The Portrait of a Duchess by Scarlett Peckham

Cornelia Ludgate stood gaping at Rafe with the erect posture of the fine lady she’d been raised to be. She’d always had the carriage of a duchess.

And now he was going to make her one.

It was only right.

He squeezed her fingers, urging her with his eyes to trust him. She pointedly removed her hand from his and waved it at him in dismissal.

“You can’t be serious, Rafe.”

Rafe. He got a little jolt of pleasure at the sound of his given name. So few people had called him Rafe in the several months since he’d become the heir apparent to a duchy. It was always sir, or Mr. Goodwood. Now it had become Your Grace.

It irked him. He’d rather be called “you rotten bastard” than assume a title at the top of an aristocracy he’d prefer to see abolished than ascend.

And then there was the fact that he was not only a duke, but the Duke of Rosemere.

The previous Rosemere’s money came from labor he paid a pittance for as he lived in lavish luxury on an inherited estate he barely tended, while his tenants languished in near poverty. It was supplemented by investments in shipping firms that transported rum and sugar from the West Indies back to Britain—never mind that his niece, Cornelia, shared blood with chattel slaves on her mother’s side.

Rafe loathed Rosemere and everything the man had stood for.

By a chance of birth he’d been given the man’s name. But he would not take on his character.

And the first thing he wanted to do was right the egregious way Rosemere had treated Cornelia. Rafe’s old friend. Rafe’s wife.

He knew she’d hate to be thought of as “his” anything. But the sight of her—her brown eyes as bright and defiant as they’d ever been, her poise covering what he knew was shock at seeing him—brought back that old feeling that had always blossomed in his chest since he’d first met her: a desire to protect her. To make sure the world was safe for her to shine as brightly as she could.

“I’m proposing, Cornelia, that we get your uncle back for what he did to you,” he said. “And all the other people the callous bastard has harmed.”

She looked at him like he was a clot of phlegm he’d just coughed upon her shoe.

Not the answer he’d been hoping for.

“That callous bastard,” she drawled with a tight smile, “has so amply buttered your bread for so many years I’m surprised you don’t have gout. But then, I suppose you aren’t famed for your loyalty, are you?”

Oh, that hurt—and she knew it, judging by the satisfied expression on her face.

Not that he was surprised by her scorn. She had every right to be suspicious of him. He’d made Rosemere stallions among the most sought-after sires in the nation, and been paid handsomely by the duke for the privilege.

He knew how this must look to her.

Still, her suspicion saddened him. “I know you must believe me to be your uncle’s ally,” he said. “And indeed, on the surface at least, I was. But things are not as they appear. I’d hope you know me well enough to allow I might have had—still have—good intentions.”

He’d had sound reasons for getting close to the duke and his Tory friends. And they had nothing to do with money, or even horses. But he couldn’t tell her that. Not yet.

“I don’t know you at all,” she retorted. She crossed her arms and drew her petite frame up to her full height. “And there is very little you could say that would make me wish to.”

Another one that stung.

He wished he could tell her everything. Anything to wipe that disdainful expression from her face. But it was too dangerous to do so until he’d won her trust.

“Cornelia, I promise that I never meant to hurt anyone. Abandoning the cause was painful, but I had to do it for the sake of my work. It’s complicated, and I can’t account for twenty years in a single afternoon.”

She shrugged. “In that case, you should leave.”

God, her contempt was difficult to bear. He missed the way she used to look at him—like he was a favorite toy she couldn’t wait to play with.

“I will leave if you desire it,” he said. “But first, please let me explain my proposition. You don’t have to like me to yield the benefits.”

She raised a brow at him, skeptical. “I’m more curious what benefits you expect to yield. No man would invite such scandal without wishing for something in return.”

She was right. He didwant something, and it was not merely the privilege of her company—as much as he looked forward to enjoying it—if he could convince her of the wisdom of his plan.

“I want your expertise.”

She gestured at her studio, hung with paintings. “In art?”

He scanned the room, which was paint splattered, vibrant, and disorganized in a way that contrasted with Cornelia’s intense self-possession. There were sketchbooks scattered everywhere, the air smelled like turpentine, and the walls were lined with portraits.

Stirring, gorgeous portraits. Portraits he’d longed to see in person for so long he couldn’t help but gaze at them.

There was a particularly striking one of a Black man in the regal gold-trimmed uniform of a general, begging in a dingy square. It must be from her series on enslaved men-turned-soldiers who’d been abandoned by the Crown in spite of their service to the British in the American revolt.

The gravity of the image contrasted with a lively, joyful painting in bright, cheerful pastel hues of Lady Elinor Bell, whose nudity was covered only by a buffet of artfully placed desserts.

Rafe’s eyes lingered on a third portrait, a somber image of the radical printer Jack Willow, who’d disappeared six months ago, ceasing publication of his circular, The Equalist Society. In the painting Willow looked despairing and exhausted. The sadness it evoked made Rafe lose his train of thought.

“Well?” Cornelia prodded.

Focus. It’s imperative that she agree to the plan.

“I’d like your advice on the running of Gardencourt Manor.”

She looked as bemused as she might if he’d picked up a glob of paint from one of her palettes and eaten it. Which was not exactly an unreasonable response, given that he knew she had not set foot on her uncle’s estate in twenty years.

“Pardon?” she asked.

“You see, I’m planning to host a house party of several friends who can help me reform Gardencourt. And I’d like you to join us.”

Her brow knit in obvious suspicion. “What do you mean by ‘reform’?”

He smiled. He’d worked endlessly on his plan, and he was proud of it.

“Well, first I’m going to distribute the earnings of the duchy to the tenants in proportion to their labor.”

Cornelia laughed, less a mirthful chuckle than a sputter of disbelief. “You, who abandoned the cause of justice years ago to set your lot with Tory nobs, would now like to turn the profits of a duchy to the tenants?”

He shrugged, for there was nothing else to do. “Yes. That is my hope.”

She rolled her eyes. “Either you are lying or you have the steadfast values of a stick of mercury.”

She’d always been frank, but her withering tone made him want to shrink away.

Even if, based on appearances at least, he deserved it.

It had weighed on him, what she must think of him, in the years since they’d lost touch. He’d only ever wanted her good opinion. Losing it was among the greatest of the sacrifices he’d made in committing his life to the cause that he believed in.

“I promise you, my intentions are sincere,” he said.

She tossed back her head in frustration. “And why should I believe you?”

“If you come, I can prove to you my true loyalties still lie with the radicals. You’ll see the reforms I’m making. But to make them properly, I need a person with knowledge of the estate at my side. You were raised there. You were the mistress of the house. You know the place. And if you come to Gardencourt until the will is executed, and make known you are my wife, you will get five thousand pounds. So you see, we would both benefit.”

Her mouth twisted in displeasure.

Even when she looked at him like that—like he’d just asked her to bite into a lemon—she was beautiful. Her eyes still darkened when she was annoyed—their flecks of gold flickering to umber. Her tawny brown skin was unmarred by age, her black curls pulled back in the upswept fashion she’d worn since girlhood. But she’d grown into herself, blossomed in a way that matched her character to her physical appearance.

He needed to stop admiring her. He was not here to repeat that mistake.

“You seem to forget that admitting we are married is the one thing you would never ask of me,” she said.

He recalled. He recalled every single thing about his week with Cornelia twenty years ago. Every single thing.

“I know I promised. But just picture your uncle’s world if you—the niece he cast aside—assumed its highest title. It would be just the kind of thing you’re famous for—the kind of coup that would stir up the papers to no end.”

She smiled at him like she pitied him. “A coup of manners is not the type I wish to be responsible for.”

God, she was stubborn. She always had been, and he’d always admired her for it. But he did not enjoy having this quality turned against himself.

Whatever their past, he’d thought his offer would be too appealing to pass up. An aristocratic outcast revealed to be a duchess was a premise he could have pulled directly from Cornelia’s portraits. Her fondness for restoring dignity to souls from whom society had stripped it was why her work was so coveted by some, and damned by others. And the more controversial her reputation, the more she seemed to sell.

“Cornelia,” he said quietly, “you’ll get five thousand pounds. You’d really turn that down?”

She sighed.

They both knew what her uncle had known: it would be very, very difficult for a woman of her means to reject that sum of money. It was a monumental, life-changing fortune.

And if anyone could do something important with a fortune, it was Cornelia.

She sucked on her bottom lip and rubbed the sleeve of her painting smock, clearly turning his proposition over in her mind.

“Let’s say, for the sake of argument, I agree to attend your little party as your wife,” she drew out slowly. “I would have demands of my own.”

She regarded him with raised brows, like he would try to argue with her. Odd, since in his recollection, he’d never denied her anything she’d asked him for. He’d once agreed to marry her at an hour’s notice, for Christ’s sake.

“Certainly. Anything.”

“I’ll invite my own friends to Gardencourt.”

That was manageable.

“Of course. Though I’d like to spend a few days with just the two of us before the group arrives, so you can become reacquainted with the place in privacy.”

He suspected a return to Gardencourt would be emotional for her, given the circumstances in which she’d left it. And he happened to know she disliked being observed in states of high emotion.

She considered this, then nodded.

“Fine. But there is something else.” She looked at him with challenge in her eyes. “I want to use Gardencourt for the debut of The Jezebels. My new exhibition.”

It took him a few seconds to understand what she meant. “You mean you want to hold a painting exhibition at the house?”

“Correct.”

“What an utterly unremarkable idea,” he drawled. “Not shocking in the least.”

She snorted, this time without scorn. He’d made her genuinely laugh. How refreshing. There was a time when he had done that frequently.

“You know I trade in irony,” she said. “It is as much my art as my paintings are.”

And a good test to see if he was lying about his politics, he reckoned.

Which he was not.

“I’m sure that can be arranged,” he said.

She raised a brow, obviously pleasantly surprised he had agreed. Good. He liked eliciting any positive response, even if it was one predicated on the assumption he was a terrible man.

“Also,” she went on, “I have no desire to be a duchess, and I despair at remaining married.”

“Despair!” He grinned at her, attempting to use the charm for which he usually was known to his advantage. “That is rather unkind. I am not so bad.”

He did not win another laugh. Instead, she wrinkled her nose.

“I certainly cannot be married to a Tory.”

Obviously, it was going to take more than his word to prove himself to her.

“I promise you I’m not a Tory. I’m just a man with a passion for horses who worked for people who can afford to breed the best of them. If you come to Gardencourt, we can get to know each other once again, and I promise you that you will come to understand.”

He loved the idea of getting to know who she was now that she was a mature woman of nearly forty years. He could see the self-possession she’d been known for in her girlhood had evolved into an intimidating confidence. He was certain it was hard-won, given what she must have faced in transforming herself from an aristocratic maiden into an infamous, radical artist.

He longed to know her.

“The past speaks for itself,” she said. “Character is a question of one’s actions, and yours bespeak a lack of integrity. You must promise me a divorce once the will is executed. Marriage is against my principles. You are against my principles.”

“Fine,” he said, for what else could he say? He could not force her to like him, only do his best to make her understand him. Besides, to end their marriage would not cost him a wife—he’d never had one anyway.

She sighed. “You’re certain? It will be a terrible scandal.”

“I do realize that. But no more than when we announce you are my duchess.”

His duchess.The words gave him a thrill he knew better than to betray. Revealing he was proud of their connection—proud to be, in some way, hers—would do little to endear him to Cornelia.

“As to that,” she said, “why are you so confident anyone will believe we’re married? Our only proof is a tattered witness paper from Gretna Green. Will it not raise alarm with the executor of the will, you suddenly having a wife when you have made no subtle thing of your desire never to marry?”

It would indeed stretch credulity. He was certain the few witnesses to their vows were scattered, forgetful, or dead. But he had a plan.

“If you come to Gardencourt, you will be in residence when the executor arrives to meet with me next week.” He batted his lashes at her. “We’ll pretend to be in love.”

It would not be the first time.

Her face betrayed neither sentimentality for the past, nor humor.

“And what’s to stop the executor from thinking it’s a ruse?”

“I’ve thought of that,” he said. “I will make it known to a few loose-lipped, high-placed souls that I was wed in secret as a young man, and intend to invite society into my home to meet my duchess in a fortnight. We shall have a masked ball where you will reveal your true identity. The solicitor will not be able to take exception to such a public display of wedded bliss.”

She considered this. He saw it on her face as she worked through the possibilities and slowly, reluctantly, acknowledged the potential of the scheme.

It was very pleasing to watch.

“I suppose it could work,” she mused. “I suppose for five thousand pounds, I could see to it that it works.”

He suspected there was little in this world Cornelia Ludgate could not make work, if she put her mind to it.

“But I don’t trust you,” she said flatly. “And if you display even the slightest hint that you are lying or manipulating me, I will leave Gardencourt immediately.”

The word trust brought back the last time they had seen each other. The way she had stared at him, looking beautiful and bereft at an inn in Gretna Green. How he’d fallen to his knees and wrapped his arms around her waist and begged her forgiveness. How she’d wrenched herself away.

This was his chance to redeem himself. To prove to her he was better than she thought he was. Better than he had been all those years ago. That he was a man she couldtrust.

He held out his hand. “We have an agreement?”

“For now.” Tentatively, she reached out and touched his fingers. Her nails were speckled in paint. Her touch gave him a pang of longing so sharp he wanted to pull those fingers to his mouth and kiss them.

Instead, he dropped her hand and gave her a brisk nod.

“Then I’ll send my carriage for you two days from tomorrow.”

She laughed softly to herself. “Oh, I recall the duke’s carriages. More luxurious than my bedchamber.”

They were indeed. Everything at Gardencourt was comically indulgent. He was going to change that. But in the meantime, he was going to see that they both enjoyed it.

He grinned at her. “Do you know what, Cornelia? It’s fun to be a duke.”

She rolled her eyes at him. “Trust that I have never doubted that.”

“And I think you may enjoy being a duchess. Just wait.”

She shook her head.

“What I shall enjoy is leaving Gardencourt in a blaze of shame and ruin.” She paused and gave him a long, satisfied look. “Again.”