The Portrait of a Scarred Duke by Patricia Haverton

Chapter 1

Elinor Thorebourne pursed her lips together and flexed her bare ankle, her eyes tracing along the curve of her calf and down her rounded heel. She added careful strokes to her canvas, slowly detailing a dancing nymph. This was a commission from a wealthy American heiress who desired something scandalous to hang above her bed.

In truth, that was probably neither an appropriate subject for a young woman to paint, nor for hanging in an unmarried woman’s bedchamber. But Elinor privately hoped that the heiress might wish to continue her patronage. She seemed like a modern woman, like someone who’d be enjoyable—if maybe a little dangerous—to know.

Behind her, the door to the studio creaked open. Elinor’s eyes flitted to the mirror, which had been angled to capture her face. The figure behind her was tall and broad with thick auburn hair, which very recently had become streaked with white. It was Richard Thorebourne, her father. “Good morning,” she said.

“How long have you been working?” he asked.

Elinor wrinkled her nose, trying to recall precisely when she’d risen from bed. It had been after sunrise. “For a few hours,” she replied. “I woke and could not find sleep again.”

That was only partly the truth. The other part was that her own father had been sleeping later in the mornings. He’d seemed tired of late, but despite Elinor’s gentle inquiries about his health, refused to admit that anything might be amiss.

“It’s for—ah—the heiress?” her father asked. “Her name escapes me.”

“Miss Young,” Elinor replied.

Her father hummed and came to stand behind her. His eyes were sharp and gray-blue, like Elinor’s own. That was where their similarities ended, though. While his hair was a rich shade of auburn, Elinor’s own tresses were a warm shade of brown and fell in wild ringlets, which defied all attempts at tidiness. Sarah, Elinor’s dear mother, had similar hair. Elinor was too young to remember her poor mother, who’d died of consumption, but Sarah had been a favorite model of Elinor’s father. Sometimes, sitting amidst all her mother’s portraits, Elinor felt as though her mother were, at the same time, too absent and too present.

“An unusual request,” her father said.

“Because it came from a woman, you mean,” Elinor replied mischievously. “I notice that men seem to have no hesitation in collecting portraits of scandalously-clad women. Why, I don’t know that I’ve ever seen Venus without her bosom exposed and bare.”

Her father’s tongue clicked against the roof of his mouth. “It’s excusable when you’re emulating the greats.”

“Am I not doing that? Behold, a nymph!” Elinor said, grinning. “Inspired by all the great artists.”

Her father’s expression softened with something like pity. “It’s a different matter when the painter is a woman.”

Elinor sighed. “You’ve told me so many times that you never held my sex against me.”

“I don’t. You’ve more talent than any artist I’ve ever met. I mean only that women artists are—the world treats them differently than it does men. You know that as well as I.”

Of course she knew.

“That doesn’t make it easier to hear it from you, Father,” Elinor muttered.

“I know.”

He sat down heavily in a chair. Elinor leaned forward and subtly tilted the mirror just a little, so she could catch his reflection along with hers. Then, she resumed making her lines. She drew quick, sharp lines around the curves of the nymph’s toes.

“I’ve never doubted that you can paint anything, Elinor. That’s why I’ve never forbidden you from subjects such as this.”

Elinor pursed her lips together. She could sense where this conversation was going.

“I suppose that you’re going to tell me now that I may find myself unable to find a husband if I am too scandalous in my artistic endeavors,” Elinor said.

“You know me well.”

Elinor shook her head. “And you know me well enough to know that I’ve no interest in taking a husband, so there’s no need to persist in asking me this.”

“Perhaps not,” he agreed, not sounding very upset. “I do feel it’s my duty to try upon occasion, though. It’s what your mother would’ve wanted.”

“Mother and I are very different creatures.”

“Perhaps that is because of my influence,” her father offered wryly.

“I’m entirely sure it’s that,” Elinor said gently. “I could not want for a better father.”

“You say that because you are loyal, Elinor. Painting is not the most profitable trade, and a great deal of your success as an artist is dependent on luck. In marriage, there is security for women.”

“You’ve succeeded, though,” Elinor argued. “And I’ve learned all I know from you. You’ve painted for aristocrats. Why, I daresay you’re the most famous painter in all of Worthwood.”

Elinor herself had not yet been afforded the opportunity to paint nobility or had that much success, but she’d gotten an heiress’ patronage. That indicated a fruitful start, didn’t it?

“I have,” her father said slowly.

Elinor could sense his unspoken words: but I’m not a woman, and everything will be harder for you because you are.

“Your efforts are appreciated,” Elinor said. “Truly, Father.”

His many, many efforts.

“And yet you’re still not any more amenable to the idea of marriage.”

“Not in the slightest.”

Her father sighed, but when Elinor dared a glance at him, she caught a flash of humor in his countenance. Sometimes, she wondered if he even really wanted her to marry or if he just feigned that he did out of a sense of fatherly duty.

She considered her nymph again and gently sketched a few curls, letting the dark, delicate tendrils caress the nymph’s forehead and chin. Elinor pursed her lips together and narrowed her eyes, visualizing what the final result would be. Around her, the studio seemed to fade away until all that remained was the scratch of her charcoal on the canvas and the oily scent of paint pigments.

A fist pounded on the door, so suddenly that Elinor jumped. Her charcoal missed its intended mark, and Elinor hissed between her teeth. “I was doing so well,” she muttered.

Heat rose to her face. She knew it was absurd to be so utterly vexed by a mild interruption, but there was something so irrationally bothersome about having her concentration broken, if only for a few seconds.

She stood and dusted her hands on her skirts. “Were you expecting visitors, Father?”

“Not that I recall.”

Elinor crossed the floor, only belatedly remembering that she wore only one shoe. The other had been abandoned by her chair, so she could use her own ankle as a reference. She had too much pride to admit that such a detail had escaped her, though, and continued to the door with a slightly uneven step.

She composed her face into a mask of friendliness, hiding her irritation. It was unintentional, after all, and it would never do to be rude to a visitor. Elinor threw open the door, wincing a little as the bright winter sun swept into the room. “Good morning!” she greeted cheerfully.

“Good morning, Miss.”

The man in the door was old and bent over, his skin withered by time like an old tree. His hair was thinning, wisps of it emerging like bits of cloud-fluff from beneath his hat.

“Won’t you come in out of the cold?” Elinor asked.

He smiled. “That would be lovely.”

Elinor allowed him entrance and gestured towards the seat by the fire. “Won’t you be seated?”

“That’s not necessary. I don’t imagine I’ll stay long,” the man replied. “Her Grace will most certainly desire a prompt reply.”

Her Grace.

Elinor’s heart gave an anxious, little flutter. Of her father’s many prestigious patrons, he’d never been asked to give his services to a Duchess. What an honor!

Her father rose from before his painting and nodded cordially. “Welcome—”

“John Edwards,” the man supplied.

“—Mr. Edwards,” Elinor’s father said. “How may I be of service to you?”

“Mr. Thorebourne, I presume?” Mr. Edwards asked.

Elinor’s father nodded. “Indeed.”

Mr. Edwards reached inside his coat and produced a letter, tied neatly closed with a length of red ribbon. “I am to deliver this letter to you and wait for your reply.”

Her father accepted the letter and unfolded it. Elinor clasped her hands in front of her and tried not to appear as though she was terribly excited. What would a Duchess want from her father?

He might be away for a long time.

Often, her father’s aristocratic patrons preferred that he journey to meet them, and in her father’s long absences, Elinor managed the studio herself. She felt a sharp pang in her chest at the thought of him being away. Despite his protests, she was still quite sure that something ailed her father. He seemed as though his energy dissipated a little more each day. Perhaps it was only a bout of melancholy brought on by the cold season, but she could not help but worry over him.

“It’s the Dowager Duchess of Worthwood,” her father said.

Oh! Elinor felt herself relax. It was the local Dowager Duchess, which meant no long journey for her tired father. Besides, her Uncle Henry was steward to the Duke, which meant that her father would have someone with him on the unfamiliar estate.

“Is she requesting a portrait of herself?” Elinor asked.

Her father shook his head. “No, it seems that it’s of the new Duke.”

Elinor blinked. She’d known that the Duke of Worthwood was deceased. His death had come last year after—or so the rumors said—a long struggle against some terrible illness, which baffled even the best of physicians. She’d not heard of a successor’s arrival yet, so the new Duke must’ve only arrived recently.

Her father seated himself and pursed his lips together, appearing contemplative. “Hm…now, I’m curious.”

“About?” Elinor prompted.

Elinor’s father glanced at Mr. Edwards, who waited patiently by the door. “Nothing, dear. I’m just musing over something Her Grace has said. I’ll accept the task, of course.”

“She’ll be pleased to hear of it,” Mr. Edwards replied. “If you refused, I was to insist that you are the only painter in the dukedom who would possibly have the skills to produce work of the quality Her Grace expects.”

Elinor’s father laughed heartily. “I’m hardly that great, but nevertheless, you may assure Her Grace that I’ll take the task. I shall make preparations at once.”

Mr. Edwards bowed his head. “Thank you.”

As Mr. Edwards turned to leave, Elinor saw her father pause. He opened his mouth as though he wished to speak, but then closed it. No words ever emerged.

Elinor glanced at her father, and when he noticed her look, he gave her a small shake of his head. Pursing her lips together, Elinor escorted Mr. Edwards to the door.

He smiled at her. “A good day to you, Miss.”

“And a good day to you,” she replied.

She waited until he’d reached his horse, waiting patiently for him. For being late December, it wasn’t a bad day for traveling. The ground was barren of snow and rain, and the clouds did not hide the sun as they so often did in England. Still, Elinor thought of her own father, who was quickly aging before her eyes, when she looked at Mr. John Edwards. She hoped that the cold did not trouble the man too terribly.

Elinor closed the door and placed her back against it. Her father still sat gazing thoughtfully at the letter, as if he’d stumbled upon some puzzle in it that he couldn’t quite solve.

“Was is it?” Elinor asked.

He arched an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”

“There’s something in that letter that you find strange, something that you’re not sharing with me.”

“You are too perceptive for your own good.”

Elinor smiled. “You’ve always claimed that a good perception is crucial to being a good artist.”

“You shouldn’t use your elders’ words against them,” he replied, with clearly feigned severity.

“I shall endeavor to remember that, my dearest elder.”

“But this letter is…unusual. Her Grace has described her son as being heavily scarred, and her wording is strange. I’m unsure if she fears that painting scars is beneath my skills or if she is hoping I’ll erase them entirely.”

Elinor raised an eyebrow. It wasn’t unusual for an artist to flatter a subject. Scars were removed, waists adjusted, and clothes made more delicate. It did seem rather odd that Her Grace would think the matter bore mentioning, however, when it was expected that an artist would work to please a patron. Paintings did not have to hold any truth in them—they could be, instead, an ideal. A vision of perfection that had never existed and which would remain forever frozen in time.

“Evidently, his scars are the result of a naval accident,” her father said. “We must ensure that we do not seem taken aback by them. Otherwise, we might offend them.”

Her heart leaped. He said we. Elinor knew that she wouldn’t be permitted to do any of the painting. She’d only help her father arrange his workplace on the estate, but she nevertheless felt a rare delight at the thought of catching a glimpse of the famed estate.

“We’ll be able to visit Uncle Henry while we’re there,” she said.

Her father didn’t look entirely pleased with the idea. “Indeed.”

Elinor returned to her chair and twisted around in it, surveying her father carefully. “Won’t you ever forgive my dear uncle?”

Her father and uncle were always cordial to one another and overly polite when in the company of others, but Elinor knew that the men disliked one another. When they were together, a nervous energy seemed to infuse the very air around them, and although Uncle Henry had always been kind to Elinor, her father remained unmoved.

“No,” her father replied. “I never shall.”

Her father’s dislike was the result of some unforgivable wrong in the past. Her father had explained that much to her, but he’d never described precisely what that wrong was.

“If I held a grudge for so long, you’d scold me,” Elinor said.

“I would.”

“You’d say that it was detrimental to me, that anger is an illness which slowly erodes the nature of good men and women.”

Her father’s lips twitched in amusement. “It is to your benefit that you’ve made no enemies, my dear Elinor.”

“Is my uncle your enemy?” Elinor asked.

Her father didn’t answer at first. He merely frowned and looked askance, his eyes fixed upon the letter from the Dowager Duchess. “We do not get along, and I don’t imagine we ever will. Sometimes, that’s just what happens between people, Elinor. I don’t care to discuss the matter further.”

Elinor nodded and said nothing else about it. Still, she pursed her lips together, thinking hard. Her father insisted that it was nothing, but she knew somehow, deep inside, that wasn’t true. Elinor’s father was the kindest, most patient man she’d ever met. For him to hold a grudge so long, something truly dreadful must’ve happened between himself and her beloved uncle. But what?