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Artemisia, in one of her rare affectionate moods, bounded up too, and the two cats vied for her cuddles, which she was more than happy to give.
Look at her: She had the endorsement of London’s leading art critic and the patronage of his wife. She had clients lining up to commission portraits, and a studio in which to receive them. She lived in a pleasant house in the vibrant city of London, with a cloak of respectability thanks to her lodgers Mr. and Mrs. Kegworth, who claimed to be her mother’s kin in exchange for room and board. She had a supportive family and dozens of friends and “yes,” she added out loud, “I have two wonderful cats, though I have so spoiled you, you spend more time sleeping in my studio than mousing in the kitchen.”
She had everything she needed, and she certainly did not need a duke.
If Leo’s impending marriage meant she never saw him again, there was no reason for that to bother her at all.
CHAPTER7
Why so mysterious, Leo? It’s your duty to remarry, Leo. Everyone is talking about it, Leo.
That evening, Leo wandered restlessly through his house, scowling at the decorative objects as he passed. He was irritated with himself. More than irritated: disgusted.
Why the devil had he not spoken?
The opportunity had been there, when they were alone, to say his piece. But did he speak? No. He had stared at her like a bull staring at passersby.
He paused before the marble bust of some dead duke, and said, “I expect news of my engagement to intensify attention on my activities and connections, at least temporarily, so for that temporary period, it would be better for all concerned…”
The marble bust cringed. Leo sighed.
He’d have sounded like a pompous prat saying it, but at least it would have been said.
Life was full of difficult conversations, but one did what had to be done, one said what had to be said, and one never cowered from uncomfortable moments or shirked one’s duty.
Except, in his case, where Juno was concerned.
She alone inspired his silence, his wretched hesitation. In the meadow ten years ago. In Vienna eight years ago. In London, six bloody hours ago.
Order, he thought, resuming his rambles. Everything in his life had a place. Then Juno, with a single smile or word, threw the lot into upheaval. She waved a foil and he threw away decorum to fence with her, a poor decision that could make its way back to Lady Renshaw’s ears. She quipped about taking off her dress and he immediately imagined her taking off her dress. She whispered in his ear and stood so close until all he wanted was—
His Foundation, he reminded himself firmly. His heirs. Peaceful domesticity. What he wanted was to share his oversized houses with actual human beings, rather than wandering through them alone.
And Juno? Free-spirited, misbehaving Juno, she who took love lightly, selected lovers like chocolate truffles, shunned marriage, drew nudes, lived for art, craved experiences, chased sensations. She had no place in his life. She ought never to have been part of it.
But one morning, many years ago, while staying at Hadrian’s house, Leo went out for an early morning walk and found his friend’s cousin traipsing through the woods like a pagan goddess of spring, singing softly and smiling at him as if he were the brightest part of her day. She had been so at ease, so eager to share the myriad pleasures around them, that he had relaxed into her presence and, for the first time ever, felt fully himself.
Countless morning walks later, she was kissing him and saying she loved him.
For Leo, that morning had changed his life.
For Juno, it had been just another day.
The old bitterness twisted through him. No, not fair. Resenting Juno for not loving him forever was like resenting the blossoms for falling from the trees or resenting the sun for setting. It was simply her nature.
Perhaps it had been a mistake to call on her when she moved back to London. But when Hadrian had written, obliviously asking Leo to “keep an eye on her for me, would you?”, curiosity had won. To his relief, he’d felt completely at ease in her company, with none of the old feelings at all. Again and again, he had gone back, until her studio had become a regular haunt.
His ramblings took him to the dining room, with its enormous table and sideboard carved with wild beasts. The housekeeper, in a display of either humor or pique, had laid out all the tea services in a colorful city of fragile towers.
Point made. Forty-two was a bit excessive.
Had he really purchased this much? Surely not. Perhaps it got frisky in the china cabinet and started breeding.
Lucky porcelain.
A wife would bring more than money. She’d bring the sweet intimacy of another body, the sanctuary of domestic companionship, the delight of discovering his own children.
Leo ran his hands over a chair’s carved crest, polished like everything else in this room. Yet for all the gloss and gleam, it felt barren and dusty.
