Portrait of My Heart (35 page)

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Authors: Patricia Cabot

Tags: #Romance, #Adult, #Historical

BOOK: Portrait of My Heart
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Maggie could not say the same. Her disappointment, coupled with her nausea, was profound. She had been quite certain, when Augustin had called, “He’s here!” that the
he
in question had been Jeremy. Where
was
he? And what had Berangere been talking about, when she’d said—
“Ah, Mr. dee Vaygoo.” The prince stopped in front of Augustin, still smiling benignly. “What a delightful gallery you have, sir. And such a delightful exhibition.”
Augustin stood with his mouth hanging open for a second
or two, and then, when a sly pinch from Berangère brought him round again, hastily bowed at the waist.
“T-thank you, Your Royal Highness,” he stammered. “Thank you very much. I can’t tell you what an honor—”
“And is this Miss Herbert?” The prince grinned down at Berangère. “I have heard much about your talent, my dear, but may I say, your beauty exceeds your skill with a paintbrush.”
Without so much as blinking, Berangère dropped into the prettiest curtsy imaginable and said, her long eyelashes lowered coquettishly,
“Merci beaucoup,
Your Highness. But you flatter me. I am not the artist.” Berangère straightened and, seeing that Maggie had been trying to slink behind her, hoping no one would notice her, stepped quickly out of the way and said, giving Maggie a firm push forward,
“This is
Mademoiselle Herbert, Your Highness”
Maggie staggered a step or two forward, then, completely mortified, dipped her knees perfunctorily, hoping they would not give out entirely beneath her. “Your Royal Highness,” she said, to the floor. Her cheeks, she could tell, were blazing with embarrassment.
“Ah!” Smiling broadly, the Prince of Wales extended a dimpled hand, and Maggie, looking up, saw that he expected her to place hers in it. She did so, marveling at the softness of the fingers of the heir to the throne. “My dear, you are as pretty as any of your pictures.”
Maggie, wishing very much that the floor would open and swallow her into it, murmured, “Thank you, sir.”
“Tell me now,” the prince went on, still grasping her hand. “Who is this young man with the flashing eyes that you’ve rendered so admirably?”
Confused, Maggie lifted her eyes and was horrified to see that they were standing beneath the portrait of Jeremy. Her throat suddenly dry as sand, Maggie croaked, “Oh. That’s … that’s the seventeenth Duke of Rawlings.”
The Prince of Wales raised his eyebrows. “Is it now?” To his lady companion, he said, “That’d be Edward Rawlings’s nephew, Bella, the one who caused all that commotion in Jaipur.”
“Ah,” said Bella, parting her heavily made-up lips to reveal a set of startlingly yellow, and not very straight, teeth. “He’s very good-looking.”
The prince wasn’t paying any attention to her, though. “Tell me,” he said to Maggie, though he was squinting at the canvas before him. “These horses here, in the background. Are they supposed to be grays?”
Maggie leaned forward to squint with him. “Yes, sir,” she said, after a minute. “They are.”
“Damn!” The prince abruptly straightened, dropping her hand as if she’d singed him. “Those are the grays old Edward Rawlings won from me, Bella! The matched geldings!”
“Are they?” Bella asked, without interest.
“I loved those horses,” the prince said mournfully. Then, looking as if something had just occurred to him, he said to Maggie, “Tell me something, my dear. Do you ever paint pictures of animals? You know, dogs and things?”
Maggie, most of her nausea having dissipated with the prince’s interest in Jeremy’s portrait, couldn’t help smiling. She knew exactly what was coming. “Yes, sir,” she said. “Quite often, as a matter of fact.”
“Splendid!” The prince clapped his hands together. “Then do you think you could paint a portrait of this truly exquisite mare I purchased last week? Such a beauty, she is, black all over. Named her Midnight, as a matter of fact. Do you think you could do that for me, Miss Herbert?”
“I would be honored, sir,” Maggie said, gravely bowing her head, though her bare shoulders twitched a little with merriment.
“Excellent!” Beaming, the prince winked at Augustin. “Quite a girl you have there, dee Vaygoo. Quite a girl. Send her round on Monday morning, would you? Might even introduce ’er to Mother.” Turning, the Prince of Wales extended his arm toward his companion. “I am exceedingly glad we took the trouble to stop by, aren’t you, Bella?”
Bella smiled her terrible smile again, and then the prince led her away, as gently as if she were as light as the feathers with which her gown was trimmed, and might blow away at any moment.
No sooner was the Prince of Wales out of earshot than Augustin threw his arms around Maggie and, to her very great surprise, lifted her into the air, spinning her around as if she too were made from nothing but marabou down.
“Marguerethe!”
he cried excitedly.
“Marguerethe,
do you know what this means?”
Maggie, dizzy, seized Augustin’s shoulders and cried, “Put me down! Oh, God, Augustin, put me down, before I’m sick.”
Augustin obliged her, but did not release his hold on her waist.
“Marguerethe,
this is the best day of my life! Do you realize what this means? It means that finally, after years of trying, the de Veygoux family can claim to be purveyors of art to the queen of England herself! Have you any idea how much that is going to mean to the business, to my family back in Paris?
Mon Dieu,
I’ve got to cable them right away!”
“Fine, Augustin,” Maggie said, laughing good-naturedly. “But let go of me first. I drank too much champagne, and if you keep spinning me around like that, it all just might come back up—”
Unable to staunch his enthusiasm, Augustin pulled Maggie forward and planted a firm kiss on her lips. No sooner did he release her than the crowd parted once again, this time to reveal someone she recognized at once.
“Jeremy!” Maggie cried delightedly.
Then all of the laughter that had been bubbling up inside of her died. Because behind Jeremy were two other people she recognized. The
last
two people she would have ever expected to see at her exhibition.
Maggie felt all the champagne she’d consumed throughout the evening suddenly rise up into her throat.
Jeremy had expected Maggie to react strongly upon his arriving at her exhibition with her estranged family in tow. He’d expected tears, maybe even words of reproach: Maggie had never been one to keep her feelings to herself.
But he never thought that he’d find her in the arms of someone else.
His surprise at having done so was so great that he didn’t even notice the look of total and complete shock that registered upon her face the moment her gaze flicked to the couple behind him. Instead, he began striding toward the fiance, who’d gone ashen faced at seeing him. Well, and why not? Jeremy was certain it was perfectly obvious from his livid expression what he intended to do, which was, of course, call the bastard out. Really, this had gone on long enough. If
Maggie
would not give the fellow the mitten, well, he jolly well would … .
Then a soft, and all too familiar voice sounded behind him.
“Colonel-Duke?”
Jeremy froze, mid-step. No. It couldn’t be. It simply … couldn’t … be … .
But it was. Pivoting around slowly, on one foot, he saw that what Maggie and her fiance had been staring at was
not
Sir Arthur and his eldest daughter. No, it was the Princess Usha, glitteringly attired in a white evening gown dripping with pearls, and accompanied by her translator, Sanjay.
Oh, Sir Arthur was there, all right. He hadn’t managed to slip away into the crowd, or anything. A man that large couldn’t very well slip anywhere. But his presence was overshadowed by the radiant glow of the princess, who was gazing at Jeremy with her black eyes limpid with love—or greed. Jeremy could never be too certain with Usha.
Good God! No wonder everyone was staring!
And no wonder Maggie had looked as stunned as
he
undoubtedly had, finding her in the arms of another.
Stalking back in the direction from which he’d come, Jeremy seized the princess by the arm, ignoring her inquisitive “Colonel-Duke?” and hauled her off through the crowd, who parted hastily when they saw him coming. Maybe it was the extraordinarily attractive creature he held in tow. Or maybe it was the coldness in his gray eyes. Whichever the case, the gathered intelligentsia and arts patrons moved out of his way, and with alacrity.
“What,”
hissed, beneath his breath, when he’d finally gotten Usha off into a relatively secluded corner of the gallery,
“are you doing here?”
Sanjay had scurried after them, and now, bowing slightly, he said, “Many apologies, Your Grace. We followed Miss Herbert here, on the assumption that where she goes, you tend to follow.”
Jeremy could hardly believe his ears. His plan, his lovely plan to reunite Maggie with her family, spoiled by this obnoxious, empty-headed little princess! Out of the corner of his eye, Jeremy saw that the reunion, which he himself engineered, was taking place without him. Maggie had extended a gracious hand to her father, who for the first time all evening seemed to have been stricken dumb. His daughter Anne had been the silent one during the long train ride to London, sitting beside her husband with her back ramrod straight and her mouth firmly shut. Jeremy had found himself wishing fervently that Sir Arthur would follow his daughter’s example. Maggie’s father had done nothing but complain during the entire course of the journey, alternately bleating about the discomfort of the trip and the ludicrousness of its
purpose. Jeremy had almost drawn the pistol on him, in the hopes that it might shut him up.
Alistair, however, seeing that the duke’s patience was wearing thin, had lectured the old man on parenting, quoting at length from the Old Testament about a father’s duty to love his children, despite their faults. Jeremy had listened in surprise, having been previously unaware that Alistair Cartwright was so familiar with the Good Book. It was only when his wife dryly pointed out that nowhere in the Bible was it written that “Fathers should suffer their little daughters to become artists” that Jeremy realized Alistair had been playing fast and loose with Scripture.
No, the only thing that Jeremy had seen silence Sir Arthur was the sight of the Prince of Wales shaking his youngest daughter’s hand. That and the promise the prince had elicited from Maggie that she’d call at Kensington Palace on Monday had nearly caused the old man an apoplexy … of joy. His knees buckling, Sir Arthur had had to be guided to a low couch by his son-in-law, where he sat murmuring, “His Royal Highness, the Prince of Wales. His Royal Highness, the Prince of Wales. Requested the pleasure of the company of my daughter Monday morning. Did you hear that, Mr. Cartwright? Did you hear?”
“I heard, old bean,” Alistair assured his father-in-law, patting him on the shoulder. “I heard.”
Even Anne had seemed unnerved by the scene. Her trepidation upon entering the gallery had been considerable—it was obvious she’d expected it to be filled with half-naked opium-eaters. Instead, they’d seen only respectably garbed Londoners, many of whom she’d recognized as living in her own elegant neighborhood. And the paintings! Here there were no obscene pictures of fully clothed men playing at cards on the grass, while nude women cavorted in the background. There were no long-legged ballerinas, or sleeping prostitutes—shocking images portrayed by many of the modern artists Anne had read about. Instead, Maggie’s paintings were simple pastoral scenes, gentle depictions of children at play, or portraits of quite everyday-looking people. Anne had blinked at them in astonishment. Why, there was
nothing the least bit shocking about them. They were, in fact, rather sweet. Had Anne been wrong, perhaps, about Maggie’s decision to become an artist? Had Anne been wrong about the art world in general?
Jeremy had watched the mother of four struggle with her own conscience. Like Maggie, Anne was incapable of hiding her feelings. And the wonder, the admiration she’d felt, upon discovering her little sister in the company of the queen’s own son, had been almost as palpable as Sir Arthur’s.
Only Jeremy, it seemed, had been more unnerved by what followed the prince’s compliment—the exuberant embrace Maggie and her fiancé had shared—than by the compliment itself. True, Maggie had looked like an unwilling participant. Certainly she’d commanded de Veygoux to set her down. But it had been hard to tell just
how
unwilling Maggie had been.
Now, Anne had moved forward, and was speaking to her youngest sister in a soft voice. Jeremy supposed it was soft. He could not hear a blessed thing, except the bleating of Sanjay, as he tried to explain why the princess had found it necessary to follow him here, of all places. It was a poor explanation. It was quite clear that Usha’s only intent had been to embarrass him, and engender sympathy for herself. And she did look a pathetic creature—well, an exquisitely beautiful one, but pathetic, just the same. She was staring up at him with those bewitching eyes, round as shillings, her pulse fluttering visibly in her long throat. Any number of artsy-looking men—Jeremy thought he recognized them from the building in which Maggie had her studio—were eyeing her, nudging one another, and whispering furtively, undoubtedly trying to figure out how much they’d have to pay
this
young woman to pose for them.
And meanwhile, across the room, Maggie and her sister had sunk down onto a bench with one another, while Berangère Jacquard smugly looked on, basking in all the glory that should have been Jeremy’s … .
“Sanjay,” Jeremy said with a heavy sigh. “This is
really
not a good time.”
“This I understand,” the translator said apologetically.
“However, it is necessary that I ask you, one last time, if you are
quite
sure you do not want the princess.”
Jeremy stared at him in astonishment. “Of
course
I’m sure. I’ve been telling you both that for nearly a year now. Nothing’s changed.”
“That,” Sanjay replied, with a brisk nod, “was what I thought. I wanted only to be absolutely certain, however—”
Jeremy glanced at him hopefully. “Because you’re going back to India now?”
“Oh, yes,” Sanjay said. “We are going back to India now. But not before …”
His voice trailed off as Jeremy narrowed his silver-eyed gaze. But it wasn’t the translator that the duke was sizing up. Not at all. It was the painting which Sanjay had been blocking from view all this time. Jeremy had not seen which work it was that had so impressed the heir to the throne, and his shock at suddenly being faced with a nearly life-size replica of himself showed in his incredulous expression.
He didn’t know why he was so shocked. Perhaps because suddenly, he was face-to-face with a moment in time he’d thought he’d shared with only one other person. But that person, it seemed, had thought little enough of it to be willing to share it with hundreds of other people. He knew precisely what the portrait depicted—it was the moment when, five years earlier, Jeremy had been leaving Maggie’s bedroom, and she’d asked him where he was going. To the devil, he’d replied. And then Maggie had uttered the words that had stayed with him, night and day, during the entire time he’d been away: Give him my regards.
A curiously Maggie-like statement. How many other girls would have been so calm, under the circumstances? Instead of rebuking him, or being shocked at his blase attitude, she had merely smiled, and asked that he give the devil her regards.
And hadn’t that been what Jeremy had been doing, all those years in India? Giving the devil her regards?
And she’d immortalized the moment, in vivid color, for all to see. Every detail, from his cynical, detached expression,
to the way the moonlight had played over the moor that night, delineating his uncle’s grazing Thoroughbreds, had been rendered with uncanny accuracy. There was emotion there, too, but just what that emotion was, Jeremy couldn’t tell. Regret? Maybe. Longing? Possibly. But there was one thing that was very evidently missing. And that was trust. The man depicted in this painting was haughtily good-looking, self-assured, and cynical. But he clearly wasn’t trustworthy. That was evident in the cruel twist Maggie had given his full lips. It was obvious in the sardonic glint she’d managed to capture in his silver eyes. She might as well have simply painted the words at the bottom of the canvas:
Portrait of a ne’er-do-well.
It was then that Jeremy realized what a fool he’d been. All of these years, he’d treasured the memory of that bittersweet evening in his mind, playing it over and over again while he waited for some word from her, never doubting for a moment that it would come. And all the time,
this
was how she’d thought of him: a lecherous, conniving ne’er-do-well.
No wonder she’d never written. No wonder she’d gone and gotten herself engaged to someone else. She’d never trusted him, never believed in him. And this painting was proof positive that she never would. He could seduce her every night of the week, drag her family from here to New Delhi and back again, and she still wouldn’t agree to marry him. When she’d admitted, all those years ago, that she couldn’t marry him because she didn’t trust herself, it wasn’t herself she was talking about at all.
It was him. The painting proved it. She didn’t trust him.
And she never would.
Blindly, numbly, Jeremy turned to go. He had no conscious thought, other than a sudden urge to head for the door.
He never made it that far.
Jeremy felt the bullet graze his ear well before he heard the shot. It was deafeningly loud in the stuffy gallery. So loud, in fact, that any number of waiters dropped their trays of champagne glasses, adding to the general hysteria which broke out immediately afterward.

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