AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Good God. Her deuced buttocks were on display. Again, not that anyone would guess that they were hers. Margot’s body felt inexplicably hot and she snapped open her fan. She hadn’t posed for that one, but clearly the artist had taken some creative liberty. There was no way in heaven she looked like that. While all the other paintings were numbered instead of titled, this piece was simply called M.
“Remarkable, aren’t they?” a voice beside her said, and Margot turned to see an older, well-dressed woman she instantly recognized as the Dowager Duchess of Culver. Margot kept her mouth from falling open. She’d never conversed with the woman, but she was known for being a denizen of the ton as well as an art connoisseur.
She attempted a shallow curtsy. “Your Grace,” she murmured.
The duchess lifted a lorgnette to her eyes. “I do not know this artist, but her portraiture is really quite exquisite, rather Rubenesque in style,” she said, peering closer before focusing on the opposite side of the room. “And those over there are so innovative. The stark contrast of such a departure from realism when juxtaposed with the opposing portraits is just prodigious. Lady Rawdon has outdone herself in the story she has told with these pieces.”
Margot blinked. Was it a story? She’d been so horrified about the discovery that she hadn’t even taken in the meaning behind the new additions, but now that she looked, each of them corresponded to one of the earlier portraits, the wildness of light and color depicting the artist’s frame of mind, a symbolic expression of the unconscious.
“Yes, yes, you’re quite right, Lady Waverly,” the duchess said, making Margot realize she’d murmured the last thought out loud. “It’s as though they reflect the descent of the painter into some degree of madness, don’t you think?”
Madness or lust. Likely some combination of the two.
“Ah, here is the artist’s name,” the duchess said, peering into the small pamphlet she carried. “A Miss Ara Vaughn. I daresay I have never heard of her before, but she’s certainly someone to be watched with very great interest.”
“I agree,” Margot said weakly, her mouth going dry at the jarring sound of a name she hadn’t heard in weeks. “Please excuse me, Your Grace. Enjoy the rest of the exhibit.”
Margot’s stomach dipped unsteadily. She’d been so caught up in the subject matter of the paintings that she hadn’t thought about their creator. The blood in her veins ran cold. Heavens, was Ara here? Honoria hadn’t said so, but then again that sneaky wench hadn’t told her about this special exhibit either. Margot hadn’t seen Ara in weeks, not for any lack of longing. Her willpower had been weak, and she had found herself being driven to Covent Garden several times before she’d forced Farrows to return home mid-journey.
Ending things so abruptly had nearly killed her, but it had been for the best.
For Percy’s sake. Or at least that was what she’d told herself.
Someone behind her jostled her to enter the room, and she moved out of the way. “I heard the artist will be in the dining room later on,” a woman said to her friend. “Isn’t that lovely? I cannot wait to ask her about her inspiration. Who do you suppose ‘M’ is?”
“Muse, perhaps,” the other replied and then giggled. “Or maybe the name of some scandalous lover.”
Margot nearly choked and she hurried out of the room before her infamous composure absolutely failed her. She needed to leave this instant before she did something ridiculous like scream or swoon. But as she rushed toward the gallery exit, she was stalled by the very woman she’d cheerily planned to murder.
“You!”
Honoria’s green eyes widened in dramatic horror. “What did I do?”
Conscious of not making a scene, Margot dragged her best friend to an unobtrusive corner. “How could you?”
“How could I what?” Honoria repeated with genuine confusion.
Margot pointed in the direction from which she’d come and bit out a furious whisper, “That. In the west gallery.” She lowered her voice to an inaudible hiss. “Me.”
Honoria’s eyes rounded comically. “You told me to!”
“I did not!” she shot back.
“I assure you, you did! You said it was a marvelous idea, and you’d always support me. I didn’t do this without your permission, Margot. And Miss Vaughn agreed to the others.”
They faced off against each other in righteous indignation. “Why on earth would I even agree to such an asinine thing?” But even as Margot bit out the question, the echoes of a conversation came back to her: marvelous idea, as always.
She’d been fantasizing about Ara and had pretended that she’d heard whatever it was Honoria had asked.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
The oaths in her head were like thunderclaps.
“I thought you were talking about something else,” Margot whispered lamely. “I didn’t… Gracious, not this.” Her words started to shake, her body following soon after.
Honoria took hold of her arm. “Margot, breathe,” her voice urgent and low. “No one knows that it is you, and surely you must know that Ara would never betray your confidence. She’s in—” She broke off and turned away, running a palm over her face. “Look, I can tell one of the footmen to close that room. The paintings will be down by tomorrow, if that’s what you wish. You’re my best friend, Margot. You’re more important to me than any of this. What do you want me to do?”
Did she want that room closed? The answer was an unequivocal yes. But was that her irrational fear speaking? Or was it something deeper? Was it that she hated how free she was in those portraits and it was a freedom that could never, ever be hers in this lifetime? Or was it because Ara’s chaotic feelings in the surreal, allusive pieces were the exact reflection of hers. The madness wasn’t the artist’s…it was the muse, who had fallen irrevocably, stupidly in love.
