The Very Daring Duchess Part 35

Once her uncle had a.s.sured her that he never used the rooms-that he in fact seldom came below stairs at all on account of his gout-she had thrown herself into every detail of planning, striving to make the long, dark room feel as much like her airy Neapolitan studio as possible. She'd had the carpets taken up and the floors left bare, chosen shades of pink (a choice that clearly horrified her uncle) for the painted walls, and replaced the elderly dark furnis.h.i.+ngs with wide garden benches and striped cus.h.i.+ons.

Secretly what she yearned for was much more complicated: a home like the one she'd had to flee in Naples, a place to make her own. It wouldn't have to be grand. She didn't want that, even if she could afford it. What she craved was the warmth and security, and in a strange way, the coziest little nest she'd ever called home had been the tiny cabin she'd shared with Edward on board the Antelope.

She'd done as much of the work as possible herself, an ap.r.o.n around her waist and her hair tied up in a kerchief. She'd toiled not only because she wished to keep her expenses low, but also because she hoped that, if she kept her hands busy, then her head and her heart would be more at peace.

Yet even so, not a minute pa.s.sed that she didn't think of Edward, of how he'd laugh at this or tease her about that, or how the lines etched by the sun around his eyes would crinkle and fan when he smiled at her. She'd worried so much about what had happened to him that day at Whitehall, and though she was convinced it must have been only good-he was simply too fine a man and an officer for it to be otherwise-she still cared too much about him not to worry.

But the sorriest truth was that she worried because she cared, and she cared because she loved him, loved him more each day they were apart rather than less, loved him so much that each night she lay alone in her bed with her hands clenched at her side in the dark and stared at the canopy overhead, unable to sleep, unable to cry.

Most likely he'd already left London, and gone back to sea with new orders, where he'd always be happiest, and happier still without the inconvenience of an unsuitable wife. Most likely, being a man, he'd already begun to forget their wonderfully foolish marriage. For both their sakes, she believed she'd done the right thing-she knew she had-yet all the believing in the world didn't seem to ease the pain and the longing she felt.

But this morning she must concentrate on unpacking, and carefully she grasped the heavy frame with both hands and pulled the first picture from the crate. She pulled off the linen wrap, scanned the surface of the canvas quickly to make sure it hadn't suffered during the long voyage from Naples, and then turned to display it to Uncle Peac.o.c.k, sitting on one of the benches with his gouty leg propped high and eager for his private showing.

"Ah!" he exclaimed with genuine pleasure. "A view of the Forum in Rome! Very handsome, very handsome! Ca.n.a.letto or Pannini?"

"Giovanni Paolo Pannini," replied Francesca, setting the first painting down against the wall as she reached for the next. She'd been agreeably surprised by her uncle's knowledge of art; he might not have had her father's talent for painting, but he certainly shared his eye for others' work. It was much of the reason he had given over these rooms to her, to gain a private gallery of his own, too.

One by one she unpacked the paintings and vases, sculptures and etchings from the crates, dividing them into those she would sell, and those that were her father's best treasures and not for sale, until only two boxes remained.

One held the last Madonna she'd painted before she'd left Naples, and as she pulled it from the crate, she remembered the afternoon when she'd taken Edward upstairs to her little studio up under the eaves. That had been the first time she'd seen more to him than the proper English officer. He'd been concerned for her even then, warning her to take care, and she knew if she let herself remember any more, she would cry, here in front of her uncle. But Edward had liked this painting so especially that it was difficult for her to look at it now and not think of him, sentimental fool that she was.

"Ah, now, that one is perhaps the finest of the lot," said Uncle Peac.o.c.k, nodding with approval. "The expression in the faces, the empathy and love between the mother and babe is exquisite."

"I'm glad you see so much in it," she said softly, bringing the painting closer for him to see. "It is one of my favorites, too."

"As it should be." He peered at the surface through his spectacles, his smile one of pure happiness. "So who is this rare artist, eh?"

"Francesca Robin," she said shyly with a disingenuous little laugh. "And how flattered I am, Uncle, that you'd find such merit in my humble brus.h.!.+"

He looked over his spectacles at her, his eyes carrying exactly the same gleeful glint that her father's had. "I may be as old as Father Time, my dear, but I am not a fool. False modesty has no place with a gift such as yours. You must be confident in your talent, and take pride in such a rare blessing. Certainly your father did, you know. He claimed you'd surpa.s.sed him, and if this truly is your work, as I suspect, then he was right."

Francesca flushed. "I do take pride in my work, Uncle," she ventured. "But no one in Naples wished to show it on account of my being female."

"Then it was high time you left, my dear," he declared. "This is a most marvelous painting, worth ten times the rubbish the Academy showed last year. You are to be congratulated, not scorned."

"But will the dealers and the critics agree?" she asked anxiously.

"If they but use their eyes, they will," he reasoned." The love captured here could only be understood so completely by another woman, and that is what makes this painting so special. Even an old bachelor like I can see it, Francesca. It's your gift, but it's also what will set you apart from the men, no matter what they might say. And if my eyes can see it, then every expert in town will as well."

"But I will not be selling to experts," she said. "I intend to invite only my oldest and most loyal English patrons who visited me in Naples, and pray that they will be interested in my work as well as the, ah, the Raphaels and Guidos that Papa and I sold."

"The forgeries, you mean." He clicked his tongue, scolding. "An English gentleman touring through Italy is willing to toss his money away without a thought. He is on holiday in a foreign land, free of guilt and common sense, and because the spending is a pleasure unto itself, he doesn't care if he must later hang the so-called Raphael in the back parlor at home to avoid his friends' mockery. But here in London, he will consider his purchases much more closely, and before they buy a Raphael, he will insist on an expert appraisal, and you, miss, would be exposed."

"Exposed?" she repeated faintly, not liking the tone of this lecture at all.

"Exposed," he said again, more firmly, "and if those experts determine that you willfully intended to defraud your customers, which indubitably you have, then you will be hauled before the magistrates for fraud and deception, and thence to prison. London is not Naples, my dear. We take such matters vastly more seriously."

"Perdition," she murmured, and sank forlornly onto the bench beside her uncle. "It's always been the Raphaels that have drawn the most custom. I do not know if anyone will come for my own work alone."

"And I say they will," he maintained. "Mrs. Cosway, Mrs. Kauffman-they've prospered at painting in spite of being female."

"But I do not wish to be trapped painting fas.h.i.+onable flattery!" she cried miserably. "How can I achieve anything of merit if I must worry whether I've made the subject look too fat or cross-eyed, even if she is!"

"Then you do not belong in London, Francesca," said her uncle severely. "If you wish your painting to become a favorite of fas.h.i.+on, you must flatter. There is no other way."

"But what if I wish to paint what I see, what I feel?"

Her uncle sighed, and shook his head, the powder from his wig drifting lightly to his shoulders. "What you feel, what you feel! You are so much your father's daughter that it stuns me. Poor Tom had too much pa.s.sion in his soul to survive in London, and I never wondered that he fled south."

Too much pa.s.sion: Oh, yes, she could understand that, and unconsciously she felt for Edward's ring under her gown. She'd taken it from her finger, but she hadn't been n.o.ble enough to leave it behind, and instead she wore it always on a chain around her neck, where the gold circle hung beneath her s.h.i.+ft and intimately between her b.r.e.a.s.t.s.

"It was a woman, of course," her uncle continued. "A pretty little creature, the middle daughter of a knight's family. He was her handsome young drawing master, they were unwisely left much alone together, and the row when their 'great love' was found out was quite exceptional. He'd no choice but to flee the country, while she married someone more suitably of her cla.s.s. And, obviously, since you are here, Tom found at least one more love to console his broken heart, didn't he?"

Francesca listened, stunned that Papa had never confessed any of this to her. And yet the story made sense of much else in her father's life: why he'd taken so many women into his bed, but none to his heart, why he'd wanted Francesca to promise never to fall in love. Pa.s.sion and desire, but no love, not after that one English girl he'd had to leave behind, not for the rest of his life.

What if she were like that, too? What if there were only one true love in her life, and what if she'd already let him slip away?

"And what of you, Francesca?" asked Uncle Peac.o.c.k. "If you will forgive your old uncle's inquisition, what became of the boy you left behind in Naples?"

Francesca gulped. Had her thoughts really been so transparent on her face? She hadn't shared any of the details about her brief past with Edward because it was over and done, and of interest only to the two of them.

"Oh, don't dissemble," said her uncle, impatiently tapping his cane on the floor. "It wasn't entirely Bonaparte that brought you to my doorstep. You are too much like your father for it to have been otherwise, and too comely, too, even if you are given to forgery and fraud. How wrong was this rascal for you, eh? Did he tell you pretty tales and cast you off? Or was he an older rogue with a wife?"

"There was no rascal, Uncle," she said defensively, and truthfully, for no one would ever call Edward a rascal. "And no rogue, either. I promised Papa that my art must come first in my life, and so it has been."

Her uncle frowned, and sighed. "You are generally a better liar than that, Francesca. Protect the scoundrel if you must. All I need know is if he will someday come after you. I want no surprises, my dear, no worthless, swarthy young men appearing to make claims upon my fortune."

She smiled sadly. "No worthless young men will come calling, Uncle. I promise you that."

"I suppose I am thankful for that blessing." With a grunt, he rose to his feet, waving aside her a.s.sistance. "You finish here, my dear. I hear my tea and my library calling me. Mrs. Monk will help me up the stairs. Oh, and I have left the copies of the Morning Post, Herald and Daily Advertiser, and London Chronicle with your advertis.e.m.e.nts. I trust you shall consider what I said about your, ah, collection of offerings before you throw open my doors, yes? I should like to keep my house a respectable one, my dear, if at all possible."

Francesca smiled, but her conscience was heavy indeed as she turned to the last crate. She'd purposefully saved it for last, knowing that inside were the Oculus Amorandi paintings, and knowing, too, that the sight of them would likely give her poor uncle apoplexy. So much for his respectable house if she tried to exhibit them to the public!

With care she pried open the crate. As she lifted each panel free, she automatically began reciting to herself the little speech that accompanied the particular scene, just as she'd recited it countless times for each visitor since her father grew too ill to do it himself. The writhing bacchante with grapes in their hair, the wayward G.o.ds and G.o.ddesses half-clothed in animal skins, the satyrs with their stubby horns and goatish nether-parts, all were cavorting madly away exactly as she remembered.

Except that this time, she was the one who was different. She frowned, slow to realize the change. But now when she looked at the bacchante and the nymphs and all the other women tossing about so wantonly, she understood, and worse, she blushed. Thanks to Edward, she'd learned about pa.s.sion and desire, too, and the rare, shuddering joy a man could give to a woman. She had, quite simply and in every way, lost her innocence.

Her father had wanted to keep her clear of men to protect her and her art. He'd always said that love would steal away her talent, and perhaps with him it had. But what if love didn't stunt her talent, but freed it? What if love echoed from her heart to her canvas, and made everything she painted warmer, brighter, richer?

Because of Edward, she now knew of more than those little painted figures, and perhaps more than her father had as well. Not more in the sense of acrobatic variety, or positions better left to satyrs than human men, but in the knowledge that came from love. With Edward, she'd learned the magic of lovemaking that focused on love, not just coupling for fleeting pleasure.

Lightly she traced one of the small, smiling figures, the bright colors blurring with her tears. Oh, yes, she knew the difference, and because of it she doubted she'd ever be able to show the Oculus to visitors again, or tell the oddly impersonal stories with it. And after making love-making love-with Edward, she'd never be satisfied with anything less, or any other man.

The one man she'd left, and lost, forever.

Saints in heaven, she must not let herself think this way! She'd made her decision, and now must abide by it, and briskly she slid the panels of the Oculus back into their case. She would decide what to do with them later. Now she must see to her announcements in the papers, and pray that patrons would see them as well.

With a resolute sniff for her tears, she sat on the bench and spread the first newspaper before her. Londoners were mad for gossip about royalty and other fas.h.i.+onable gentlemen and ladies of the first rank, and she was astonished by the number of scandal sheets that were produced in the city each day. Of course these were the ones that were read, while the more serious papers with news of the war went begging, and it had been obvious to Francesca in which she should place her own notices. Purposefully she flipped through the pages, hunting for the little box with her announcement in it.