The Duke's Unexpected Bride. Lara Temple
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once she was not wearing a simple countrified white-muslin dress and spencer, but a walking dress of a pale smoky blue under a darker blue pelisse. And though the style was perhaps a few years out of fashion, it was well tailored and for the first time he could see she had a very appealing and well-proportioned figure. She also looked more her age and dignified, but contrarily that just made it clearer he should not be doing this, no matter how chivalrous his motives. Then he met her eyes which were sparkling with suppressed excitement and he relented. It was such an inconsequential thing for him and such a great deal for her, there surely was nothing very wrong in merely seeing her safely into the Academy.
‘Come,’ he said, holding out his arm and she moved towards him with her peculiar brand of pent-up energy, following him out to the street where he hailed a passing hackney cab.
She gave a breathy laugh as she settled on to the seat.
‘I feel like I am escaping from the Bastille! This is quite ridiculous. I have been here less than two weeks and already I am losing perspective on reality.’
Max smiled. He should have known she would treat this with her usual irrepressible enthusiasm. He settled back and waited for her next outrageous comment. It was not long in coming.
‘Thank you for offering to take me there. It makes it seem so much more...commonplace.’
‘That sounds disappointing. Should I apologise for taking the adventure out of it?’
‘Oh, I didn’t mean it like that... Just that I am trying to convince myself that it needn’t be such a to do. That it is quite normal for me to go to see some of the most amazing painters alive in England today. Part of me doesn’t want to go.’
‘Why not?’
‘Well, I am bound to discover that an unbridgeable chasm lies between my puny talent and real artistic skill. I am quite prepared to suffer some mortification before I can free myself from vanity and enjoy real genius.’
‘That is very...broad-minded of you,’ Max replied after a moment’s struggle not to laugh, reminding himself this was a serious issue for her, after all.
‘Are you laughing at me?’ she asked, her gaze both questioning and accusing.
‘Is that terrible?’
Her eyes slanted again in the amusement that never seemed far from the surface.
‘I did sound terribly pompous, didn’t I? But I mean it. Back in Ashton Cove I was always by far the best artist, not that anyone really cares about that over there unless they need me for the church decorations. But I know today I will see real talent. There are so very, very few and some of them will have their paintings on those walls. And I will know, for certain, that I am not and never will be of that calibre. I know that I am going to feel something in me die today and even though it will hurt, I wouldn’t avoid it even if I could, because the other side of that coin is the experience of witnessing genius. It’s still pompous, but I can’t help it—that is what I feel. Oh, look, is this Piccadilly?’
Max assented, absorbing what she said. He was acquainted with several artists because of his uncle and this was a very mature and quite unusual approach among those gifted, or cursed, with artistic talent. She didn’t speak again, aside from occasional questions about the buildings they passed as they made their way towards the Strand. Finally they drew towards St Mary le Strand and pulled up in front of the neoclassical façade of Somerset House where the Royal Academy was housed.
‘Oh, here we are! That was so very quick! Oh, come!’
She almost jumped from the hackney, waiting with clear impatience as Max paid the driver, her hand straining on his arm as he led her through one of the three tall arches into the Somerset House complex and towards the winding staircase leading to the Exhibition Room at the top of the building. Her eyes moved hungrily over the decorations that marked their passage, the sculptures by Wilton and Bacon, and the ornamented landings with occasional benches for the visitors to rest as they climbed the long staircase.
‘It’s a good thing you didn’t bring Marmaduke,’ he remarked halfway up and she looked up at him, laughter chasing away some of her intentness, but she didn’t reply. She didn’t flag on the stairs, as did many women who had stopped to rest and fan themselves and gossip, for which Max was grateful since it meant that beyond nodding at his acquaintances, he did not have to speak to anyone, though he was aware of the curious stares directed at them.
‘Aren’t you tired?’ he asked her, curious about the seemingly boundless energy she radiated.
The question cut through her concentration.
‘Tired?’ she asked in obvious confusion and he indicated the steep stairwell.
‘You’re going up these at breakneck speed.’
She flushed guiltily.
‘Sorry, but I am so excited. And I am very used to climbing up and down the cliffs near Ashton Cove. My favourite place to draw is a little bay just to the west of where we live and there is quite a steep ascent. These stairs don’t really compare. I will slow down if it is too fast for you, though.’
‘Don’t be cocky,’ he said easily and she laughed. They had just made it to the final landing and he turned her to him.
‘Before we enter the Exhibition Room and I lose your attention utterly, you should probably tell me your name in the event we have no choice but to speak to someone. It would be a bit embarrassing to introduce you simply as the girl with the pug.’
She was straining forward like a racing horse against the gate, but that checked her and her eyes widened.
‘You are quite right. How foolish, but I hadn’t realised...still, we haven’t been introduced formally so it is not at all surprising. I am Sophie Trevelyan. And you?’
He hesitated. He had initiated this, after all.
‘Max...’
‘Harcourt!’
Max squared his shoulders and turned towards the exquisitely dressed dandy who was approaching them from the Exhibition Room. His shirt points were so high his amiable face seemed to bloom from the middle of a tight white flower. He stopped and bowed to Sophie, raising one brow expectantly. Max resigned himself.
‘Miss Trevelyan, this is Lord Bryanston. Bry, this is Miss Sophie Trevelyan.’
‘Trevelyan! That’s a West Country name, isn’t it? Do you live near Max?’
Before Max could respond, she extended her hand properly and answered with a warm smile.
‘Yes, we are neighbours. How do you do, Lord Bryanston?’
He assessed her with a practised eye and bowed gallantly over her hand.
‘Much better now, Miss Trevelyan,’ he replied, his eyes wide and appreciative. Her captivating laughter rolled out and two men who had been inspecting the Carlini sculpture at the top landing turned, one of them raising a curious quizzing glass towards them.
‘I hadn’t realised the exhibition began out here,’ she remarked with such a mixture of innocence and mirth that Max wasn’t surprised to see Bryanston’s gaze sharpen, like a dog catching the scent of prey.
‘Neither had I,’ Bryanston responded. ‘And to think I almost managed to find an excuse not to accompany my aunt here today. My luck is definitely in. I should go lay a wager while it lasts. Max, be a good fellow and bring Miss Trevelyan over to join our party.’
‘Not this time, Bry.’ Max replied firmly.
‘Here, what kind of friend are you?’ Bryanston protested and turned to Sophie. ‘I don’t know why I put up with him. He’s as stiff-necked as those statues over there and about as warm.’
‘At least I’m not as gaudy as a potted plant. Where the devil did you get that atrocity of a waistcoat, Bry? It reminds me of one of my grandmother’s dressing gowns.’
‘Have