Page 13 of A Portrait of Love

“His Grace’s mother, the Dowager Duchess of Plimpton and his brother, the Marquess of Saybrook, also live at Whitcomb.” He cut her a quick smile. “As do I.” He took yet another right, this hallway narrow and windowless.

Lord, she was so lost she could wander for weeks.

“The only one of the family to keep chambers in the East Wing is my cousin, Lord Saybrook.”

Honey blinked at the disapproval she heard in the jovial man’s voice. So, the marquess was … difficult? Or was that merely the opinion of an envious poor relation?

They turned yet another corner but this time she staggered to a halt.

“Goodness,” she murmured.

“This is the older of the two portrait galleries,” Mr. Fairchild said, his increasingly distant voice causing Honey to resume walking, her head swiveling wildly to take in the staggering number of portraits that covered the high, paneled walls, jammed together so tightly that the frames touched in places.

Good God—she recognized the unmistakable style of Holbein. Holbein! She made an undignified squeaking sound. Her portrait would hang in a collection which contained one by Hans Holbein?

“Miss Keyes?”

Pulling her eyes away from the portrait—the subject a middle-aged man with no great physical beauty, but with a countenance so knowing that Honey felt as if he were looking right at her—was like pulling a heavy wagon from deep, sucking mud.

“Yes?” she said dazedly, turning her head and blinking, as if she’d just been blinded by a lighthouse lantern.

“This way, please. It is just a little farther.”

Honey hurried after him, pointedly keeping her eyes from the flow of portraits that assaulted her peripheral vision.

Later. She would come back later. This gallery would be reason enough to learn the layout of the maze-like house.

Something Mr. Fairchild had just said sank in.

“Did you say this was the old gallery?”

“Yes, the new gallery is on the first floor. That is where the newer portraits hang.”

Like her father’s portrait of Simon Fairchild.

Honey’s heart pounded like a young girl’s facing her first assembly: Simon and more paintings.

They ascended yet another set of stairs, these wooden and carpeted with a rich maroon and gold pattern that seemed to levitate above the floor. Honey felt almost guilty stepping on such lovely, intricate work. She had never seen its like.

“And here we are,” he said, flinging open the first door on the right.

Honey gaped. She was vaguely aware that she was spending far too much time with her mouth hanging open and shut it.

The sitting room was a cream and lemon-yellow shade that felt crisp and cool. Delicate, spindle-legged chairs and a low-slung settee were arranged in front of a massive fireplace with an off-white marble mantle and surround.

“Through this door,” he opened a door to the right, “Is your dressing room.” The room was monstrous and Honey’s paltry collection of dresses would scarcely fill a corner of one of the huge armoires. A washstand, dressing table, clothing chest, several chairs, damask covered chaise longue, and large bathing tub near a fireplace weren’t enough to make the huge room feel crowded.

“And here is your bed chamber.” This last door opened to the most opulent room of the three. A monstrous four-poster bed held pride of place, curtained and canopied in the same lemon yellow and cream, but with hints of gold. Rich velvet drapes covered the floor to ceiling windows that made up part of one wall.

Honey realized that he was waiting for some reaction.

“These rooms are lovely and quite … spacious.”

“This is the family’s section of the house. This room used to belong to his grace’s grandmother.”

“How kind of the duke to treat me with such generosity and condescension.”

Mr. Fairchild’s expression said that he agreed. “He is quite excited that you are here to paint our dear Becca and the duchess. Do you ride?” he asked.