The Portrait of a Scarred Duke by Patricia Haverton

Chapter 3

The sweet scent of orange blossoms and spice drifted into Elinor’s nose. She wanted to inhale, to take the scent of His Grace’s cologne in even deeper. Elinor’s face felt like a furnace. Her eyes flitted to the Duke as he approached the mantle.

The scars were…more substantial than she’d imagined they might be. Although her father had warned her about them, Elinor had really thought that the Duke’s scar might be only a small trifle, a sliver of one from a childhood injury. People could be strange about such things.

But that isn’t it at all.

It took everything in her not to stare, fascinated, at him. Stranger still was that the left side of His Grace’s face was shockingly handsome. He had a strong jaw, high cheekbones, and spring-green eyes. Her mind whirled, trying to calculate the pigments that would be grinded together to create that lovely, lively color.

“Can I just throw it up there, or is there some special way you have in mind?” He was so near to her that Elinor swore she could feel his voice rumble the air between them.

This wasn’t anything untoward, though. He was simply helping her hang a cloth. Her father would probably perish on the spot, though, if he learned that she’d let His Grace do something that was so far beneath his station. An anxious laugh tumbled past her lips.

“I see you find my ignorance amusing, also.”

“No,” Elinor replied.

This man probably thought that she was a fool. He probably thought her some weak-minded creature who couldn’t even carry a conversation, instead of the young, professional painter she wanted to be.

“I was thinking that my father would be appalled,” she replied, “that I’m having a Duke act as my apprentice.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw that His Grace smiled. “I suppose we’d better finish this quickly, then. Your father need not know.”

Elinor swallowed. He had a deep, pleasant voice which carried like thunder. “Yes, quickly. Lift it up a bit, won’t you?”

I cannot order His Grace to do this.

If her father learned of this, he’d surely forbid her from ever interacting with any of his aristocratic patrons ever again. No one ordered a Duke around, especially not a woman. A working woman.

His Grace didn’t seem terribly bothered, though. He raised the end of the fabric at her direction and paused, as if waiting for further guidance.

Is it so terrible if he’s letting me direct him?

Probably. He was likely appalled and too polite to say so. Elinor bit the inside of her cheek. She felt as though she was on terribly rugged terrain. It was bad enough that he’d met her in such a humiliating manner, sprawled in front of a chair like she’d been.

“Actually, Your Grace,” Elinor said. “I really should do this myself.”

He turned to her. Elinor’s eyes swept down the right side of his face, at the thick lattice of scars. What had caused such an injury? It was like nothing she’d seen before, but then, the only injures she’d seen were small ones. She’d seen accidental slices with knives while trying to cut a piece of canvas or sharpen a quill, and she’d gotten small pinprick injuries in grinding her pigments. Never anything like this, though.

“It’s really appalling that you think I’m unable to hang a bit of cloth,” the Duke said.

She met his eyes squarely, a bit of defiance burning in her. “It isn’t that. It’s that you should not be here, or rather, I shouldn’t be here with you. Unchaperoned. Having you do this.”

There was something fierce in his expression, and Elinor felt a sudden jolt of fear. She didn’t have experience with powerful men. She didn’t know how to behave around them, and she had to remember that any of her misbehavior would reflect poorly on her father.

This was a Duke. This was the most prestigious commission he’d ever gotten. She could not ruin this for him, not for her poor father who worked so very hard.

“I am quite aware of what I should and shouldn’t be doing,” His Grace said, “but I do appreciate the reminder, Miss Thorebourne.”

She’d angered him. He suddenly seemed so much taller to her, to have so much more presence. Elinor swallowed, unsure. She didn’t have much experience with men, either. Her heart beat so loudly that she heard its echo reverberate through her own skull.

“Then, why are you here?” she asked, a little breathless.

Maybe he was a rake or some abhorrent libertine.

“Because I heard your chair break,” His Grace said. “I thought you—I thought something might’ve broken. Actually—no. I’m going to hang this up whether you like it or not. If you injure yourself doing it, I’ll have that on my conscience.”

“I can do it myself,” Elinor replied.

“It didn’t look like that when I entered the room.”

Elinor’s face flushed. She might deserve this. He’d tried to do her a kindness, and she’d offended him. And yet that proud, rebellious spark in her burned with indignation. How dare he mock her?

She had a rather impulsive desire to surprise him, but that was most certainly not a wise course to take. She didn’t even know what she’d do.

“Were you hurt?” His Grace asked, his voice softening.

“I said I was fine.”

“I find that when most people say they’re fine, they don’t really mean it.”

“The only thing injured was my pride,” Elinor said.

“That seems reasonable. I’ve often heard it said that pride goeth before the fall,” His Grace replied.

Elinor covered her mouth with a hand. She would not give him the satisfaction of believing that she found such a terrible comment amusing. She wasn’t quite sure what to make of him. He seemed as if he didn’t know quite what to make of her, either.

Maybe he doesn’t.

He’d been away for a very long time; she realized rather suddenly. Perhaps his terrible accident had changed him, too. Maybe that was why he was so—so uneven in his mannerisms. Since he’d returned to England, he’d probably been faced with people staring at him.

She felt suddenly guilty and unsure. Maybe it didn’t matter how she behaved right then, as long as she wasn’t like one of those other countless people gawking at him. After she helped her father arrange this room, she’d return home and probably never set foot on the estate again aside from the odd delivery of pigments and brushes. Maybe a quick visit to her uncle.

“I don’t know what to make of you,” she admitted honestly.

“What would you like to make of me?” he asked.

He seemed curious, challenging even. Elinor pursed her lips together. “I haven’t the faintest. I feel as though I’ve made a poor impression on you.”

“A poor impression…” he echoed thoughtfully.

His Grace raised the fabric and placed it over the nails. Elinor winced at how tightly bunched together it was; that would never do for the background of a portrait. The fabric needed to be held much looser.

“You don’t like it?” he asked.

She tugged a little on the fabric, carefully loosening the tight bunches and pausing to look at how the light played over the it. Her father would be painting at around this time because the light streamed just perfectly through the windows.

“It just needs a little bit of adjusting. Backgrounds are a crucial component of portraiture.”

“Are they? I’ve never noticed them, truthfully.”

“That’s part of the point. They’re there to enhance the subject, so it draws the eye. And you can direct the eye with fabric and other embellishments.”

Elinor’s father was especially good with drawing the curves and lines of fabric until they looked so real that the viewer felt as if he could reach out and touch them.

“You know a great deal about portraits not to be a painter.”

“I am a painter,” she replied. “I’m just not your painter, Your Grace.”

Elinor reached for the other end of the fabric, adjusting it to match. His Grace watched quietly, but Elinor could never forget that he wasn’t there. She felt him behind her, strong and steady. An anxious, crackling energy like the first signs of a coming storm seemed to radiate from his powerful figure.

She couldn’t decide whether she ought to be afraid of him or not. He seemed to be such a contradiction, so beautiful and so grotesque. So open, but still so guarded. Kind and helpful, but quick to offend.

If I’d had more experience with either men or aristocrats, I’d know what to do.

She felt a sudden flood of embarrassment for rejecting every potential suitor who’d shown interest in her. If she’d had just a little more experience, her feelings wouldn’t be such a tangled mess of contradictions.

“So I’m to have fabric and a mantle behind me?” His Grace asked at last, fingering the fine satin.

“It will look beautiful on canvas,” Elinor replied.

He frowned, the scars pulling taut near the right side of his mouth. “I’m sure.”

“You don’t sound pleased.”

His Grace shrugged. “I’m not especially enthusiastic about having my portrait painted. This is all to please my dear mother.”

Because of the scars?

Elinor wanted to ask, but she knew not to. “Parents have a way of making you do things you don’t wish to,” she said instead.

“Yes, I—”

Footsteps pounded on the floor. Elinor jumped away, trying not to appear as though she’d been standing close to the Duke. Her father entered, arms laden with paints and brushes. He looked between Elinor and the Duke with an expression of vague alarm.

“Ah,” His Grace said. “You must be the artist. Miss Thorebourne told me that I ought to be expecting you. I just wanted to see what background you were arranging for me.”

Elinor smiled, as her father’s eyes lingered on her. She straightened, trying to reassure that she’d handled herself well. Of course, it didn’t matter if she had or not. All that really mattered was what the Duke thought.

“She was explaining to me how important this bit of cloth is,” the Duke added, tracing a scarred finger down the length of the satin.

“Well, Elinor is quite right, of course,” her father said. “Would you mind terribly if I asked you to sit, Your Grace? Since you’re here already. The light is good, and we could begin thinking of a pose for you.”

“Of course,” His Grace replied smoothly.

Elinor stepped back, covertly straightening the still-toppled chair. The gesture was noticed by His Grace, who gave her a mischievous glance and a wry smirk. Some of the surprise at his scars had begun to fade, and Elinor began to notice smaller things about him.

His hair was so black and sleek that it resembled a raven’s feathers in the midday sun. And his eyes were lovely—green and gold. He shifted at her father’s directions, and in her mind’s eye, Elinor envisioned how the sketch would take shape. Bold lines for His Grace’s broad shoulders, gentler shapes for the shape of his neck—

“I think this,” Elinor’s father said, stepping back.

Elinor watched and bit the inside of her cheek. She thought the Duke ought to turn his head a little more to the left, so the light traced the line of his jaw, rather than obscuring part of it in shadow.

He’d been a very handsome man once. Now that she was really looking at him, she saw that. And he was still that same man, just scarred. She tilted her head, thinking that the scars covering his face resembled something. Maybe it was the bark of a tree? Or clouds spread against a sky. She searched for a pattern in his face, trying to puzzle how she’d paint him, even though she’d never have the opportunity.

“I’m sure it’s sufficient if you say so,” His Grace replied.

Elinor retrieved a large mirror and placed it before the Duke, so he could see himself seated. He pressed his lips together in a thin line and furrowed his brow.

“I suppose it’s fine.”

He sounded subdued in a way he hadn’t before. Elinor leaned against the mirror and slowly held up a finger. “Don’t you think, Father….”

Her father glanced at her.

“He should turn his head just a little.”

Elinor moved her finger, and His Grace followed the gesture. A small smile came to Elinor’s face. That was better.

“We want to make sure His Grace’s generations of descendants appreciate his strong jawline,” Elinor said, without thinking.

His Grace smiled, and an amused light came to his lovely eyes. “Thank you, Miss Thorebourne. We most certainly would not want my grandchildren to miss one of my more admirable characteristics.”

Elinor’s father gave her a warning look. She knew what that meant—she needed to show a little more restraint. Elinor suspected His Grace already found her lacking in restraint, something which her father would also agree with if he’d heard all the things she’d said.

It was difficult to feel repentant, though, when His Grace looked at her with such genuine amusement.

“Will you move your hands for me?” her father continued, recovering quickly.

His Grace did as asked, clasping his hands different ways. This continued for a while longer with Elinor watching silently behind the mirror. Her father was undeniably a master of his trade, but she wondered how he would manage painting this Duke. He’d never painted anyone with scars before. All blemishes were always smoothed over or tactfully ignored. Until now.

She imagined the colors building upon one another and the delicate highlights. This would be a challenge.

“Your daughter paints, also?” the Duke asked.

Although he spoke to her father, His Grace’s eyes remained on her.

“I do,” Elinor answered. “Not men, of course.”

Not living ones, anyway. She’d copied some of her father’s work and some of the images she’d seen in the art of the great artists, the Classical masters and the painters of the Renaissance. That wasn’t strictly appropriate either, but no one needed to know about that. Not even her father.

“Of course,” the Duke replied.

“She’s very talented,” Elinor’s father said. “I couldn’t want for a better apprentice.”

Her father said that, and Elinor believed him. But he still didn’t seem to think her talent was enough. If he did, he wouldn’t mention marriage so often.

“Perhaps you’ll paint my mother someday, Miss Thorebourne,” he said, “or my future Duchess.”

“I should like to, Your Grace,” she replied.

His Grace smiled, but this expression seemed less sincere than the last one. He looked as though he found marriage as pleasant as walking to the gallows. Elinor felt a swell of sympathy. She knew that feeling well enough, but she didn’t say so.

He’s an odd man.

She didn’t know what to make of him, but she felt as if she’d like to know him better. She’d like to know about his contradictions, about why he seemed to feel as uneven about everything as she herself did. But it was pointless to think about things like that. Even if she saw the Duke again, it wasn’t as if they’d ever really talk. Today’s conversation had been a coincidence, one that would never happen again.