"It's almost menacing," she said, "the way that fog rolls off the river."
Nic grunted, then seemed to think better of his rudeness. "Won't sell," he said, "though the brushwork's good enough."
I'd buy it, she nearly said, then realized anew he wouldn't believe she could.
I ought to tell him who I am, she thought. Her face went cold at the idea, but her fear was worse than pointless. If she waited, the discovery would be worse and, really, she had no more excuses. He wouldn't stop the show now; he had to fulfill his obligations to the gallery. If she told him, before someone else could, at least he wouldn't feel so much a fool.
Resolved, she touched his sleeve with a shaking hand.
"Nic," she said.
When he turned to her, his face immediately softened.
"I'm being a beast, aren't I?" he said, misconstruing her tone completely. "And you've done nothing to deserve it." The corners of his mourn turned up as he covered her glove with his. "I'm sorry, Duchess. I'm going to miss you more than I expected and my temper's gone to hell."
Blast, Merry thought, assailed with guilt at the irony of him offering her an apology. She pulled a breath of courage into her lungs.
"Nic," she began again, "there's something I need to—"
The gallery door opened before she could get the confession out.
"There you are," said a dapper young man in a sober suit. "I was beginning to wonder if you'd arrive before the crowd."
Her pulse still unsteady, Merry pulled herself together as Nic introduced Mr. Tatling. He was the grandson of the gallery's founder and, from what she could tell, a sharp individual in his own right. His eyes didn't even flicker at being made acquainted with Nic's model—though it was obvious from Nic's manner that she was more. Whatever his private thoughts, Mr. Tatling's bow to Mary Colfax was as respectful as any she'd received as Merry Vance.
"Enchanted," he said with a pleasant smile. "So glad you were able to come."
He led them quickly through the exhibition, which was spread among three rooms. Capacious and high-ceilinged, they were furnished in the style of a nice, upper-middle-class home. Looking around, she found nothing pretentious, nothing in bad taste—and just enough comfort to make visitors relax. Small floral arrangements enlivened a few of the polished tables, their colors clearly chosen to match Nic's work. Merry thought it all looked very welcoming, especially the waiting samovars of tea.
"We can shift anything you like," Tatling said, "but I think you'll agree this arrangement allows the pieces to complement each other."
Nic nodded his approval, then returned to the largest parlor, where the Godiva stood on a separate, gilded easel. He stopped in front of her and stared, two fingers pressed pensively to his lips. Mr. Tatling moved quietly behind his shoulder.
"Makes a nice centerpiece," he said. "As you might expect, we were quite elated when we unwrapped her. We're asking seven thousand."
Even Merry's jaw dropped at that.
"You're mad!" Nic exclaimed. "The most Leighton ever got was six."
Tatling shrugged, his eyes dancing with the excitement of a salesman born. "Mr. Leighton didn't paint your Godiva. Besides, wealthy people like to brag about what they spend."
"Maybe so," said Nic, "but that's a bloody fortune."
The gallery owner's response was cut short by the tinkling of a bell above the door.
"Bother," he said, suddenly discomposed. "I was hoping Ruskin wouldn't come till later."
Curious, Merry turned to see the famous critic. Though dressed like a parson, he was a handsome man, slim and well-formed with thick red hair lightly touched by gray. Beneath his shaggy brows, his eyes
were pale and burning.
Nic gave him a casual glance, then turned away as if his presence could not have mattered less. He
guided her into an alcove and pulled her a cup of tea. "You had something you wanted to tell me?"
No, no, no, thought Merry. They were not going to have this discussion with that critic in the room.
She'd heard stories about Ruskin: that he was so obsessed with female purity he hadn't been able to consummate his marriage. Seemed the sight of his wife's pubic hair had thrown him into shock. He'd thought women were like statues: smooth and perfect and free of the slightest sordid taint.
She finished her tea in a scalding gulp and set it down. The last thing Nic needed was to be distracted
by her confession when he had to confront a man like that.
"I'll tell you later," she said, "after that critic leaves."
This answer amused Nic, but, for Merry, waiting for Ruskin to go was torture. Every time the street
door opened, her muscles tightened into knots, wondering if this visitor or the next would be the one
she knew. She could scarcely bear to watch who wandered near the Godiva. They'll know, she thought. Even if they don't know me, they'll know I'm the model when they see me next to Nic.
As if sensing her embarrassment, Nic did not introduce her to the people who stopped to chat. A few squinted at her, but no one said a word. She was glad she'd worn her plain green gown with the prissy collar. With luck, she might be mistaken for an employee of the gallery.
For his part, Nic was surprisingly at ease. He mingled here as gracefully as he had among Anna's friends. If Merry had not known, she'd never have guessed his living depended on the patronage of the people to whom he spoke. Whether well-born or simply well-heeled, he behaved as if he were their equal, with neither condescension nor undue pride.
It was a side of his character she'd caught glimpses of before, one light-years distant from the tortured soul who'd torn his hair out over flaws no one but he could see. He's earned this self-assurance, she thought, because the memory of those struggles tells him he's done his best.
She'd known titled men who did not approach his quiet poise.
Even Ruskin did not throw him. The critic wound back to them after touring all the rooms, his parson's brow marred by a tiny frown.
"You have a fine grasp of realism," he said, his voice judicious and low and just a trifle pompous.
"You'd do well, however, to cultivate a bit more spiritual meaning. Perhaps you could take a leaf from Mr. Holman Hunt's book?"
"Or Mr. Millais's?" Nic suggested just as gravely. He'd inclined his head so that only Merry could see the devil in his eye. She remembered then that Millais was the artist who'd married Ruskin's rejected wife.
The critic cleared his throat. "Of course. John Millais is also a great talent."
As soon as Ruskin left, Merry punched Nic's shoulder.
"You're awful," she exclaimed. "That poor man!"
He didn't question that she knew the scandal, and why should he when it was so juicy? "Poor indeed,"
he chuckled. "Effie Ruskin was a treasure. In any case, I wouldn't have said it if he hadn't advised me
to copy Hunt." He shuddered. "Lurid tripe is the kindest description I have for his work."
"Nonetheless," she said, even as a smile broke through her censure.
Catching the smile, Nic reached out to squeeze her hand. Whatever he'd meant to say was lost in an exclamation of concern.
"Good Lord, Mary! Your fingers are bits of ice." Oblivious to whoever might be watching, he stripped
off her gloves and chafed her hands against his chest. "What is it, love? Are you worried you'll be recognized from the painting? You shouldn't be, you know. If people think anything at all, it will only
be that I'm lucky."
If Merry hadn't been so overwrought, she would have laughed. She was here precisely to be recognized. A thousand times she'd imagined how she'd lift her chin to meet the first pair of knowing eyes, how she'd dare them to say anything, how she'd demonstrate with every line of her body that she wasn't the least ashamed.
The only thing she hadn't imagined was how hard it would be to do.
"I'm fine," she said, her jaw tightened to forestall a threatened chattering of her teeth.
Unconvinced, Nic brushed her cheek with the back of his hand. "I'm sure Tatling would let you rest in
his office."
She shook her head so hard, her chignon wobbled. "No," she said. "I'm not a coward."
And then the bell above the door rang, as if to prove the lie. Merry jumped, then went cold from head
to toe.
The duke and duchess of Monmouth were entering from the street.
She could not catch her breath. It stuck in her throat along with her heart, making it impossible to swallow. Of all the outcomes she'd imagined, facing her parents was the last. She'd thought someone
else would carry the tale to them: one of her schoolmates, or one of her mother's gossipy friends. She'd thought she might have time to flee to Isabel in Wales, so as not to be home while their outrage was the fiercest.
How blind she'd been! How willfully, stupidly blind!
She should have guessed her father would be interested in the painter who had so recently—and so skillfully—done his portrait. As for her mother: what could be more natural than that she'd wish to come along? Nic was society's darling, his work as fashionable as Lavinia's sable-trimmed paletot.
Frozen in place, she watched the duchess hand that coat to the gallery's pretty maid. A cloud of panic filled her breast, one so alien to her experience she almost didn't recognize what it was. It felt like a
heart spasm. In fact, she wished it were.
In a moment, her mother would turn, and her father, and—Lord!—there was Ernest behind them, her ever-hopeful, would-be fiance.
Her nails were digging holes straight through her skin.
Oh, God, why hadn't she told Nic the truth when she had the chance?
Something snapped inside her that had never snapped before. She, whose courage had always been equal to any challenge, could not in the end face this, not now, not in front of Nic. Grabbing his arm, she dragged him bodily from the room, through the second gallery, and the third, to a door that led to a tiny scullery. Tea things waited in the dimness: dirty cups, tins of oolong and pekoe.
Nic rubbed his wrist when she let it go.
"All right," he said, his eyes worried, his mouth prepared to laugh, "why don't you tell me what's the matter?"
My parents are here,
she meant to say.
I'm the daughter of a duke. I've been using you to ruin myself
so they can't force me into marriage and I've probably embroiled you in a scandal people will talk about for years. If you 're lucky, my brothers won't thrash you for it. If you're not, my father will try
to run you out of town. I've been selfish, you see, and shortsighted and even though I thought I thought this through, it's painfully clear I didn't. You don't deserve this and I wouldn't blame you if you hated me forever.
The thought of that, of him hating her, closed her throat around the words.
"I've changed my mind," she gasped. "I want to go to Venice."
She knew she was doing wrong, knew it in every fiber of her being. Running away was shameful, not to mention a mere postponement of the inevitable. In spite of which, as soon as she made the declaration,
a terrible weight lifted off her shoulders. What matter if she'd have to face the same disaster later? Time was what she needed. To think. To plan. To be with Nic. Indeed, in that moment, delay seemed a gift from the Almighty.
Nic shook his head, his expression confused but tinged with dawning hope. Overwhelmed by a flood of conflicting emotions, Merry flung her arms around his neck.