Page 15 of Wicked By Design

She turned to look at him, and her expression seemed to chase the air from his lungs: her sparkling eyes, her grin so wide it split her face. She gave a little whoop of delight and danced about on the spot. Damian swallowed.

Damn her. His intended bride was turning out to be a complication of the kind he really did not need.

Chapter 3

The Cost of Scandal

Seagull Heights, Little Valentine, East Sussex, 6thSeptember 1816

Clara fidgeted, watching as Eustacia Foxworthy stood motionless, with a little frown between her dark eyebrows, regarding the portrait she had spent months painting. Benny, who was sleeping in Clara’s lap, lifted his head, grumbled, and settled himself back to sleep.

“Well?” Clara hated the slightly plaintive note to the demand, but her nerves were all on end. Eustacia had promised her at each of the last four sittings that the portrait was complete and she could see it, only to change her mind. Today, she had reached for her brush—and Clara had fully expected another evasion—only to put it down again.

Why Eustacia had been so keen to paint her, of all people, Clara did not know. The town thronged with beautiful women, especially with the grand ball which had been held last night. Eustacia could have chosen someone whose portrait would draw gasps of admiration from the world, instead of plain old Clara Halfpenny.

Eustacia took a step back, folded her arms, and regarded the portrait once more, her expression critical.

Oh, she hated it.

Clara wanted to weep. It wasn’t as if she’d expected to be depicted as a goddess, or to discover she was really a beauty, and it had just taken Eustacia’s skill to bring it out. But she had hoped Eustacia would be pleased with it, and that it would look like her. Perhaps it would even show Clara herself, if not the world, that there was something in her worth recording for posterity. Certainly, there was no one else in the world who thought so. Her aunt found her useful, but she doubted the woman would care if Clara disappeared and someone equally biddable took her place. Perhaps she wouldn’t even notice.

“It’s a masterpiece.”

Clara blinked, torn from her brown study by the words. Her eyes flew to Eustacia to find the woman grinning, her beautiful face alight with triumph.

“W-What?”

“A masterpiece, a triumph! Good God, Clara, I knew… I just knew that you and I would do something marvellous. It was all there in that splendid face of yours.”

“Spl-Splendid?” Clara repeated doubtfully.

Eustacia nodded, striding up and down, her excitement palpable. “I’ll apply for the Summer Exhibition, but that will be next year, months and months off, and they are all such stuffy old men, I doubt they’ll understand the brilliance of it. But I shall show it before that. It will make my name, and yours, Clara. We’ll be famous, you’ll see.”

“Famous,” Clara repeated the word, uncertain she liked the way it tasted.

Eustacia nodded, too worked up to notice Clara’s uncertainty. “I’ll show it to the Venturesome Ladies first. That’s a friendly enough audience to gauge opinion, but the dowager duchess has a keen eye. She knows quality when she sees it. If she’s half as canny as I believe her to be, she’ll want to sponsor me or at least open a door or two.”

Eustacia strode back to the painting once more, gazing at it and then giving a little yip of triumph.

Though tempted to flee and never return, Clara steeled her nerves. “M-Might I see it?”

Eustacia threw up her hands. “Oh, my goodness. Clara! Hark at me wittering on, and this is as much your triumph as it is mine. Come,” she said, holding out her hand. “Come and see.”

Benny huffed with annoyance but jumped down from Clara’s lap as she stood, brushing off her skirts before she went to Eustacia. She kept her eyes on her friend, their fingers curling together as Eustacia smiled at her. “Ready?”

Clara nodded, and Eustacia turned her around.

The woman in the portrait stared back.

Clara’s breath caught.

She couldn’t think, could not react, let alone speak.

That’s me.

No. It can’t be. Is… Is that how people see me? Is that how Eustacia sees me?

The woman in the portrait was plain, her dress worn, its cuffs slightly frayed. She was alone in the world, but for the little dog in her lap, upon whose head her hand rested with such affection, and who stared up at her adoringly. There was something in her gaze, in the way she met the viewer’s eye.