Portrait of My Heart (24 page)
Maggie stared at him incredulously. She’d left Twenty-two Park Lane thinking that if she ever saw Jeremy Rawlings again, it would be too soon. To see him simply stroll into her studio, looking as if butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth, was a shock from which she would not soon recover.
Not that he looked bad. Not at all. He had on evening clothes. Not his dress uniform, but actual evening clothes, black beaver-lined cloak over well-tailored black coat and trousers, white shirt and vest, a froth of a cravat at his throat. His shoes had been polished to a high sheen. Even the white evening gloves he wore were without blemish. His held his top hat in his hand, and she could see that an attempt had been made to comb his hair, but no amount of styling could control those curls. Still, to Maggie, Jeremy looked heartbreakingly handsome.
A quick glance at Berangère, who was staring at the duke in the manner of one who’d been put into a trance, revealed that her thoughts were traveling along a similar vein.
“Oh, there you are,” he had the nerve to say to Maggie, as nonchalantly as if they’d merely met on the street. “May I come in?”
“H-hullo,” Maggie stammered, wrenching her gaze from Berangère and swinging it back round to Jeremy. What was the
matter
with her? She was supposed to be angry with him, furiously angry with him! He had robbed her of her virginity—well,
all right, she had given it to him, but why quibble over incidentals?—and here she was, scrambling up from the divan, hastily smoothing her skirt into place. She realized she was wearing a paint-smeared smock over her dress, and hurried to untie its strings. And all the time, she was thinking, He tricked you, Maggie. This man knowingly and cold-heartedly tricked you. You are
not
to be kind to him. You are
not
.
matter
with her? She was supposed to be angry with him, furiously angry with him! He had robbed her of her virginity—well,
all right, she had given it to him, but why quibble over incidentals?—and here she was, scrambling up from the divan, hastily smoothing her skirt into place. She realized she was wearing a paint-smeared smock over her dress, and hurried to untie its strings. And all the time, she was thinking, He tricked you, Maggie. This man knowingly and cold-heartedly tricked you. You are
not
to be kind to him. You are
not
.
“Would you … um,” she stammered, trying desperately to sound as nonchalant as he had, “care for a glass of something? Wine?”
“Wine would be splendid,” Jeremy said, but he wasn’t looking at her. He had stepped into the high-ceilinged studio and was looking around curiously at the half-finished paintings leaning up against the walls, the wooden racks that contained completed works, the cheerful fire burning in the wood stove, the slop bucket, the sides of which were caked with paint, and, most of all, at the blond woman reclining, felinelike, across a low divan before the window.
“Hello,” Jeremy said to Berangère.
Berangère smiled beguilingly. “Hello. You must be
Jerry
.” Berangère rolled the r’s provocatively, in spite of the warning look Maggie cast at her.
Jerry
.” Berangère rolled the r’s provocatively, in spite of the warning look Maggie cast at her.
“That’s right.” Jeremy grinned. “And who might you be?”
“Her name,” Maggie said, more sharply than she meant to, “is Berangère Jacquard, and she was just leaving.” Then, when both Jeremy and Berangère turned their heads to blink at her, Maggie had no choice but to make grudging introductions. “Your Grace, may I present Mademoiselle Jacquard? Mademoiselle Jacquard, His Grace, Jeremy, Duke of Rawlings.”
Berangère extended a slim hand toward Jeremy. “
Je suis enchantée,”
she purred.
Je suis enchantée,”
she purred.
“The pleasure’s mine,” Jeremy said, stooping to take that hand in his own and raising it toward his lips. With gentlemanly gallantry, Jeremy did not actually press his mouth to her knuckles, Maggie observed, but kissed the air an inch or so above Berangère’s hand. Still, he didn’t let go of that hand right away. Instead, he looked down at it. “And are you
sitting for one of Miss Herbert’s portraits, Mademoiselle Jacquard?”
sitting for one of Miss Herbert’s portraits, Mademoiselle Jacquard?”
“
Moi
?” Berangère chuckled deep in her throat. “
Non
,
non—”
Moi
?” Berangère chuckled deep in her throat. “
Non
,
non—”
“Berangère attended the same painting school as I did in Paris,” Maggie interrupted quickly. “She has come to London, like me, to try her hand at painting portraits. She rents the studio across the hall. As a matter of fact, she was just going back to work, weren’t you, Berangère?”
Berangère hadn’t taken her eyes off Jeremy’s face, any more than Jeremy had straightened up yet, or released her hand.
“Il est superbe, princesse,”
she said to Maggie.
“Un duc diabolique. Vous êtes un vrai imbécile.”
“Il est superbe, princesse,”
she said to Maggie.
“Un duc diabolique. Vous êtes un vrai imbécile.”
Maggie closed her eyes in order to utter a quick prayer of thanks that Jeremy, to her knowledge, spoke not a word of French.
“The reason I asked whether you were sitting for a portrait, Mademoiselle Jacquard, is because I don’t see any paint on your fingers.” Jeremy held up the appendage in question and examined it with a speculative air. “Maggie’s are usually covered with the stuff.”
“Ah,” Berangère said knowingly. “But, unlike
Marguerethe
, I wear gloves when I paint. You see, the substances with which we work—the turpentine, the linseed oil—are very harsh to a woman’s delicate skin, and I want to keep my hands as soft as possible.”
Marguerethe
, I wear gloves when I paint. You see, the substances with which we work—the turpentine, the linseed oil—are very harsh to a woman’s delicate skin, and I want to keep my hands as soft as possible.”
What kind of idiocy was this? Maggie yanked off her painting smock. The two of them were chatting about skin, while her heart was breaking! Well, she’d put a stop to it.
“What brings you down to Chelsea, Your Grace?” Maggie inquired, wadding her painting smock into a tight ball as she spoke, then throwing it unceremoniously into a corner before going to the table where she kept the wine, and pouring Jeremy a glass.
Jeremy straightened, taking the glass of wine from her, his top hat dangling from the fingers of his other hand. “Well, I thought I’d stop by and see what you were doing tonight. I have tickets to the ballet, and I thought we could have dinner—”
“Ballet?” echoed Berangère, sitting up alertly.
Jeremy glanced at her over his shoulder. It was clear he did not know quite what to make of Mademoiselle Jacquard, let alone her friendship with Maggie. “Er, yes,” he said, turning his attention upon Maggie once more. “The ballet. And dinner, either before or after.”
Behind him, on the couch, Berangère leaned back so that she could see around him, and mouthed, quite unabashedly, at Maggie,
Je l’adore!
Maggie, acutely aware of the fact that compared to Berangère, she must look a mess, what with her paint-streaked hands—she was not aware of the smudge on her forehead—and not very stylish wool dress, decided it was time to stop playing hostess. She said coldly, “I hardly think it appropriate, Your Grace, for you to be escorting a woman other than your fiancee to the theater.”
Je l’adore!
Maggie, acutely aware of the fact that compared to Berangère, she must look a mess, what with her paint-streaked hands—she was not aware of the smudge on her forehead—and not very stylish wool dress, decided it was time to stop playing hostess. She said coldly, “I hardly think it appropriate, Your Grace, for you to be escorting a woman other than your fiancee to the theater.”
Jeremy took a sip of wine. “Oh,” he said, with infuriating matter-of-factness. “You needn’t worry about that. That little matter has been taken care of.”
“Little matter!” Maggie echoed incredulously. Berangère, watching from the divan, turned her head back and forth between them, as if she were at the theater. “Jeremy, that
little matter
is the future Duchess of Rawlings!”
little matter
is the future Duchess of Rawlings!”
“No,” Jeremy said. “She isn’t.”
“Oh, isn’t she?” Maggie felt ready to explode. How dare he stand there and deny what she—and every other reader of the most widely circulated newspaper in the world—had learned that very morning? “Well, you might want to let
The Times
know. Unlike me, they didn’t seem to fall for your ridiculous insistence that the Star of Jaipur is not a woman, but a rock.”
The Times
know. Unlike me, they didn’t seem to fall for your ridiculous insistence that the Star of Jaipur is not a woman, but a rock.”
“I like that part,” Berangère commented from the divan. When Jeremy looked at her, she said, “The rock part, I mean. Very creative.”
“It’s not creative,” Jeremy ground out. “It’s the truth. And it isn’t a rock, it’s a sapphire. A twenty-four-carat sapphire, to be exact.”
That caused Berangère to rise to her elbows. “Twenty-four carats, did you say?
Twenty-four
?”
Twenty-four
?”
“Twenty-four carats, my foot,” Maggie said, her hands
going to her hips. “The Star of Jaipur is a five-foot-tall, one-hundred-pound
woman
, with dark eyes and tiny feet and her own personal translator, which is evidently something I need, since I’ve somehow found myself the mistress of the man she’s supposed to marry!”
going to her hips. “The Star of Jaipur is a five-foot-tall, one-hundred-pound
woman
, with dark eyes and tiny feet and her own personal translator, which is evidently something I need, since I’ve somehow found myself the mistress of the man she’s supposed to marry!”
“You’re not my mistress,” Jeremy growled, obviously making an effort to remain calm. “And I’m not going to marry her.”
Maggie rolled her eyes. “Oh, I see. I’m certain that there is so little news in the world that
The Times
has been forced to start making things up to entertain its readers—”
The Times
has been forced to start making things up to entertain its readers—”
“I didn’t say they made it up,” Jeremy interrupted. “I’m just saying the story wasn’t correct. I have dealt with the party responsible, and a retraction will appear in tomorrow’s edition—”
“Oh, certainly it will,” Maggie said sarcastically. “And I understand the sky is supposed to hail twenty-four-carat sapphires tomorrow, as well.”
Berangère, from the divan, suddenly sat up and said, “Someone is coming.”
Jeremy ignored her. “Do you honestly think,” he demanded of Maggie, his voice considerably lowered, and filled with unmistakable hurt, “that I would try to make you my mistress?”
Maggie looked away from him, confused. Half an hour earlier, had someone asked her that question, she’d have shouted an unequivocal
yes.
But now, looking at Jeremy’s serious face, his almost desperate expression, she remembered the hours they’d spent together, the way he’d held her, and she couldn’t help but wonder—
yes.
But now, looking at Jeremy’s serious face, his almost desperate expression, she remembered the hours they’d spent together, the way he’d held her, and she couldn’t help but wonder—
“Augustin!” Berangère cried, in tones of sheer delight as she scrambled off the couch.
Maggie whirled, a sudden roaring sound in her ears. No. It couldn’t be. It wasn’t possible.
But it was. Augustin stood in the open doorway, his top hat and cane in one hand, and a large bouquet of white roses in the other. During the course of her argument with Jeremy, Maggie had not heard his step in the hallway.
“Good evening,” he said, in a slightly wounded tone.
And no wonder, Maggie thought, as her eyes rose from his satin waistcoat—Augustin, like Jeremy, was also dressed in evening clothes—to his face. She was barely able to restrain a gasp as she took in the purple bruises around both his eyes, and the painful swelling of his once aquiline nose. There was blood-encrusted cotton packed into his nostrils, and his breathing, from having climbed the six flights of stairs to the top floor of the building, was a labored wheeze.
And no wonder, Maggie thought, as her eyes rose from his satin waistcoat—Augustin, like Jeremy, was also dressed in evening clothes—to his face. She was barely able to restrain a gasp as she took in the purple bruises around both his eyes, and the painful swelling of his once aquiline nose. There was blood-encrusted cotton packed into his nostrils, and his breathing, from having climbed the six flights of stairs to the top floor of the building, was a labored wheeze.
And
this
was the man Jeremy suspected of having tried to kill him! This near-invalid, who clearly could not have raised a knife above his head even if he’d wanted to, he was still in that much pain! Oh, Maggie didn’t blame Jeremy, exactly, for having thought it, but the idea was simply too ludicrous.
Augustin
hadn’t been the one who’d tried to kill him.
Augustin
wasn’t capable of such violence … .
this
was the man Jeremy suspected of having tried to kill him! This near-invalid, who clearly could not have raised a knife above his head even if he’d wanted to, he was still in that much pain! Oh, Maggie didn’t blame Jeremy, exactly, for having thought it, but the idea was simply too ludicrous.
Augustin
hadn’t been the one who’d tried to kill him.
Augustin
wasn’t capable of such violence … .
Poor Augustin! How she had wronged him! Maggie found that she could not look him in the eye. What was she going to do?
Always the gentleman, Augustin stepped into the room, gave a low bow, and presented Maggie with the roses.
“For you,
ma chérie
” he said, and Maggie did not miss the glance he flicked at Jeremy, as if daring him to contradict the endearment. “With my apologies for last night. It was, I’m afraid, cut short by that, er, rather unfortunate incident.”
ma chérie
” he said, and Maggie did not miss the glance he flicked at Jeremy, as if daring him to contradict the endearment. “With my apologies for last night. It was, I’m afraid, cut short by that, er, rather unfortunate incident.”
Maggie gathered the beautifully arranged bouquet to her breast, thankful the florist had carefully stripped the blooms of thorns, yet feeling that she deserved more than a few pricks, for her hideous betrayal. Lord, how was she ever going to tell him? How could she hurt him so?
“Well,” she said, nearly sick with regret, but hoping it didn’t show too obviously. I’ll tell him tonight, she said to herself. I’ll get him alone, and I’ll tell him tonight. “Well, thank you so much, Augustin. But really, you shouldn’t have. It’s I who should be apologizing—”
“No,” Jeremy said, his deep voice calm.
Maggie shot him a quick warning glance, very much afraid they were about to have a repeat performance of last night’s debacle. Jeremy, however, went on to say, very civilly, “I should be the one apologizing. I behaved scandalously
toward you, Mr. de Veygoux. I wish to offer you my sincerest apologies.” Jeremy extended his right hand stoically.
toward you, Mr. de Veygoux. I wish to offer you my sincerest apologies.” Jeremy extended his right hand stoically.
Augustin wasn’t the only one who stared down at it incredulously. Both Maggie and Berangère, after a quick glance at one another, stared at it, as well. What, Maggie wondered frantically, is Jeremy up to? Has the malaria scrambled his brains? Could he possibly want to be
friends
with this man?
Why
?
friends
with this man?
Why
?
Augustin was the first to recover. He reached out and grasped Jeremy’s gloved right hand in his own. Neither man flinched at the other’s grip, though Maggie suspected a certain amount of steeliness on both their parts.
“Apology accepted, Your Grace,” Augustin said good-naturedly. “And may I say that I appreciate your protectiveness of
Mademoiselle Marguerethe
. She has no family, as I am sure you know, who will stand by her, so it is gratifying to know that someone, at least, cares for her.”
Mademoiselle Marguerethe
. She has no family, as I am sure you know, who will stand by her, so it is gratifying to know that someone, at least, cares for her.”
Jeremy, to his credit, flushed at this statement and, releasing the older man’s hand, said gruffly, “I suppose I got a little carried away last night. Maggie’s always been … ahem … like a sister to me, and … well, I just want her to be happy.”
“So do I, Your Grace,” Augustin said with a smile. Reaching out, he put an arm around Maggie’s shoulders and squeezed, looking down at her worshipfully. “So do I.”
Maggie managed to smile weakly back up at him. Oh, Lord. This was going to be dreadful.
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