Chapter Eight
Catherine
Catherine can feel Lady Rosalie’s eyes on her like a hot iron, but she forces herself to concentrate. She won’t give Lady
Rosalie the satisfaction of distracting her.
Won’t give herself the satisfaction of meeting her gaze and getting lost in her challenging eyes either. She’s here to win
Lady Jones’ painting competition. Not to let herself be beguiled by her insanely hot niece.
Her portrait is going well, she thinks. She’s captured each gentleman’s likeness, and they all appear dynamic and distinct,
while remaining part of a larger whole. She even thinks she’s managed to make Mr. Dean look contemplative rather than bored
or mad, though he does look a bit of both, just staring off like that, oblivious to everyone around him.
She hopes the other women have managed nothing more elaborate than she has. Two hours is not really long enough to do anything
excellently, but she supposes that’s part of the challenge.
She can allow herself one sneaky glance over at Lady Rosalie before she starts to finesse all of her details. What could it
hurt?
Only when she looks over, Lady Rosalie is staring straight back at her. Catherine’s breath catches and they sit there, like
time has frozen them in place. Catherine knows she should scowl and look back at her painting, but she’s as curious about
Lady Rosalie as Lady Rosalie seems to be about her.
And she’s much more interesting to look at than anything, or anyone, up on the platform. She could stare at Lady Rosalie for hours, if only no one would notice . . .
Someone coughs behind her and Catherine jolts in her seat. Lady Rosalie looks back at her canvas, smirking. Catherine blows
out a calming breath before turning to look up at Lady Jones.
The woman smiles and nods toward her painting, as if she hasn’t just caught Catherine staring at her niece.
“Very good indeed, Miss Pine,” she says.
Catherine feels herself flush. “Thank you.”
“Certainly a contender, if you can keep your focus.”
That flush makes its way up to her hairline. “Yes, Lady Jones,” she mumbles, looking back at her canvas, feeling chastised
and caught. But then again, what’s wrong with scoping out her competition?
No one, not even Lady Jones, can know half of the time she’s staring at Lady Rosalie she’s just in awe of her beauty, and
not at all thinking about their competition over Mr. Dean.
“Five minutes,” Lady Jones says, winking at her.
It’s hard for Catherine to reconcile the playful, funny Lady Jones with Mother’s history with Lady Tisend. By Miss Linet’s
account, Lady Tisend and Lady Jones get on like a house on fire, but all Catherine’s seen of Lady Tisend is her austerity.
And her history with Catherine’s mother, the rumor she spread . . .
Beside her, Miss Raught groans and wipes feverishly at her painting, bringing Catherine back out of her thoughts. She needs
to win this to assuage whatever happened twenty-five years ago. To put Lady Tisend, and Lady Rosalie, and even lovely Lady
Jones below them.
All too soon Lady Jones calls out, “Brushes down!” and Catherine sits back.
It’s good. But is it good enough?
“All right, aprons off and step back, ladies. Gents, you may resume normal human movement.”
Catherine undoes her apron, watching with amusement as the men all stand up stiffly, stretching aching joints. Mr. Dean blinks
a few times and then helps Mr. Sholle up, the two of them smiling and exchanging some small talk.
Catherine turns to wander behind the horseshoe of easels like the other girls, perusing the competition before the boys come
to judge. She keeps her mouth in a neutral line as she looks over Miss Raught’s and Miss Linet’s paintings. They’re lovely,
but nothing compared to her own. She might even venture that hers is the best of the lot.
Until she comes to Lady Rosalie’s painting. While Catherine tried to perfect each gentleman’s pose, making them into parts
of a greater whole, Lady Rosalie fully highlighted Mr. Dean. The other boys around him are less distinct, making him the center
of attention. The detail, the shading, the way she’s captured his far-off gaze, making him wistful—it’s incredible.
Catherine wasn’t thinking about the competition as solely a way to impress Mr. Dean. Lady Rosalie’s clearly cleverer than
she is.
Could she sneak over, add some gilding to Mr. Dean’s tie, or give his hair an extra little flip in the front? Catherine glances
back toward her own portrait.
And there Lady Rosalie stands, stock-still, a nail between her teeth, staring at Catherine’s canvas. She’s frowning, looking
how Catherine imagines she did only a moment earlier. Perhaps she thinks Catherine is more competition than she is?
“Your portrait is amazing.”
Catherine drags her eyes away from Lady Rosalie, turning to face Miss Raught and Miss Linet. “Yours are both beautiful,” Catherine says honestly.
“Not nearly as good as yours,” Miss Raught insists.
“You’ve a real talent,” Miss Linet adds, offering her what looks like true smile, before blowing at a lock of auburn hair
that’s escaped her bonnet.
Catherine smiles uncomfortably. All this attention is still foreign, and her natural reaction is to shrink away. “Your shading
is marvelous,” she tells Miss Raught. “And the way you captured the light is really striking,” she tells Miss Linet.
Both girls smile, surprised.
“Amalie and Henrietta are very talented,” Lady Rosalie says, appearing behind them, head high, all that concern and contemplation
now gone from her face. “I’m glad they can hear it from someone else as well.”
Miss Raught and Miss Linet preen under Lady Rosalie’s attention. So it’s not just her. Lady Rosalie ensorcels everyone around
her.
But the way her stomach flips when Lady Rosalie meets her eyes—she rather thinks Miss Linet and Miss Raught aren’t feeling
quite what she is.
“Your work is stupendous.”
Catherine’s whole body goes warm. “Thank you. Yours is too.”
Lady Rosalie’s lips quirk upward. “Thank you.”
Catherine opens her mouth to say more, but Mr. Dean, Mr. Sholle, and the rest of the gentlemen are heading toward them. Miss Raught
and Miss Linet stand up straighter, smiling for their suitors coming behind Mr. Dean.
“I thought the way you captured Mr. Sholle’s likeness rather striking. You made his playfulness really come to life. It’s very charming,” Lady Rosalie says loudly, almost straight toward the approaching Mr. Sholle, whose admittedly handsome face splits in a delighted grin.
Lady Rosalie turns and smirks at Catherine before grabbing Mr. Dean’s arm, swinging him away from their group to go look at
Lady Rosalie’s portrait. That sneaky, devious—
“I caught your eye?” Mr. Sholle asks Catherine, looking so absurdly pleased.
“You were the star of the show, I can’t lie,” Catherine replies without thinking. His grin doubles in size and she feels her
chest clench. She’s not sure she wants to please him. “However, I do think Miss Linet captured you best, though Miss Raught
really got your twinkling eyes. You clearly caught their attention more than anyone else.”
Miss Raught and Miss Linet turn to look at her, their eyes wide, while Mr. Rile’s and Mr. Fortes’ smiles simultaneously dim.
Oh, oh no. She didn’t mean—she was just trying to get out from under Lady Rosalie’s—
“You did a splendid job,” Lady Jones proclaims, taking Catherine’s arm. “Excuse us for a moment,” she adds to Mr. Sholle,
pulling Catherine away from the mess she’s just made.
Catherine glances over her shoulder while Lady Jones drags her toward her canvas, watching as Miss Linet and Miss Raught hurry
to assuage their suitors’ hurt feelings. Mr. Sholle just stands there, staring moonily after Catherine.
“It’s absolutely perfect,” Mother says as Catherine and Lady Jones stop in front of Catherine’s painting. “He looks wonderful.”
“All of them do,” Lady Jones says, squeezing Catherine’s arm.
Catherine gives them both a weak smile.
“I think this puts to shame the competition both of us were a part of, Lady Jones,” Mother says.
“Who won that one?” Lady Jones asks.
“That horrid girl. Miss . . . Lysa?” Mother asks.
“I don’t remember—oh, do you mean Miss Lystra?”
“Yes!” Mother says.
“She was horrid, wasn’t she?” Lady Jones says.
“Truly terrible. Do you remember when she insisted on that awful game of charades? Lady Tisend nearly took an eye out . . .”
Catherine really should be listening. It’s the first time Mother has spoken about the past with anything other than anger
or terror. And to Lady Tisend’s sister-in-law of all people.
But Catherine can’t pull her eyes away from Mr. Dean and Lady Rosalie as they wander closer and closer to Catherine’s easel.
Unlike previous outings, Mr. Dean is prattling on today, presumably commenting on each woman’s painting skills, while Lady
Rosalie nods and smiles at all the right places. It looks like a well-rehearsed activity—him talking, her listening.
Which seems absurd, because she always has such things to say.
Like her well-timed comment about Mr. Sholle. Did she mean to get Catherine to insult her friends’ suitors? Would she actually
root to hurt her friends to get one up on Catherine?
Then again, look what her mother did to Catherine’s all those years ago. It might run in her blood.
“Miss Pine,” Mr. Dean says, slowly dropping Lady Rosalie’s arm to step in front of Catherine’s painting. “Look at the detail
you achieved in only two hours. It’s exquisite, isn’t it, Lady Rosalie? She’s captured each and every likeness.”
“And so she has,” Lady Rosalie says through gritted teeth.
Catherine watches her stare darkly at Mr. Dean, until he turns her way. Her face clears instantly, replaced by a complacent
smile that doesn’t reach her eyes.
“You have a talent, Miss Pine,” she says.
“Thank you,” Catherine says. “We had—”
“After the judging, I want to hear all about your methods. Who did you paint first? Did you decide on the lighting before