Page 66 of The Lady Makes Her Mark

“Charismatic,” corrected her husband. “The sort of fellow you’d like to get to know.”

Harry, who had just joined the little group standing closest to the picture, nodded. “Yes, exactly,” she said. And she didn’t sound happy about it at all.

Was this how Constantia saw him? Was this what she’d meant when she’d spoken of painting something true?

He needed to speak to her, to ask her—

At just that moment, the rector enjoined her in earnest conversation. On the other side of the room, and much to his surprise, Georgie began agreeing vocally with their aunt’s assessment of the portrait: “Oh, indeed. Quite shocking. I would not recommend hanging such a thing in your house, Aunt Josephine. I wouldn’t show it to a soul.”

That was odd. A moment earlier, Freddie had sounded as if she thought the portrait would be successful in attracting a bride, and it was unusual for the two sisters to disagree about anything of substance. She and Georgie were less than a year apart in age and had always been like two peas in a pod.

And then there was Harry’s unhappy-sounding assessment and the scowl on Danny’s face . . .

Had they been hoping Constantia would make a portrait so awful, it would ensure his matrimonial efforts would fail? But that would mean they didn’t want him to—

No, that couldn’t be. If he didn’t marry, they would all have nothing.

He’d ask Eddie. She was unfailingly honest. And as luck would have it, she was headed toward him now, arm in arm with her curate.

Before Alistair could speak, Forster did. “Ryland, there’s something we should discuss.”

It could have been their plans to assist the most unfortunate residents in the village. But Alistair had the awful feeling it was their marriage plans instead. Awful not because he opposed them. Eddie’s happiness—all his sisters’ happiness—had always been his first concern. But awful because, if they were finally ready to proceed, it must mean they assumed he was about to succeed. About to bring home a wealthy wife.

Thanks to Constantia’s portrait.

“One moment,” he said to Forster, turning away even as he spoke. “Danny?” He found her nearly where he’d left her, now standing alone. “What did you mean when you said a portrait like that? What did Harry mean when she said she thought Constantia was on your side?”

A frown wrinkled between her dark eyebrows; clearly she did not wish to answer. But after a moment, she breathed in sharply through her nose and said, “I had thought Miss Cooper might do you an injustice.”

“She would never—”

His sister spoke across him. “Because I rather thought she fancied you herself. And I—we—had persuaded ourselves you fancied her in turn.”

“Whatever gave you that idea?” he asked, even as he feared the unsteadiness of his voice must be giving away his feelings.

“Your pointed refusal to be in company with her first suggested the notion to Freddie and Georgie. I myself have observed both your and her expressions whenever the other is spoken of. And most important, you had always refused the idea of a drawing master until now. Harry told me she knew it could not be for her sake, so it must be for Miss Cooper’s—or for your own.”

In short, having five sharp-eyed sisters had been his undoing—but also, perhaps, his salvation?

“So,” he said, “you did want the portrait to be a failure, to thwart Aunt Josephine’s plans.”

Danny’s dark eyes were incredulous, pleading. “I don’t care about the portrait. Or anything else. We wanted—want—you to be happy.”

Happy? Easy enough to say. But poverty would be much harder to bear.

He had to talk to Constantia. Had to ask her—

Had to know . . .

He glanced toward the rector, but she had already moved on from that conversation. His eyes darted from group to group, and then to the corners of the room. She was nowhere to be found.

“Excuse me.” Abruptly he stepped past Danny and headed for the door. Aunt Josephine called after him, but he pretended not to hear. Nothing mattered but getting to Constantia before she left Rylemoor for good.

He raced through the house, his eyes searching everywhere he passed, just in case he was wrong. Charging up a spiral staircase faster than a marauding knight, he burst through the door. “Constantia?”

In the schoolroom, all was dark. But might she be in the governess’s quarters just beyond? He thought he saw a flicker of light. As he hurried across the floor, his thigh collided with the corner of a table and he swore, none too softly. The oath echoed in the schoolroom’s silence. No one emerged from the adjoining bedchamber, either to chide him or to see that he was all right. Still, he pressed on and pushed open the door without pausing to knock.

Except for furnishings and a single candle left burning, the room was empty. The wardrobe door was ajar—no sign of her things within. And across the neatly made bed lay the golden gown she’d been wearing. He swore again and had turned to continue his search elsewhere when something caught his eye.