A Lady's Dream Come True - Grace Burrowes Page 0,20
hours sketching nudes, painting them, and studying them. We’re odd creatures, when you take off our outer finery.”
And this was an odd conversation. The naked female form had fascinated Oak in his youth, as it likely fascinated most young males. Then the female nude had become another challenge to sketch and paint. Something of the boy’s natural fascination had been lost as the artist had gained analytical skill, something lusty and sweet.
“I might have some nudes in the attic,” Mrs. Channing said, moving toward the door. “If they fetch a good price, I hope the lumber rooms are full of naked ladies and bare-arsed Roman soldiers.”
Money again. Money and plain speaking. Coin of the realm apparently mattered to Verity Channing, and the refined company of the artistic community did not.
“If you want to raise cash fast, then sit for me, and I’ll paint you as Diana or Persephone. We can split the proceeds.” Classical subjects didn’t particularly interest Oak, but they were becoming popular and thus lucrative. “My brothers own an exclusive gaming hell, which passes for a supper club. They will display any work I complete without charging me. Their clientele is wealthy and frequently given to ostentation. Such people pay handsomely to hang a goddess or a series of goddesses on their walls.”
Oak would rather do an honest portrait of Verity Channing, but a classical rendering would be interesting too.
“That is kind of you,” she said. “I will consider it, but I’m not keen on modeling for anybody. I like my obscure life here in the shires, and not all of Society is open-minded where artists’ models are concerned.”
True enough. “I wasn’t proposing to paint you in dishabille, madam.” Oak did not, in fact, like the idea of anybody picturing this woman naked, an oddly unartistic sentiment.
“I know,” she said, coming close enough to pat his lapel. “You are wonderfully decent, Oak Dorning. I doubt you grasp how rare you are. Good night.”
She kissed his cheek, patted his lapel again, picked up the lantern, and quietly withdrew.
Visits to the nursery had become an occasion for Vera to dread, at least where Alexander was concerned, and yet, she did not want to linger over breakfast either. Mr. Dorning would inevitably arrive for his first meal of the day, and Vera wanted to put off that encounter, so up the steps she went.
Alexander had not taken well to the regular discipline of Mr. Forester’s tutoring, and that was a troubling development. The previous year, while sharing a governess with Catherine, Alexander had been a lovely little boy who did as he was bid most of the time and never grew too fussy.
Catherine’s governess had retired, Miss Diggory had joined the household in the role of finishing governess, and Mr. Forester had been hired in the capacity of tutor. Alexander had been sullen, moody, difficult and—to Vera, this was most troubling—unhappy ever since.
“Good morning,” she said, taking one of the chairs in the schoolroom.
Alexander kicked his feet against the legs of his stool. “Morning, Mama.”
Jeremy appeared in the doorway to the corridor. “Stand when a lady enters the room, boy. How many times must I tell you that?”
Alexander scrambled out of his seat. “But she’s my mama.”
“Don’t be impertinent.”
“I never had to stand when Mama came to visit before. When did she turn into a lady?”
Jeremy looked to be hiding a smile. “She has always been a lady. The question is, when will you turn into a gentleman, hmm?”
Bony little shoulders slumped.
“Mr. Forester, if you would excuse us for a moment? I’d like to explain to Alexander that a drawing lesson will be added to his curriculum.”
Alexander’s head came up. “More schoolwork?”
“Don’t sass your mother, young sir. There will be consequences.” On that ominous note, Jeremy left the room.
Rather than ask Alexander what sort of consequences followed impertinence, Vera closed the door. Writing out Bible verses never hurt a boy, and she must not undermine Jeremy’s authority as an instructor.
“Drawing is an accomplishment that might come to you very easily,” Vera said, resuming her seat. “Your papa was fiendishly good at it.”
“Papa is dead.” Alexander made no move to resume his seat, but stood, head down, hands behind his back, as if bracing himself for a scold.
“Alexander, I know scholarship doesn’t appeal to you just yet, but I admire your persistence. Mr. Forester says you’re making progress, albeit slow progress.”
Nothing, not a sigh, not a glance. Alexander stared at the floor with more resignation than any martyr had shown in the