The Portrait of a Scarred Duke by Patricia Haverton

Chapter 2

His mother was staring at him.

Seth curled his fingers tightly around the teacup. The porcelain felt far more delicate and fragile than it had when he left England, so much so that he feared—really quite irrationally—that the small cup might break between his fingers. The scars and callouses on his hands only served to reinforce the feeling. These were not the hands of a gentleman.

His mother made a soft sound. It was somewhere between a wistful sigh and a titter of laughter. “You’re looking at that drink as if you’ve never seen tea before.”

There was an uncomfortable silence between them. Seth looked at his mother, who continued to stare at him. In his absence, his mother had aged well. Her hair remained thick and black, untouched by gray. The years had been kind to her face, which bore still much of the smooth complexion that had made his mother a great beauty in her youth. At that moment, Seth realized he looked quite a lot like her. Their eyes were different—his gold-green and hers soft blue—but their hair was the same. Their faces, too. That was, if one didn’t notice the scars marring the right side of his face.

And only a blind man could miss them.

“Seth?” his mother prompted.

“I was thinking about the cup,” Seth said, trying for a jovial tone. “Quite a different vessel than I’ve become recently accustomed to.”

“You mean the Prince Regent isn’t supplying our noble naval forces with teacups made of the finest porcelain?” his mother asked.

Seth grinned. Florence, the beautiful Dowager Duchess of Worthwood and his own mother, had been famous among the ton for her good humor. Since the death of the late Duke, however, that humor had been scarce. Seth felt a warm relief at seeing it emerge even briefly.

“It is not so,” he said, feigning an expression of utter dismay.

“I’m sure it won’t seem strange for long,” his mother replied. “Soon, it will be as familiar to you as if you’d never left.”

Seth tried not to let his face fall. His mother was only trying to be kind and—Seth strongly suspected—trying to occupy herself after the death of her beloved husband. His parents hadn’t been a love-match, but they’d grown to love one another. They’d been one another’s dearest friends, and as painful as the ache knotting in his own chest was, Seth could scarcely imagine how painful it must be for his mother.

I wonder if she’s not trying to shape me into the remedy for her own grief.

He didn’t resent her if she had, and that was why he tried to be presentable. It was why he didn’t voice the deep, dull ache inside him. He ached for the sea breezes and the scent of salt water and the long stretches of blue-gray water. Some part of him had always known that he’d return to England and become the Duke of Worthwood, but he hadn’t anticipated the sea being such an alluring mistress, whose every wave coaxed him further from his duty to the dukedom.

“And you’ll have a proper Season,” his mother continued.

“I’m sure the young ladies will be flocking to me,” he replied dryly.

Her eyes flitted over his face, taking in the scars for what must’ve been the thousandth time since his return. “Of course they will be,” she replied. “You’re a young Duke.”

He was a title and a fortune, and it hardly mattered if a mass of scars spread a net-like pattern over the right half of his face. Seth nearly suggested that any potential suitors view him only from his left, but he knew his mother would be horrified by that sort of blatant, dark humor. That was simply how Seth dealt with difficult things, though. He buried them beneath a veneer of bravado and dark witticisms.

“And a new Duke especially is a cause for celebration,” his mother continued, “especially when that new Duke isn’t an incurable rake.”

“Have the rakes grown more numerous since I last spent time in England?” he asked.

“They have, indeed,” his mother said gravely.

“It must be a difficult time to be a young lady, then,” he offered.

His mother nodded and set her cup and saucer on the table before her. The clinking of the porcelain against the wood made a faint chiming sound, which seemed to sink all the way down to Seth’s bones.

“These occasions are usually celebrated with portraits,” she said.

“An excess of rakes is?” Seth asked.

“New Dukes,” his mother clarified.

Seth’s shoulders tensed. He placed his own teacup on the table, resulting in a much louder sound than his mother had. Seth frowned. Had he ever really been a gentleman at all? His mannerisms seemed so rough now. No, not even rough. Just…

Not enough. Lacking, somehow.

“I’m quite content not to celebrate the occasion in the usual manner,” Seth said. “You need not worry.”

“Of course you’ll celebrate it in the usual manner.”

Seth sighed. He leaned forward, placing his forearms on his knees. When his mother’s eyes narrowed, he straightened again. “Mother, what would be the point of it?”

“I’ve told you the point of it.”

Seth shook his head. “I’ve no desire to have some painter create a vision of what I might be if not for this—” He gestured at his face, although there was really no need for it. The scars were present in every conversation between them. “It wouldn’t be me.”

“Then the artist will paint you scars and all,” his mother persisted. “It’s important that we celebrate, nevertheless.”

“Even you find me grotesque now,” Seth said, his tone gentle. “I know you try to be kind and that you try not to stare at me because you’re my mother, and you are kind. But that is still the truth. Why would you want something so deformed gracing the walls of our ancestral home?”

His mother stared at him for a long moment. Her expression was soft and fond. “You’re right. I keep staring at them, but it isn’t because I find you deformed or repulsive. I am saddened that you’d ever think that.”

“I don’t mean it so harshly, Mother. It’s in our nature to stare at unsettling things. It’s in our nature to be…drawn to beautiful things and to dislike things which are not lovely.”

“I know you don’t,” she replied, sighing. “But still, it isn’t that. I can become accustomed to some scars. It’s more that they’re a reminder.”

Seth closed his eyes and inhaled sharply. A cold sense of dread filled him. “Of what?”

“Of how much danger there is in the world,” she said. “What if something worse had happened? What if you’d been seriously hurt? Or worse, what if you’d died?”

Like your father.

The words remained unspoken, but Seth heard them anyway.

He opened his eyes and met his mother’s fretful gaze. Her brow was furrowed and her eyes shining with such earnestness and hurt that Seth felt himself softening. “I didn’t die, Mother,” he said, “and I came as soon as I heard of Father’s death. I’m not going anywhere.”

He fought down the sudden wave of sadness which swept over him. It was selfish to long for the sea when his mother’s heart was so shattered. And why wouldn’t it be? His father had been a good man and a wise Duke, and Seth himself felt a twinge of guilt for having not been at his father’s bedside during his last days.

“I know, and that’s why I want to see you married and with a family of your own. I just want you to be happy.”

It was more than that. She wanted to be sure he couldn’t leave. If Seth couldn’t leave, his mother wouldn’t worry about something terrible befalling him. But for how long? Seth swallowed.

“I am happy, Mother. But don’t you think it would be better if I just stayed and tended to the dukedom for a little while? I could help you.”

“Do you think I’m unable to look after myself?” his mother asked, raising her chin proudly.

“Of course you can,” Seth replied, “but I have been away for a long time now. Wouldn’t it be nice for it to be just us for a while? Surely, we don’t need to think of courtship just yet.”

“If I let you delay it, you’ll never begin searching for an eligible wife,” his mother said.

Precisely.

Seth smiled wryly. “I’m to submit myself to the whims of the ton’s ladies then, am I?”

“And to those of the artist who comes to paint you.”

“No,” Seth replied. “We can compromise on this. I’ll do the Season, but there will be no artists.”

“That would be a pity,” his mother replied, with a mischievous gleam in her eyes.

Seth arched an eyebrow. “You’ve already found someone, haven’t you?”

“Indeed, I have,” she said. “I’ve already invited him to the estate. It would be quite a shame, wouldn’t it? To send him away without work. He’s quite a good artist, and I imagine he probably had to refuse other commissions to take mine. He’s the brother of Henry Thorebourne, too. Your father’s steward, if you may recall? I’m quite sure we wouldn’t want to offend him by sending his brother away. It’s difficult to find effective, trustworthy stewards.”

Seth felt a flare of irritation, but it was quickly smothered. His mother was just trying to make him feel at home. She was just trying to soothe her own worried mind. How could he fault her for that?

“You aren’t fair, Mother,” Seth said. “I suppose if I refuse to pose, you’ll have your artist watch me from afar and work from memory?”

Seth imagined some poor, intrepid artist climbing in a tree to watch as he passed on his morning ride.

“I was rather thinking—in that case—we’d wait until you were asleep,” his mother said, her face the picture of composure.

Despite himself, Seth laughed. He’d always admired that fire in his mother. She didn’t ask for permission. She simply acted, and the people around her had to accept her decisions. His mother had played her hand well.

“Then, you shall have both your portrait and the Season you desire for me,” Seth said.

He didn’t want either in his future. Seth wanted the sea. For now, though, he could make his mother happy. He could help soothe the grief that his father’s absence had left, even if it meant forcing aside his own desires and his own doubts.

He didn’t belong in this world anymore, but he owed it to his mother to try.

* * *

Seth had been at home for scarcely a week, and it already felt like forever. He rubbed his face and considered simply returning to his bed for the remainder of the day. It was barely noon, but he’d been sleeping poorly of late. His room was too still and too quiet, the whistling of the wind outside his window no substitute for the waves rocking against the hull of a ship.

But then, Mother will worry.

Instead, he walked along the familiar route between his bedroom and his father’s—his—study. Seth remembered these halls as a child and how he’d often fled from his governess down them.

“A little higher, perhaps?” A woman’s soft voice drifted from the parlor. “No, that isn’t—”

Crash!

That sounded bad. Seth swept into the parlor, expecting a sobbing maid and broken antique. What he found was infinitely stranger. Lengths of fabric were draped over the nearby table. Wooden, square frames and white canvas littered the floor.

The artist, of course.

Most surprisingly, there was a young woman bent over on the floor before the mantle. From where he stood, Seth saw only ringlets of warm, chestnut hair and her voluminous blue skirts.

“I’m fine,” she said, before he could even speak. “It’s this chair. Will you get the nails for me? I’m going to fix it now.”

The woman straightened, and Seth saw a chair tipped over before her. It seemed that she’d been standing upon it and fallen.

Is that the artist? A woman? I thought my mother said the artist was a man, Henry’s brother.

Maybe he hadn’t remembered the conversation quite right.

“Where are they?” Seth asked, his voice strangled.

This was just baffling.

The woman spun around, nearly tripping over the length of white cloth she held draped over her arms. She was beautiful. Her face was delicate and fine-boned, her cheeks flushed with warmth. And her eyes! They were the color of the sea on a stormy day, that same sad blue-gray that made his heart ache. Staring at that young lady made Seth’s heartbeat quicken, and he became far more aware of his scarred face than he ever had with his mother or the staff.

If my mother is serious about my attending the Season, it’s going to be awful.

He didn’t want to think about all those well-bred, beautiful ladies staring at him, pitying him or being repulsed by him. Seth wasn’t sure which was worse, and he couldn’t quite decide which feeling was stronger in this woman.

“I—”

She laughed, and Seth’s face grew hot. Was she laughing at his appearance? That stung. He straightened his spine, determined to face this derision with grace.

He hesitated when she smiled at him, the expression genuine and cheerful.

“I’m so sorry, Your Grace,” she said. “I was anticipating my father’s arrival, and when I saw you instead, I just—it caught me unaware. I asked you to fetch nails for me!”

Ah, he’d been wrong about her intentions. Seth tried not to appear too obviously relieved. Perhaps the scars had made him more sensitive than he would’ve liked.

“I was going to do as you said,” Seth replied.

Her eyes were bright and curious. “You were. That was—ah, very gentlemanly of you, Your Grace.”

He felt suddenly very foolish and cleared his throat, trying to regain some semblance of composure. Had he really changed so much that an artist was able to render him so ineffectual? Admittedly, he’d never seen such a beautiful artist. A woman artist.

Did he even know any female artists? Most ladies painted or drew, but he didn’t know any who’d made a profession with such skills. “What—I thought the artist was—”

“My father,” the woman replied. “I’m Elinor Thorebourne. I was—Her Grace wanted to use this room, so I was setting it up for my father.”

Seth raised an eyebrow. “By climbing on furniture?”

Elinor flushed. “I was trying to pin this over the mantle,” she said, raising the fabric in her arms. “It’s important to get the draping right before painting, but I’d forgotten that chair is just—terrible.”

It must, indeed, be terrible if it wouldn’t even withstand the weight of such a slight young woman.

“You could’ve used one of our chairs,” Seth replied. “It wouldn’t have mattered.”

“I’m unaccustomed to asking for help, but that’s very gracious of you. Thank you, Your Grace.”

Seth glanced at the mantle, and he could see that two small nails had been lightly driven into the wall just over the mantle. Miss Thorebourne must’ve nailed them up there before her chair broke. “Is that where this goes?” he asked, nodding to the wall.

“Yes,” she replied, seeming taken aback.

Seth gestured for the fabric. “I should be tall enough to reach without difficulty. Allow me.”

She hesitated, clenching the fabric to her chest. Seth raised an eyebrow, unsure if the woman might be about to refuse his help. He’d never quite encountered that from a woman before.

“You couldn’t possibly,” she said.

“You’ll have to instruct me, then,” he replied.

Seth hadn’t thought it was possible for Miss Thorebourne’s face to become any redder, but it did. Had he embarrassed her? Seth couldn’t be certain, but that was a lovely color on her. It made her eyes seem brighter.

At last, she surrendered her fabric. “I meant that a Duke ought not to be hanging fabric, Your Grace.”

“I’ll pretend it’s a sail, then.”

Those he could manage quite well.

Miss Thorebourne straightened, the remark seeming to awaken something inside her. “We shall see, Your Grace.”

She spoke like someone who knew some etiquette for speaking with the nobility, but perhaps, not much practice. Or maybe she was just very forward. Seth wasn’t certain.

His heart thundered, and his pulse quickened. It didn’t matter what she thought. He was a Duke. He was the one who knew all the rules of etiquette and all those intricate social rituals. If he wanted to be generous, he could send someone to help the lady hang her fabric, but he shouldn’t do it himself. He shouldn’t even be alone with her. Any proper gentleman would leave.

“I should…” Seth trailed off.

He wasn’t accustomed to being indecisive, but he felt as if his own heart rebelled against him. Seth knew he ought to leave, wanted to leave, and yet this beautiful woman filled him with such a primal longing to stay and help. He cleared his throat.

I’ll steady myself. I’ll count to five and then decide.

It was a strategy which had always helped him steady his nerves when faced with difficult decisions at sea. Seth imagined the ever-present rocking of the ship and the sound of the waving echoing against a hull.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five.

It was time to decide.