice that she realized how devastatingly wrong she had been to ever think the practice innocent fun. Yves apparently took her silence for agreement and continued.

  “Just a few days before the outing, it is said the young woman had learned she would never be able to conceive. The duke is known to be extraordinarily fond of children. His nieces and nephews clearly occupy a large place in his heart. Rumor had it that he was quite anxious to start a family of his own—a fact he had no doubt relayed to his beloved.”

  “And so she killed herself? But why? August would have loved her regardless.”

  “And how can you know such a thing?”

  “I know August,” she declared and her look dared Yves to contradict her.

  He sighed heavily. “Chérie, you must be careful. In the last few months rumor has it that his lordship has begun the search for a new bride. Someone young and vibrant who might give him the heirs he so desperately wants.”

  Yves chewed on his lower lip for several seconds. It was clear he was considering his next statement carefully. “Gossip has it that he has set his sights on you as the perfect candidate to bear his children.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  The very idea that August might think of her as anything other than a friend and the artist he had selected to paint his portrait was so ludicrous that Jeanne could not help herself, she burst out laughing.

  “Oh, Yves, don’t
be ridiculous. August and I have known each other for less than a month. I doubt very much that he’s so desperate for female companionship that he would settle on the first woman to cross his path. And besides, he would never choose someone like me. He has a title and when he marries he will choose someone of his own class.”

  Yves arched an eyebrow. “Nevertheless you and August appear to have become quite close quite quickly.”

  “I am painting his portrait and he is a patron of the arts. He has...encouraged me as he might any new artist he viewed as gifted.”

  “But you are beginning to care for him, ma chérie.” He paid the waiter and stood. “I must go, but I urge you to think about what I have said. There is always a grain of truth to any rumor, Jeanne. Just be careful.”

  * * *

  Jeanne was awake most of the night. Could Yves be right? Had she misread the situation so completely? August had shown nothing but respect and admiration for her work. But was it possible that he was attracted to her romantically? And was it true that she had come to care for him as more than a subject for her work?

  After she had broken off her engagement to Gabriel she had told herself she would never marry. But these past weeks with the duke had made her reconsider. She was attracted to his kindness, his sincerity and, yes, his virility.

  “Oh, this is maddening,” she screamed, muffling her voice with a pillow. “Why would he choose me—a commoner—with no fortune or social standing?”

  Jeanne studied the dozens of sketches she’d made of August. Details of his hands, his mouth, his eyes. Could she have romanticized her view of the man? She could not deny that she was drawn to him, more and more as the days went by. Earlier that day while working on his portrait, she had dropped her palette and splotches of paint had spattered onto his trouser leg. She had been mortified at her clumsiness, kneeling to dab at the spots with a rag soaked in the solution she used to clean her brushes. Her action had only made matters worse, but he had not reprimanded her. He had laughed while she had been mortified.