A Lady's Dream Come True - Grace Burrowes Page 0,104
was, and I will similarly mention what a mediocre talent you are, Dorning.” He ambled over to the painting in the corner and tilted his head. “I daresay you could use some practice, and what artist worth his salt wouldn’t want a chance to paint more of this?”
Longacre had many allies in the art world; Oak had few. Longacre was powerful; Oak was all but a charity case. Longacre had been poisoning the well of Vera’s reputation for years; Oak had known—and loved—the lady for a handful of weeks.
Before he pounded Longacre to dust, he’d discuss this situation with Vera. “This is not what I had planned for my first major London project,” Oak said. “You will allow me some time to consider the matter.”
“Consider away,” Longacre replied, facing Oak and waving a hand toward the door. “I will be too busy to arrange the sittings until after Lady Montclair’s reception. Run along, Dorning, though you really should be thanking me. Not every young man gets to spend hours in the same room with a naked woman as beautiful as Vera Channing.”
Oak turned to leave, but stopped short of the door. “Why involve me in this? Why not paint her yourself if she’s so willing?” He knew the answer well enough: Because once the paintings were done, Longacre would threaten blackmail, and if Oak refused to do the paintings, his fate would be artistic and social ruin.
“You ask why I don’t take on this delectable project myself,” Longacre said. “I would love to paint again, but”—he held up his hands—“rheumatism, young Dorning. My hands grew too soon old, but my eye is as sharp as ever, so don’t think to do a poor job on these paintings.”
Oak bowed, barely. “I will see you at Lady Montclair’s reception.”
“Bring Mrs. Channing,” Longacre said. “Tell her to wear something pretty.”
Oak withdrew, pausing only long enough to snatch up Vera’s hat and parasol before showing himself out.
Vera had reached a place after Dirk’s death where crying was pointless. Grief became a leaden weight on the soul, a burden that had to simply be borne as she explained to Alexander—again—that his papa would not come back from heaven.
Ever.
The grief she experienced as she took down her favorite shawl was different. This sorrow was angry, and potentially destructive. She began packing by folding the shawl into the bottom of the trunk she’d unpacked only a week past.
“Excuse me, ma’am.” Sissy Banks stood in the doorway. “You have a caller.”
Vera was not in the mood to put up with Sycamore Dorning’s banter or Ash Dorning’s faultless politesse, but she needed to thank both men before she left London once and for all.
“I’ll be down in a moment, and we won’t need a tray.”
Sissy bobbed a curtsey and withdrew, her expression dubious.
Vera took a moment to assess her appearance in the cheval mirror. The woman gazing back at her was pretty enough, if a bit pale, but she was brittle. Hard. Determined. London had once again taken a toll on her, and she would be glad to be quit of the place.
She would not be glad to be quit of Oak Dorning, but that could not be helped. She tried for a smile, and the result was a grimace. No false good cheer, then. She marched into the parlor prepared to dispense brisk thanks to a Dorning brother and came to an abrupt halt when Oak turned to face her.
“You have my hat and parasol.”
“I thought to catch you at Longacre’s and take you for an ice.”
Leaving London would be easy, an enormous relief, in fact, but leaving Oak Dorning… His gaze suggested he knew that Vera had started packing. Or, worse, he knew what Longacre had been about.
“And how did you find Mr. Longacre?” she asked.
“I found him pusillanimous and much in need of a good pummeling. What did he say to you, Vera?”
“That doesn’t concern you, but I’ll be leaving for Hampshire this afternoon. There’s a coach departing from—”
He took a step closer. “I saw the painting, the one he claims is a Dirk Channing nude portrait of you.”
“I know my husband’s signature, Oak. You needn’t be delicate.”
Another step, and even though Oak was holding a frilly parasol and a lace-trimmed bonnet, he had the quality of an advancing storm.
“I know your late husband’s signature too. Did you smell that painting, Vera?” He set the bonnet and parasol on the sideboard. “Did you examine how flat the whites were? How extravagant the brushwork in the shadows?”