‘Never mind. I shouldn’t have spoken so bluntly myself,’ Sophie said apologetically. She should not blame this woman for her own foolishness in being attracted to Max. Sophie chose a different pencil from her box, wondering what her father would make of her performance in London so far. She could imagine the lecture.
‘Poor Papa,’ she murmured.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Nothing. I was just thinking of my father. He is a vicar and has never known quite what to make of my ways or my love of painting. He shares your brother’s view that ladies should be adequate sketchers, but that anything else is a presumption against nature. Not that I am in any way extraordinary, but painting is more than just another accomplishment to be acquired as far as I am concerned. It really gives me pleasure.’
‘Max?’ Hetty asked, surprised. ‘You are quite wrong. Max might be very rule bound himself, but he has very few prejudices when it comes to other people and certainly not against female artists. I suppose that’s my Uncle Charles’s doing because our papa was quite narrow-minded and Mama is...well, she means well, but... Anyway, Charles was very close with Angelica Kauffman and Mary Moser who were both amazing artists and he used to take Max with him to the Academy all the time. He’s off painting somewhere in Italy at the moment which is a pity because I think you would like him.’
Sophie absorbed this, embarrassed by her curiosity and the need to know more about Max. She really could not quite make out the contradictions in his character. Max! She should not be calling him that even in her mind, she told herself sternly and leaned back, inspecting her work.
‘I think that will do for now. It’s a pity to stop now, but it’s time for me to go read to Aunt Minnie. Could you come again once or twice so I can decide on the colours and shading?’
Hetty nodded and came to inspect the drawing and Sophie tensed as she always did when someone saw her work for the first time, no matter how much she tried to be sophisticated and unconcerned.
‘It’s even lovelier than the first,’ Hetty said quietly. ‘I look...joyous, though I’m hardly smiling. It is such a pity Max doesn’t want you to even sketch him. Mama is always trying to convince him to sit for a portrait, but he has something against them. Do you think you could do a drawing of him sight unseen like you did for me before or is that too hard?’
Sophie bent over her box of charcoals and pencils to hide her flush. She knew she had to say something that would satisfy Lady Hetty. Certainly not the truth.
‘It’s easier with some people than others. I don’t know if I could, from memory. It is not just the structure of the face, but there must be something I can...base myself on, an idea of the person.’
Lady Hetty nodded, shaking out her crumpled skirts.
‘He is a bit hard to read. Mama always complains of it. But it’s not because there’s nothing there, like some people.’
‘No. I don’t think it is that. Perhaps there is just more than people expect or even want and he knows it.’
She wished she hadn’t spoken, aware of Hetty’s eyes on her, but she kept her own down as she wiped her fingers clean and then extended her hand with a smile.
‘All clean now. Could you come tomorrow, then?’
‘With pleasure! Thank you, Miss Trevelyan.’
The moment the door closed behind Hetty, Sophie’s shoulders sagged. Under other circumstances she would have been ecstatic about meeting someone so genuine. But it was a strain, having to make believe that all these references to Max had no effect on her. And the strain just made it obvious that something had changed yesterday. She hadn’t realised at the time, but she had felt so right walking with him around that immense room. Even knowing it was nothing more than the polite courtesy of a gentleman for the lady he was escorting, and even through the layers of her glove and his coat, she had been aware of the strength of his arm beneath her fingers and a radiating heat that had accompanied her as they inspected the paintings. It had heightened her senses and dimmed her judgement, like wine. After her initial protest she had not had the will to release him to his business, at least not until his anger at her about her mistake in entering the forbidden room. Then the folly of succumbing to the fantasy that there was actually something more keeping him at her side than civility became clear. She might be socially clumsy, but she wasn’t naïve. She knew she was in danger of liking him too much and it did not take his sister’s warning to point out she had no chance with someone like him. She had managed to repel men with far fewer endowments and expectations; there was no future for her with Max.
Max climbed into his phaeton and took the reins from his groom who jumped up on his perch behind. He had promised to take Lady Melissa for a ride in the park, but at the moment he would have happily just headed west until he was clear of the town and all its inhabitants. His plans of identifying, courting and securing a wife, which had seemed so straightforward a month ago when he had commandeered Hetty for the campaign, were becoming mired in the mud of his flagging resolution.
He was just about to set his team of matched bays in motion when he saw Lord Wivenhoe coming leisurely down the stairs of Huntley House, his ebony cane swinging in his hand. Wivenhoe caught sight of Max and nodded, his eyes gleaming.
‘Well met, Harcourt. Are these your famous bays? Beautiful beasts. I forgot you are neighbours with the wealthy Lady Huntley. And by extension with Miss Trevelyan.’
‘What are you doing here, Wivenhoe?’
Wivenhoe raised one chestnut brow at Max’s curt tones.
‘How very dog-in-the-manger of you. Is it my visit to the fair Trevelyan that excites your formidable frown or is that just your habitual greeting to yours truly? I didn’t think country misses were in your line, no matter how original. And she is, isn’t she? Quite refreshing. Not a classic beauty, but such an expressive countenance! She does not even need to speak to be heard, if you understand me. I had a delightful chat with Lady Minnie, quite twenty minutes of the most salacious reminiscences—on the lady’s part, I assure you—and merely for the pleasure of watching its effect on Miss Trevelyan’s enchanting visage. I don’t believe I have yet come across such expressive eyes. Better than any performance by Kean. I might even consider painting her if she is willing...’
Max reined in on his temper. He knew Wivenhoe was baiting him, but he was uncharacteristically finding it hard to ignore his taunts.
‘You must be very desperate to have to resort to teasing country misses for entertainment. Perhaps if you were more generous with your mistresses, as Miss Trevelyan suggested, you wouldn’t have to stoop so low,’ he said contemptuously and Wivenhoe’s pale cheeks flushed a mottled red.
He didn’t wait for Wivenhoe’s response, just gave his bays their head and the phaeton moved forward. As he pulled out of the square he reminded himself of his resolution to have nothing more to do with the irrepressible Miss Trevelyan and that meant to stay out of her business. It was not his role to warn her about the likes of Wivenhoe. And to be fair, she might be a country miss, but she was no fool. She could take care of herself.
‘Your Grace?’ his groom asked hesitantly behind him and Max checked his horses, realising he had been about to drive past the Arkwright residence.
‘Keep them moving, Greggs,’ Max said and strode up to the front door. Another day, another battle.
* * *
Less than two hours later Max left the phaeton at the stables and headed up South Audley Street towards home, feeling tired and disheartened, though he knew he had no reason to be. Lady Melissa had given a masterly performance, proving precisely how suited she was to be his Duchess. She clearly understood