A Duke in the Night(66)

Lady Shelley laughed again. “There are benefits to widowhood, Miss Hayward,” she called back, with a saucy flip of her hair. “Many, many benefits. And I will never apologize for them.”

Rose sent August another withering look before tossing the rag onto a small table just inside the door. “What do you want?” she demanded.

“I had come looking for Anne,” he said evenly.

“As you can see, she’s not here.”

“Indeed. However, since I am, I’ll extend the courtesy of passing along your sister’s wishes to have a word with you as soon as possible.”

“My sister is out for the afternoon.”

“She is back now.” He tried to keep any inflection from his words.

She shut the studio door firmly behind her. “Is she all right? Is she hurt? Is something wrong?”

“She is fine. She just needs a word. I believe she is in her rooms.”

Rose brushed by him, heading toward the south wing, skirting the stairs and disappearing from view. August slowly followed her as far as the stairs before he stopped abruptly. He glanced in the direction in which Rose had disappeared and, still finding the hallway deserted, turned back the way he had come. He strode purposefully down the hall until he was standing in front of the studio door, wondering if he had completely lost his mind.

He had done more skulking and spying and sneaking in the days since he had become reacquainted with Clara Hayward than ever before in his life. Without wasting another moment on second-guessing himself and his motives, he opened the door, slipping silently into the room. On the dais the settee he remembered so vividly was still there, though it was empty and had been draped in a swath of brilliant emerald silk. Directly in front of the platform a large easel stood, holding a long, rectangular canvas. A small table covered with brushes and palettes and neatly organized pots of pigment rested beside it. Surrounding the dais in a wide arc were the students’ easels and art supplies resting on small tables, one beside each station, waiting for their return.

August wandered around the room studying the drawings and sketches. They showed an eclectic selection of subject matter and no common thread, other than that the compositions had all been made with graphite and charcoal. Someone had sketched a garden the likes of which might have once been found at Versailles, complete with reservoirs and fountains and what looked like…plumbing lines? Alongside were sketches of plants and flowers, a jar half-filled with water and a small bouquet of roses sitting next to the easel, no doubt having provided some inspiration.

Next to the gardens were a completely different set of sketches, and it took August a good minute to comprehend what he was seeing. Anatomy diagrams. What looked like a heart dissected, with the tissue drawn back to expose the insides. A set of lungs, vessels reaching out from each like the branches of a winter oak. An empty tray rested beside that easel, and August chose not to consider what it had once held to provide inspiration. He took a step back, his eyes going to the next easel.

This was Anne’s. He recognized the bold strokes and the clean lines right away. She had drawn schematics of what looking like a coaching inn, given the amount of space and detail dedicated to the stables and yard surrounding it. He peered more closely, noting the large rooms at the front, designed for eating, and the kitchens and storehouses in proximity. It was an efficient design, with careful consideration given to the flow of people from one space to another. Something the Trenton Hotel was lacking. He frowned. Perhaps he did need to reconsider the layout of the hotel. And perhaps he could consult with Anne.

You made me your partner. And there is nothing in the world I value more.

He found himself smiling reluctantly.

He turned away and found himself in front of the long canvas directly across from the dais. This must be what Rose Hayward had been working on because the brushes here were still damp and the smell of turpentine strong. The canvas had been covered with a light, filmy cloth, and before he could reconsider, he pulled one corner of it, letting the cloth flutter to the floor.

The woman gazing out from the canvas at him was instantly recognizable. And breathtaking. Not because she was beautiful, but because Rose Hayward had somehow managed to capture the sultry confidence in Lady Shelley’s expression that August found so seductive in any woman. It was evident in every line of the body stretched out on the green silk, clothed only in the subtle light that the artist had captured with superb skill. Costume, indeed.

This was a woman who knew who she was. Who wasn’t trying to hide the long scar that stretched over her generous hip or the purple birthmark that graced the upper half of her thigh. It was all there on the canvas with no apology. When August had been Lady Shelley’s lover, she’d been ashamed of what she thought were imperfections. She’d tried to cover them with clothes or sheets, or darkness when that wasn’t possible. He hadn’t let her, and now, looking at the image of the woman, he was glad he hadn’t. Perhaps he had, in some small way, contributed to the confidence of the woman gazing out at him.

“She’s beautiful, isn’t she?”

August jumped like a schoolboy who had been caught sneaking into the pantries. He hadn’t heard Clara come in.

“She is,” he agreed.

“Did you love her?”

“No. But she made me laugh,” he said.

“Among other things.”

“Among other things,” he agreed again. “Her husband, the marquess, was not very kind to her during their marriage. I was her first lover after he died. Our affair lasted as long as it took her to understand that she deserved better than what her marriage had offered. That she was free to seek her own happiness.”