Page 39 of A Misguided Devotion

“They are the enemy,” said Kitty, glaring at him, “or have you forgotten we are at war?”

“Of course I haven’t forgotten. But if your brother had been taken prisoner by the French, wouldn’t you want him to escape from his parole? Would you have him treated as a criminal if he succeeded?”

She was not amused by Mr Merry’s attitude. “Were Edward to be captured, he would do nothing so shameful as trying to abscond.”

Mr Merry pulled at his ear. “What is dishonourable about escaping from the enemy?”

“To gain his parole, a detained officer must promise he won’t try to escape. By doing so, he breaks his word. Hardly the act of a gentleman, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Nonsense. We are at war. Would you condemn your brother to spend months, maybe years, in some French town he could break free from, all for the sake of keeping his word?”

“Yes.”

“Well said, Miss Lacey,” remarked Mr Barrington as he and Mr Jenkin joined them. “If more people thought like you, we wouldn’t have this problem of the enemy escaping from under our noses, aided by the English they’re at war with.”

The edges of his mouth built slowly into a smile, his firm gaze resting on Kitty until she looked away. She pinched the skin at her throat, unable to believe that her words merited such intense approval. What was it that made Mr Barrington look like a cat with his paw in the cream?

William feared dinner would be an uncomfortable affair. Miss Barrington sat between him and her father, with Kitty and Mr Jenkin on the opposite side of the table. If they continued in the same vein as in the drawing room, the beauty would ignore him, the riding officer would skewer him with his disapproving stares, and Miss Lacey would continue to scold.

How could he have known she had such a keen sense of honour that she would rather her brother stayed a prisoner than broke his word? The revelation niggled him, poking his conscience with guilt over his careless attitude.

As for Mr Barrington, his smile would soon fade when he realised how little his daughter liked him and that the man’s hopes of winning him as a son-in-law were slim.

“How many portraits have you painted, Mr Merry?” Miss Barrington asked, when the soup course was laid before them.

William blinked. The lady was deigning to talk to him at last. Not only that, but she allowed their gazes to connect.

“A good number. My family, naturally, and several of my friends. A flower girl, a bandbox seller and a few military men, not to mention the opera singers and actresses and more than one member of the nobility.”

After two spoonfuls of soup, she fixed her gaze on him again and fluttered her eyelashes. “Who is the most highly ranked person you’ve painted?”

Why the sudden interest in his art? It was a far cry from her silence over the past few days.

“That’s easy. The Duchess of Wessex.” He didn’t have to admit she was his grandmother. “It was Her Grace who recommended me to Mr Penn.”

“How fortunate.”

“Indeed. I’ve found that one connection leads to another, which means I have never had a shortage of requests for portraits.”

“Yet you want to paint me?”

“Yes. It is rare to have the chance to take the likeness of a lady as pretty as you.”

Miss Barrington lowered her eyes and blushed. “Oh fie, Mr Merry. You flatter me.”

He dipped his head toward her in homage. “I state only the truth.” In this, at least.

“Stop teasing me. Of the ladies you have painted, who is the prettiest?”

“How is it fair to ask me such a question when you are before me? If beauty is bought by judgement of the eye, then you are the most beautiful of them all.”

The pink in her cheeks deepened as she trailed her fingers up her forearm and giggled. “I do not count, Mr Merry. You have not finished my portrait yet.”

William glanced across the table and saw the confusion on Kitty’s face. She was as perplexed as he was at the change in her friend’s behaviour. When their gazes met, he almost shrugged in response, but stopped himself just in time.

This was what he wanted. A relaxed Miss Barrington. She would be much more likely to reproduce the expression that had captivated him.

“The most beautiful lady I’ve painted so far? It would be impossible to choose any of my sisters, for I would get into all manner of trouble if I declared one prettier than the others—”