The Portrait of a Scarred Duke by Patricia Haverton

Chapter 7

At the sound of someone knocking at the studio door, Elinor straightened and stretched. Her muscles groaned in protest at the sudden movement. She must’ve sat longer than she’d thought. Elinor sighed and walked to the door, rubbing her paint-stained hands on her apron.

She opened the door and drew in a sharp breath at the large shape which stood in stark contrast with the gray sky. The Duke of Worthwood stood in her doorway. Elinor blinked at him, as if to reassure himself that it was really he.

“Good afternoon,” His Grace said. “I hope that I’m not disturbing you.”

“Not at all,” Elinor replied.

Was she supposed to admit him? Elinor bit the inside of her cheek. She’d handled some of her father’s male clients before. Surely, the Duke was no different than them, was he? The other villagers, those who’d seen him ride into town, might gossip about his presence in the studio, but they already gossiped about Elinor. They called her odd and doomed for spinsterhood.

She remembered his kindness, too. He’d looked so gently at her, so compassionately, as Elinor fretted over her father. In hindsight, she’d gone into His Grace’s estate like some possessed creature. She’d been frantic, and he’d been so kind.

“Would you like to come out of the cold?” Elinor asked.

He hesitated for only an instant. “That would be lovely,” he said. “Thank you, Miss Thorebourne.”

When he entered, the studio suddenly felt too small for his massive form. He glanced around, his green eyes sharp. In the flickering firelight, his scars seemed deeper than they usually did.

“Oh.” The Duke froze, looking utterly baffled. “Is—is that what you were painting?”

Oh no. I didn’t even think about the painting.

Elinor’s face warmed, and reluctantly, she looked at her canvas. She already knew what image it held, but she’d somehow secretly dared to hope that it might change.

It was Miss Young’s wild nymph, a delicate creature with wild tendrils of red hair and scandalously little clothing. Technically, the piece was already finished, and Elinor had sent word to Miss Young telling her so. Since the heiress had yet to arrive, however, Elinor occasionally found herself working on it between other commissions.

“Can you forget you’ve seen that?” she asked.

His Grace’s eyes glittered with amusement. “I’ve seen far more scandalous images than that nymph. What I find interesting is that your father isn’t here. Am I to assume this is your creation?”

“It’s what my patron asked for,” Elinor replied, a little defensively.

It was a good painting, but while Elinor didn’t mind if His Grace knew she was a talented artist, she wasn’t really comfortable with him associating her only with scantily clad forest nymphs.

“Is your patron anyone I know?” the Duke asked.

Elinor had the distinct impression that His Grace was far too amused by the situation. “I wouldn’t know. She’s an American heiress, and this is what she wants in her bedchamber.”

His Grace looked as if he might laugh. “My father greatly enjoyed art, and he had quite an impressive collection. Much of it he donated to universities and museums. I think he’d have liked your painting.”

Elinor raised an eyebrow, unsure what to make of the odd compliment. “Thank you, Your Grace.”

“He liked…” His Grace trailed off. “I don’t think I can say this in any way that won’t sound uncomfortable. He liked paintings of goddesses, and they’re quite often dressed rather immodestly.”

“Indeed,” Elinor replied, “but I’m quite certain you didn’t come here to discuss women’s dress in portraiture.”

The Duke’s expression grew serious. “I didn’t,” he replied. “I came to ask after your father. You told me that he’d send a letter telling me how his health was in a few days’ time, and I’ve not yet received any word.”

Elinor winced. She’d forgotten about that promise, and so had her father. “I’m terribly sorry for the inconvenience, Your Grace. Your portrait is safe. I promise.”

To prove her earnestness, Elinor stepped to the portrait and carefully uncovered it, revealing that it was unharmed and untouched since His Grace had seen it last. The Duke didn’t even spare a passing glance at the portrait, however. Instead, his eyes remained on Elinor.

“I wasn’t concerned about the portrait. I never doubted that it was safe. I was only worried about your father, and since I was—er, attending to business in the village already, I thought I would see how he was.”

“Oh,” Elinor replied, absently scraping flakes of blue paint off her right hand. “I—I’m sorry. I thought you’d come to see if progress had been made.”

His Grace nodded. “Right.”

“He is ill,” Elinor said. “He has developed a persistent cough, and he can’t—he can’t be in the studio. The smells of all the oils and pigments cause his coughing to worsen. He is often tired, too. I don’t think that your portrait will be completed for some time, and I am terribly sorry to tell you that. I promise I didn’t mean to—I should’ve written to you and Her Grace.”

“I can understand why you wouldn’t,” His Grace replied gently. “Your father was ill—is still ill. I understand.”

Elinor’s face softened. In the moment, His Grace looked like some tragic hero, scarred by loss.

“I’ll speak to my mother on your behalf,” the Duke said.

Elinor nodded. “Thank you. I know she wanted this portrait completed before Spring. If you need to find another artist because of the delay, my father and I do understand.”

“We shall see what my mother says. She wanted your father because he is the best artist in the dukedom, and she may be willing to wait. After all, your father has already begun the job, and I’m sure that you’ll need the money.”

Of course they did. Elinor bit her lip. She would never tell His Grace about it, but it was difficult for them to survive when her father was ill. Patrons wanted his paintings, not those of his daughter, the female painter. With him unable to work, the commissions came slower, which meant that money did, too.

“That is very thoughtful of you, Your Grace.”

He nodded and approached her painting, considering it for a long moment. Elinor lingered behind him. She couldn’t see his face, but his head tilted a couple of times, as if looking at the painting from different angles.

“You’re easily as good at painting satin as your father is,” His Grace said. “Better, maybe. You have a remarkable ability for capturing the shine of the material and the folds of it.”

Elinor shook her head. “You praise me too highly, Your Grace. My satin might be as good as my father’s because he has taught me well, but it’s hardly better.”

“I disagree.”

Elinor felt herself flush with pleasure. She felt an embarrassing urge to show him every painting of hers in that studio. It was so seldom that any man save her father saw value in her art, but here was a Duke saying that her art was lovely, that her satin was painted well!

“You have such passion in your work, too. Your nymph has such a lovely expression, and her skin looks so warm. I feel as if I could reach out to her and touch real flesh. That’s remarkable!”

His Grace turned to her, looking at her as if she was something wondrous. Elinor’s breath gave an awkward hitch. “I could never paint as well as—no, I—I can never be respected as a serious painter,” she said.

“Yes, I know,” the Duke said, “not with the whole world against you. But you have such talent…”

“I don’t know that it’s talent,” Elinor replied. “I think it’s my perseverance. My determination.”

“That, too. Your father must be very proud of you.”

“Sometimes, I think so. Certainly, he’s proud of my artistic endeavors.”

“But no other times?” His Grace asked.

Elinor bit her lip. “You’ve already received what you came for, Your Grace.”

He grinned at her. “Oh? Are you about to dismiss me from your studio? I’d like to see you forcibly remove me.”

If most men said those words to her, Elinor might’ve been afraid. Certainly, she’d have been concerned. The Duke’s tone was light and gentle, though. Indeed, she was beginning to suspect that he was gentle, that for all his scars and strength, he was a very kind man. A respectful man.

“I could,” Elinor said. “I’d walk past you and tell Her Grace that you’re an incurable rake, and I think that would make you abandon my studio quickly enough.”

“I’m quite sure you’re right. My mother has informed me that rakes are quite plentiful among the ton. Disastrously plentiful. She’d be appalled if you implied anything of the kind, although…” he trailed off. “Well, perhaps, it is rakish that I’m here with you. We should have a chaperone.”

“I’d suspected as much.”

“And yet you invited me in,” His Grace said. “Why?”

“I couldn’t leave you out in the cold, Your Grace.”

She didn’t fear him taking liberties either, but that thought was probably too personal to share. Elinor supposed that she had no reason, really, to trust him so explicitly either, but he’d been kind. Maybe that was enough.

“The cold wouldn’t kill me,” the Duke said. “I’ve been exposed to all manner of foul weather.”

“At sea?” she asked, thinking of his scars.

They did look just like the ocean on a rough day, and she imagined that they could be painted the same way. It would just be a matter of layering the colors properly and making the right strokes with the brush. She could do it.

I never will, though. Either Father will become well quickly and finish this portrait, or the Dowager Duchess will find another artist to complete the work for her.

“Yes,” His Grace said. “Have you seen the sea?”

She ought to send him away, but his expression had become so lively that she couldn’t bear to remind him they were unchaperoned. Instead, Elinor lowered herself into her seat. His Grace gave her an odd look, and after a quick glance around them, he took her father’s usual chair.

“I’ve seen it a handful of times,” she said. “It’s been a very long time, but I remember liking it. There’s a rare sort of peace that comes from being by the seashore.”

The Duke nodded. “There is. It’s unlike anything else in the world. It’s as if you feel yourself becoming something more than yourself. You become a part of the world in this indescribably intimate way. You’re more aware of nature’s power.”

Elinor pursed her lips together and tried to recall if she’d felt that same sensation. She’d been but a child, so the Duke couldn’t truly expect much of her. He seemed so excited in that moment that Elinor loathed the thought of dimming his joy. “I remember it feeling strange,” she offered. “It was odd to stand in the sand and feel it move from beneath your feet.”

His Grace nodded. “Disorienting. I always preferred the beaches with sand.”

“I suppose you’ve seen many beaches,” Elinor replied.

“So many,” he agreed. “In Europe, at least. I never went to the Americas, although I think that would be a great adventure.”

“A great adventure,” Elinor said. “You speak as if you’re a knight-errant, finding quests upon the sea waves.”

“It did feel like that sometimes,” His Grace replied.

“You miss it.”

It wasn’t really a question. His Grace didn’t answer for a long moment. Then, at last, he offered a small nod. “I do, and I try not to.”

“Why?”

The Duke sighed. “It’s pointless to long for something I can’t have. My days of adventure and sailing are quite over now.”

Elinor pursed her lips together. She hadn’t really considered that His Grace had enjoyed sailing. Her eyes flitted to his scars. Maybe the sea loved him, too. So much that it had marked him forever.

“Don’t think that I don’t also love the dukedom,” His Grace added quickly. “I do. Very much.”

“No, I understand,” Elinor said. “Sometimes, you desire different things that don’t and can’t align with one another.”

Elinor thought of her dear father. She desperately wanted to please him and to make him proud, but she feared marriage would please him. And she loathed the idea of marriage. It sounded exhausting and uncertain. Elinor, too, felt as though it would mean the end to her beloved independence.

His Grace nodded. “Yes, exactly. What do you do in those situations, do you think?”

Elinor shrugged. “I was hoping you might have that answer, Your Grace. I haven’t the faintest idea.”

The Duke chuckled. “I suppose we’re all inevitably forced to choose, then. We must destroy one possibility, one life for another.”

“Creation from destruction,” Elinor said. “That’s almost poetic.”

“Indeed,” His Grace replied, his gaze drifting to Elinor’s painting. “Did you leave behind a path to pursue your father’s trade?”

Elinor glanced at her painting, too. This was her biggest commission. There was a vast difference between the heiress and the Dowager Duchess. Elinor liked to think that she’d get more prestigious clients as she worked more, as she formed connections, but she also lay awake at night and wondered if she’d ever be as successful as her father. They hadn’t begun their trade with the same advantages.

“I suppose I did leave some things behind,” Elinor said. “I hope that I—well, I suppose I’ll just have to follow my choice until the end. I think I love art too much to abandon my painting ever, for better or worse.”

“I hope you never abandon it,” the Duke said. “The world would be so much duller without your art. I’m sure the future will prove that to be true.”

“Thank you, Your Grace.”

He smiled and sighed. “Well, I really suppose I have stayed longer than I intended. Thank you for humoring me, despite the impropriety of our meeting.”

“I’ve never known sailors to be a lot which cared especially for propriety,” Elinor noted.

“I’m not a sailor anymore,” His Grace replied, standing. “I’m trying very hard to remember that.”

It didn’t seem as though he was entirely succeeding, but Elinor didn’t say that. There was no need, for she was sure the Duke already knew. He inclined his head towards her. “Farewell, Miss Thorebourne.”

“Farewell,” she said.

He let himself out, while she watched, and once he was gone, Elinor curled up tightly in her chair. She raised her hands to her face and found that it felt hot. He’d praised her.

Elinor’s chest ached. His Grace had praised her, and she ought to dismiss his praise as kindness. Just kindness. He’d seemed so sincere, though, and when Elinor thought of his intense green eyes focused on her painting, she shivered. A most pleasant feeling, once which she had no name for, seemed to have filled her to the brim.