The Lost Duke of Wyndham (Two Dukes of Wyndham, #1)(60)

He rather felt like he was imitating Wyndham, sitting there like such a stick. It unsettled the stomach, really.

"You're dreadful," Grace said, wiping her eyes.

"I try my best," he said modestly.

"And this" - she wagged a finger at him, grinning all the while - "is why you will never be head boy."

"Good God, I hope not," he returned. "I'd be a bit out of place at my age."

Not to mention how desperately wrong he was for school. He still had dreams about it. Certainly not nightmares - it could not be worth the energy. But every month or so he woke up from one of those annoying visions where he was back at school (rather absurdly at his current age of eight-and-twenty). It was always of a similar nature. He looked down at his schedule and suddenly realized he'd forgotten to attend Latin class for an entire term. Or arrived for an exam without his trousers.

The only school subjects he remembered with any fondness were sport and art. Sport had always been easy. He need only watch a game for a minute before his body knew instinctively how to move, and as for art - well, he'd never excelled at any of the practical aspects, but had always loved the study of it. For all the reasons he'd talked about with Grace his first night at Belgrave.

His eyes fell on the book, still open on the table between them. "Why do you dislike this?" he asked, motioning to the painting. It was not his favorite, but he did not find anything to offend.

"She does not like him," she said. She was looking down at the book, but he was looking at her, and he was surprised to see that her brow was wrinkled. Concern? Anger? He could not tell.

"She does not want his attentions," Grace continued. "And he will not stop. Look at his expression."

Jack peered at the image a little more closely. He supposed he saw what she meant. The reproduction was not what he would consider superior, and it was difficult to know how true it was to the actual painting.

Certainly the color would be off, but the lines seemed clear. He supposed there was something insidious in the man's expression. Still...

"But couldn't one say," he asked, "that you are objecting to the content of the painting and not the painting itself?"

"What is the difference?"

He thought for a moment. It had been some time since anyone had engaged him in what might be termed intellectual discourse. "Perhaps the artist wishes to invoke this response. Perhaps his intention is to portray this very scene. It does not mean that he endorses it."

"I suppose." Her lips pressed together, the corners tightening in a manner that he'd not seen before. He did not like it. It aged her. But more than that, it seemed to call to the fore an unhappiness that was almost entrenched. When she moved her mouth like that - angry, upset, resigned - it looked like she would never be happy again.

Worse, it looked like she accepted it.

"You do not have to like it," he said softly.

Her mouth softened but her eyes remained clouded. "No," she said, "I don't." She reached forward and flipped the page, her fingers changing the subject. "I have heard of Monsieur Watteau, of course, and he may be a revered artist, but - Oh!"

Jack was already smiling. Grace had not been looking at the book as she'd turned the page. But he had.

"Oh my..."

"Now that's a Boucher," Jack said appreciatively.

"It's not...I've never..." Her eyes were wide - two huge blue moons. Her lips were parted, and her cheeks...He only just managed to resist the urge to fan her.

"Marie-Louise O'Murphy," he told her.

She looked up in horror. "You know her?"

He shouldn't have laughed, but truly, he could not help it. "Every schoolboy knows her. Of her," he corrected. "I believe she passed on recently. In her dotage, have no fear. Tragically, she was old enough to be my grandmother."

He gazed down fondly at the woman in the painting, lounging provocatively on a divan. She was naked - wonderfully, gloriously, completely so - and lying on her belly, her back slightly arched as she leaned on the arm of the sofa, peering over the edge. She was painted from the side, but even so, a portion of the cleft of her buttocks was scandalously visible, and her legs...

Jack sighed happily at the memory. Her legs were spread wide, and he was quite certain he had not been the only schoolboy to have imagined settling himself between them.

Many a young lad had lost his virginity (in dreams, but still) to Marie-Louise O'Murphy. He wondered if the lady had ever realized the service she had provided.

He looked up at Grace. She was staring at the painting. He thought - he hoped - she might be growing aroused.

"You've never seen it before?" he murmured.

She shook her head. Barely. She was transfixed.

"She was the mistress of the King of France," Jack told her. "It was said that the king saw one of Boucher's portraits of her - not this one, I think, perhaps a miniature - and he decided he had to have her."

Grace's mouth opened, as if she wanted to comment, but nothing quite came out.

"She came from the streets of Dublin," he said, "or so I'm told. It is difficult to imagine her obtaining the surname O'Murphy anywhere else." He sighed in fond recollection. "We were always so proud to claim her as one of our own."