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His sleepy gaze swept over the awestruck guests and garden, taking in every detail, pausing for none. His eyes skated over Juno too. Her buoyancy deflated. Perhaps he did not recognize her, in this stylish gown the color of the summer sea, with her hair in a compliant honey-colored pile.
This man was that cool, aloof duke she had heard about—grand, elevated, supercilious, one of society’s arbiters of taste. She saw it in his air of command, in the demeanor of the guests, who all looked ready to roll over and show him their bellies.
It was hard to believe this was the same man who sat in her window seat and bickered with her cats.
Mr. Prescott was hovering at his side, looking faintly vexed by the arrival of this august guest. By comparison to the duke, the critic’s stark outfit rendered him as prosaic as one of his own essays.
Meanwhile, Beatrice had sunk into a deep curtsy. The duke inclined his shoulders ever so slightly, like a sapling bending in the wind.
“Mrs. Prescott, a pleasure,” he murmured to the pink flowers adorning the top of her head.
Beatrice rose, lips parted, blinking rapidly. “Your Grace, I am so honored that you chose to grace… That is, I mean, to take part in our humble gathering.”
He nodded graciously. No one dared speak, nor even so much as breathe, as they awaited the duke’s next move.
Leo looked at Juno’s portrait of Beatrice Prescott, and then at the actual Beatrice Prescott, dwarfed and outshone by her own image. In the portrait, as Queen Titania, she floated through an English woodland in a long white gown, radiating blissful content. In reality, she was flushed and excited. She almost trembled with it, like a puppy trying not to wag its tail.
He raised his quizzing glass to examine the portrait, though he had already seen it in Juno’s studio. He ignored everyone as he examined it: up close, from afar, from top to bottom and lingering on a few details in between.
He would make a good lover, Juno thought, with that attention to detail, the way he took his time. And then there was that surprisingly thrilling air of command under his polished indolence, as if a wave of his hand would send everyone rushing to do his bidding.
Good heavens, there she went again, indulging this foolish fancy of Leo as her lover. Best not forget he meant to marry soon and had no interest in her that way at all.
His inspection complete, he replaced his quizzing glass in his waistcoat and carefully arranged the silver chain.
“Mrs. Prescott, this is all quite splendid,” he said. “You are to be complimented on your exquisite taste.”
A gust of wind rippled through the leaves, as if the guests had let out a collective sigh. The Duke of Dammerton had complimented Mrs. Prescott! By extension, he had complimented every single person who had demonstrated the good taste to attend today.
Then he turned away from the crowd and directed a comment to his host, signaling that he was done with them, and they could return to their mundane affairs.
CHAPTER9
At an insistent wave from Beatrice, the musicians shoved aside their sweating glasses of lemonade and resumed their playing. The guests, energized—they had a duke in their midst!—were invited to partake of tea.
As Juno wandered down onto the lawn, guests clamored to greet her, praise her, share their thoughts on art. She chatted with them amiably, feeling special and alive.
They melted away when Beatrice came trotting toward her, radiating pleasure. Her peony-pink skirts billowed around her like she was a flower fairy herself.
“Oh, Juno, I cannot believe it!” Beatrice gushed, catching both her hands. “A duke at my garden party! Did you see? Of course you saw. Everyone saw. He’s right there; one can’t help but see. And how they’ll talk! ‘The Duke of Dammerton praised Mrs. Prescott’s exquisite taste,’ they’ll say. And there I was, all in a dither! Did I look very foolish?”
“Not at all.”
“And he just shows up without so much as a by-your-leave! What a naughty fellow he is. I shall have to give him quite the scolding. Oh, to think I have a duke at my garden party!” She released Juno, opened the fan hanging on her wrist, and took a deep, calming breath. “I must compose myself. Mr. Prescott will not be pleased by my gauche excitement.” She fanned herself, the picture of serenity restored, then shot Juno a gleeful look. “I am excited, though. I declare this afternoon a success. Am I not the best patroness you could dream of? Today, the Duke of Dammerton. Tomorrow, everyone else. Just you wait and see. This party will pay off, with a dozen commissions for you.Propercommissions.”
“I had not realized my other commissions wereimproper,” Juno said dryly.
“Oh, portraits of bankers’ wives and the like.” Beatrice waved dismissively. “With your talent and connections, and my patronage, you can do much better than that.”
For the most part, Juno liked Beatrice Prescott. She enjoyed her enthusiasm, admired her knowledge, and sympathized with her ambitions in a society that was notoriously judgmental and unyielding. But Beatrice, like so many set on improving their position in society, suffered from a distasteful snobbery.
Those “bankers’ wives and the like” had kept the roof over Juno’s head these years, and she had enjoyed painting each and every one.
“The middle classes deserve nice things too,” she said.
“Oh darling, of course, ofcourse. But they don’t have the same eye for art that we do. The same—what shall we call it?—sensibility. As for the lower orders, they have no sense of form or color at all. But Juno, you are one of us! Why, your uncle is a baronet and your other connections—” Here she glanced at Leo and her aunt Hester, Lady Bell. “You should claim your rightful place as an artist in higher society.”
Juno bit her tongue. An artist’s life was always precarious, especially for an unmarried woman. Beatrice’s patronage mattered, she reminded herself, so she had best refrain from pointing out that most artisans came from the lower classes, that not one gown or teacup here had been made by an aristocrat.
