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The Marquess stopped, then set his tools down with exaggerated caution. “You tread close to impertinence, Miss Smith.”
“And I have tread far closer without you seeming to concern yourself of the matter. Indeed, I was given the impression that you quite enjoyed our interactions. Or do I remember in error, my lord?” Try as she might, she could not keep the bite out of her voice, nor her hand from tightening defensively around the sheet she held.
He took a step toward her. “You forget yourself, Miss Smith.”
“Perhaps, but if it is propriety that concerns you, then I suggest you reconsider your choice of my attire for your work, my lord. It is far from proper under even the most liberal of circumstances.” Ruse or not, she was not some simple maid to endure a man’s ill temper, be it from her employer or not.
His eyes flashed, and she thought he might turn her out of the house then and there. She forced herself to stand her ground and meet his glare.
To her surprise, he stopped, and an odd color washed over his face. He blinked. Then a small, tight smile curled one corner of his mouth. “Spirited. I could have you dismissed.”
“You could, but where then would you find your model?”
“I suppose I should be hard-pressed to find another model who was so accommodating.” His shoulders relaxed a bit. “In truth, the issue has little to do with you. It is only that I slept poorly and was rudely awakened, and it has made my mood a bit...ungracious, perhaps.”
“A common ailment, my lord, and one I would quite understand.” She had been concerned that she had been too forward, and he was coming to regret allowing her to ask her questions. “I only wish to know if I step beyond the bounds of your tolerance.”
He shook his head and moved back toward the marble, picking up his tools once more. “You have not, Miss Smith.”
“Hetty, if you please, my lord. I daresay we are far past circumstances of formality, at least on my side of the situation.” In truth, she was rather tired of being called Miss Smith. At least Hetty was a name she had used before, and an affectionate nickname of her brother’s design. Hearing him call her Miss Smith continually reminded her of her deception, and she was growing slightly more uncomfortable with her duplicity each day.
At least she was fulfilling the terms of her agreement. He could hardly say that she was depriving him of a model.
“In that case, you may call me Daniel.” The words startled her out of her consideration.
“My lord?”
“Daniel. It is my name.” He glanced at her over the statue. “If we are working, especially in such conditions as these, I see no reason you cannot use my given name. After all, you are correct that we are already in somewhat indecorous circumstances, and at my own insistence.”
“I see.” She considered. “Daniel...you said you would have canceled Friday yourself, had I not done so. May I ask what your engagement is?”
“I am attending an event for a friend of mine.” His tone was distracted, his eyes focused on the marble as he applied a small chisel in a line only he was able to discern. She noted curiously that the face was much more defined, and the body as beginning to take proper form as well.
“A friend?” That was interesting. If he referred to the ball, she had not heard that the Duke of Merriweather and the Marquess of Salisbury were acquainted. Certainly, no one in the echelons of the ton had given any indications in that regard. “I had heard that you were not much for high society parties. You yourself told me you find it all tiresome.”
“Often, I do. But Jack—” he paused, remembering himself, “His Grace is a good friend of mine, and he has offered to give me a chance to socialize in relative ease.”
More interesting. She knew, though Hetty Smith could not be expected to, that Jackson Fisher was the Duke of Merriweather’s given name. And apparently, they were closely enough associated that the Marquess—Daniel, she amended her thoughts as he had amended his own— felt comfortable speaking of him in such an informal manner.
Of course, Hetty Smith could not know that either. “I’m afraid I am unfamiliar with the name.”
“Jackson Fisher, Duke of Merriweather. You would most likely not have made his acquaintance. He is not of the artistic mindset and only recently returned to England.”
“Then you did not meet him through your artistic endeavors?”
“I did not.” A shadow seemed to pass over his face. “It is not much spoken of, but His Grace was also a soldier for a time. We served together, until he was recalled home to assume his position among the peerage.”
“I see.” She knew the Duke of Merriweather had been a soldier, but it was a subject most avoided. Particularly since it would have brought the topic around to his scars, which among the ton had been a matter of much speculation, but also one that very few dared to broach with him after his handling of Lord Cardigan, who had, according to rumor, been involved in some manner with his injury.
She had often wondered about Daniel’s experiences in the war but had never seen a good opportunity to broach the subject, which she suspected was a sensitive one. “I had heard rumors that you were a soldier, but I had not been certain that…your artistic efforts…” She trailed off, uncertain of how to frame her thoughts in a way that would not be insensitive or be too upsetting.
“I was a soldier.” His voice had gone cold, distant. “I was a soldier for many years. Art is...it is soothing to me.”
“Indeed. How so?”
“It redirects my mind and my energies.” To her surprise a red flush crept up to his ears. “Some men prefer other methods, but I have found that working with marble is the most satisfying for me.”
Perhaps he was embarrassed or thought that artistic inclination did not sit well with his position in the peerage. It was true that sculpting was not a common occupation among the gentlemen of London, but she could not find any fault with it. Far better than the drinking and incessant gambling some men indulged to the ruination of themselves and their families. “I think that is admirable. A worthy endeavor, to bring beauty to the world to offset the ugliness you must have seen.”
