The beetle-headed libertine!
Miss Trollop then veiled her face in a thick black cloak, curtseyed and whispered her adieu.
Evelyn had never considered the fact that Rothwell might already have a mistress, but why else would an unchaperoned woman visit him so late at night? And in his study as well.
The conceited, beef-witted, cabbage head!
Of course she was jealous – who wouldn’t be? Yesterday, she’d been kissed as though it were his last breath, yet now he cavorted with another.
The scaly prig.
Although…on closer inspection, through slitted eyes, she noticed they displayed no ruffled clothes or scorching glances, and Rothwell’s hair remained smooth. Furthermore, the lady acted most skittish, almost fearful – hardly the behaviour which the duke provoked within her own treacherous skin.
Evelyn emerged from the shadowed parlour just as the lady’s black skirts hurriedly swept down the hall.
“Your Grace.”
“Evelyn.” A smile broke, then broadened at her haughty glare.
“I wondered if I might speak with you regarding my sister.”
He nodded and turned back to the study with nary a word.
Following his maroon tailcoat, she pointedly refused to peer over at the desk and recall her shameless abandon or his growling sensuality.
Best forget it happened, she scolded, and instead gazed to the corner where the Prince’s painting had rested, to enjoy that peaceful scene of beauty once more, only to be confronted by…
“Oh.” And she hastened over.
A larger canvas sat upon the stand now, a lantern to the side highlighting the affecting art.
English soldiers stooped in black mud and red blood, weary and dispirited despite the captured French Infantry Eagle which lay on the sodden ground proclaiming their victory. The sky, a relentless grey, pelted rain upon them.
Battle. Death. Triumph. Despair.
And in the centre kneeled their striking leader, redcoat draping his shoulders, one arm clasping a comrade who’d bandages about his eyes.
Their captain stared out, face stark, angry, resigned and grim.
No victory or glory shone in his intense hawk-like eyes.
She recalled a painting by Joseph Wright of Derby, of a woman and babe crying whilst her redcoat lover lay dead – it had pained the heart to look upon it and this held a similar power.
“A female artist’s work,” the duke revealed as he perched on the edge of his desk, hand tracing the leather inlay. “Does that offend you?”
She shook her head, more offended he’d need to ask, but it was true that such subjects, especially rendered in oil, were considered too violent for a woman’s delicate sensibilities. An unnatural subject for a hysterical mind.
And yet no one on earth, be they man, woman or beast, remained untouched by pain and sadness.
“The lady I passed in the hall?”
“Indeed.”
Such remarkable talent. And how strange that a genteel lady painted pain and death whilst the Prince, a rugged villain, captured happiness and life.
Or maybe it wasn’t so strange at all…
“I think it exquisite. Compelling and poignant.” She studied their rugged captain again – portrayed with such depth and emotion. “The artist has feelings for him,” she said softly. “But his eyes appear…”
