Alec Mackenzie's Art of Seduction (Mackenzies & McBrides #9)(7)

He turned swiftly to the portfolio and had it open before Celia could stop him.

“I wish you wouldn’t,” she said, her face hot. “They’re not good. It’s only what I’ve done on my own. I sat in on my brother’s drawing lessons, but that was a long time ago …”

Mr. Finn ignored her as he spread out the drawings—the small sketch of her mother’s face that hadn’t quite captured her sharpness, the many different pictures of the cat, the buildings of London seen from the garret window, and watercolors of the lands around her family’s estate in Kent.

Mr. Finn paused over a careful drawing Celia had done of her father’s head and shoulders. She thought she’d caught well his round, affable face, friendly eyes, plump chin, and the wig he liked with two careful curls on either side of his face.

Her father was not a handsome man and preferred the company of his mistress, the boisterous Mrs. Barnett, whom he’d known all his life. All the family was aware of Mrs. Barnett—Celia’s mother said it was a relief that Mrs. B. kept her father out from underfoot. The duke was kind to Celia and had taken her side, to her surprise, during the Disaster.

Celia’s brother had not. Edward was furious and hadn’t spoken to Celia since. That hurt. She and her brother had always been great friends, but she hadn’t heard from him since he’d been posted off to France after Culloden to fight in the ongoing war against King Louis.

Mr. Finn studied the drawing of the duke for a long time. His smile had gone and something harsh entered the set of his mouth.

“As I say, I’m not very skilled,” Celia said into the silence. “I couldn’t get my father to sit for long. He’s very busy.”

Mr. Finn looked up at her, the flash of bleakness in his eyes like an icy wind on a Highland moor. “Aye, I imagine he’s very busy. He’s a duke.”

“Well, yes. He’s on all sorts of committees with ministries and things, when he’s not hosting gatherings to support the MPs he champions. He’s leader of the party, you know.” The last words were spoken with a downturn of voice, Celia finding the situation wearying rather than exciting.

Wearying in the extreme. In her family, every waking moment, every activity, every word uttered, every deed done, had to be for the benefit of the Whigs and the glory of the dukes of Crenshaw. Any indiscretion from Celia, her brother, or her father, any flaw, any wrong turn would discredit the entire edifice.

Hence, Celia’s current disgrace. She was a bit amazed they hadn’t simply locked her in the cellar and had done.

She felt Mr. Finn’s eyes on her. Celia made herself meet his gaze, startled at the deep anger in it. A rage so bitter it made her flinch blazed out, and behind that was fear—stark, cold, bone-shaking fear.

Celia frowned, and in an instant, the look was gone. Mr. Finn’s eyes warmed again and he turned to the drawings.

“These are finely done, lass. You have a gift.”

Celia shook her head. “You are kind, but …”

“No, you show talent.” Mr. Finn touched the drawings of the cat, each one different. Celia had captured the black and white creature curled up with her tail over her nose, in others stretching, or batting at a fly, or sitting bolt upright like a statue, and finally contorted as she gracefully stretched out a back leg to lick her spread toes.

“Your lines are good,” Mr. Finn said. “You can depict an action without overdoing it. Your landscapes show promise—you’ve got the depth right. This one is particularly good.” He tapped the drawing of London rooftops, which her mother said was ridiculous. Who wanted to look at a picture of a city? Especially one seen from a servants’ chamber?

“Your portraits, now.” Mr. Finn pulled out the pictures of her father and mother and laid them side by side. “You have the outlines of the faces right—you can draw a nose, I will give you that. But I think this is where you can use instruction. How to capture a look, an emotion. I am noticing you have nothing of people save these two faces. No bodies.”

“Full length figures are difficult,” Celia said in defense. “Especially when no one will sit still long enough for me to draw them.” She heard her frustration. Edward, who was a well-muscled specimen, would never give her five minutes for a sketch.

“’Tis why artists hire models,” Mr. Finn said. “We pay them to sit still. Mind you, they don’t always.”

“Do you have trouble with your models, Mr. Finn?” Celia asked in curiosity. “I hear they are ladies of great scandal.”

She couldn’t keep the wistfulness from her voice. Artists’ models led shocking lives, but she admired their ability to do precisely as they pleased. Some of them went on to marry the artists and be celebrated, like Rubens’s very young second wife. Those ladies had never worried about their duchess mothers declaring they were no longer of any use to them, or the approbation of society that the Duchess of Crenshaw had such an ungrateful and disobedient daughter.

“No trouble with the lady models,” Mr. Finn said without hesitation. “They stay motionless, because the sooner I finish, the sooner they can be paid. I was thinking of my younger brother, who wouldn’t stand still if you nailed his foot to the floor. Always moving, is he, even now that he’s grown up—” He broke off, bleakness flashing again in his eyes.