Chapter 6
The Unveiling
“I thought it was just supposed to be an informal viewing?” Damian muttered as he looked out of the library window at the gaggle of women making their way towards the house.
Celia looked up from the fashion magazine she was perusing. “It’s The Venturesome Ladies’ Club. I told you they would be here. Gee-Gee says they are a decent bunch of women, save one or two whom they could do without, so hopefully they will treat us kindly.”
“But there are hundreds of them,” he grumbled, glaring out of the window.
She laughed. “Hardly hundreds. Damian, don’t tell me you are afraid of a few women?”
“Any man with half the brains he was born with would be,” he retorted. “Women are dangerous creatures at the best of times, but when they outnumber a fellow ten to one, it’s best to make oneself scarce.”
Celia shook her head, setting down her magazine.
She got up, came to stand beside him, and slipped her hand into the crook of his arm.
Damian wondered when that had become such a natural thing for her to do.
They had spent almost every day since the scandal in each other’s company, for there was much to be arranged, but he did not know if he liked her being so comfortable with him.
It felt domestic, and if she thought for one moment that he was a tame creature, she was sadly mistaken.
“Have courage, Damian. I will protect you,” she said gravely, steering him to the door. “Gee-Gee is determined to do Miss Foxworthy and Miss Halfpenny proud after Hawkney told her how wonderful the painting is.”
Damian remarked the determined set of her jaw and knew she understood they were both about to run the gauntlet once more. There was nothing more likely to set tongues wagging than being in the presence of a scandal—which was what they still were, lest either of them forget.
The portrait was being displayed in Gee-Gee’s parlour as she had determined the light there would show the painting to its best advantage.
The lovely room had been rearranged slightly to accommodate the viewers, and staff stood ready to serve refreshments.
In the centre of the room, the painting sat upon an easel, covered with a pale green silk cloth that matched the décor.
The murmur of voices faded as Damian entered with Celia on his arm, everyone turning to stare at them.
Damian unconsciously covered Celia’s hand with his own in a silent show of solidarity, which took him by surprise the moment he realised he’d done it.
Still, they needed to look like a happily engaged couple, so it was just as well.
Everyone returned to their conversations, and Damian relaxed a degree, hoping they might escape any unpleasantness today. A forlorn hope, unfortunately.
“Lady Cecilia, how lovely to see you,” a dramatically gorgeous woman detached herself from the crowd and hurried to meet them. “And congratulations upon your engagement! I am so happy for you both.”
Celia smiled at the young woman. “That is very kind, and congratulations to you too, Miss Foxworthy, for we understand the portrait is a triumph.”
“I hope you still think so after the viewing.”
Celia turned to him with a smile. “Damian, might I introduce Miss Eustacia Foxworthy, the artist whose work we have come to view. Miss Foxworthy, my fiancé, Viscount Rivington.”
“My lord, a pleasure,” she replied, making a very elegant curtsey.
Damian regarded her with interest, for she truly was a beauty, and he appreciated beautiful things. If Celia had not been on his arm, he might have flirted with her, but… but things were different now. He supposed it was bad manners to do such a thing in front of one’s betrothed.
“The pleasure is mine,” Damian replied politely, careful not to make the words sound anything more than a pleasantry.
“Have you seen Miss Halfpenny?” the woman asked, a little frown of worry creasing her smooth brow.
Celia shook her head. “I’m afraid not. Has she not arrived yet? Perhaps check with Howard?”
Miss Foxworthy nodded. “I shall. She knows the viewing is at eleven and it’s five to the hour. She ought to be here by now. I do hope she has not taken fright.”
She hurried out to speak to the butler and, before Damian could say a word, another woman appeared beside them.
“Lady Cecilia, how lovely to see you! It’s been an age.”
Damian felt Celia stiffen beside him, though her expression remained one of pleasure as she regarded the lady.
Damian did not need an explanation of her tension; he was a decent judge of character, and he would lay money this woman delighted in pricking her victims repeatedly and often, rather like a vindictive wasp.
Of perhaps five and thirty, she was extremely thin and graceful in the way a crystal vase was—brittle and best handled with care.
“Mrs Chalmers. How good to see you. I did not realise you were a resident of Little Valentine.”
“Oh, I’m not. I came for the ball. An exceptionally eventful night, wasn’t it?” she said with a little titter of laughter. “But what a charming couple you make. How lovely to see that affection can develop so very quickly.”
Damian, who correctly read this as ‘your ruination was seen by all, and your pretence of affection is nothing more than that’ waited to see if Celia needed defending.
“Oh, but Damian and I have been courting for some time,” Celia replied, gazing adoringly up at him.
Lord, but she was good at that. If he didn’t know better, he might believe she meant it. The thought unsettled him.
“You see, Lord Rivington and his brother are very close, and where Mr Bramwell goes… well, that’s why Damian is here, of course. So, when Gideon began courting Hetty, and they both required chaperones—”
She broke off here and bit her lip, casting Damian a provocative look from under her thick lashes.
Good heavens, a masterful move.
He picked up the baton she had so skilfully handed him. “But no one was chaperoning the chaperones,” he murmured, ensuring his voice sounded low and wicked.
Mrs Chalmers sniffed, clearly disliking that this seemed all too plausible.
“I confess, I admire decisive people who take what they want when they see it. Most people spend a good few seasons trying to secure an advantageous marriage and—” She broke off, apparently having thought of something.
“But how many seasons did you have, my dear?”
“Oh, too many,” Celia’s laugh was warm and entirely convincing, though Damian felt her fingers tighten on his arm. “But I am so glad that I waited.”
“And I am so glad that I did not,” Damian parried, winking at her. To his delight, and Mrs Chalmers’ obvious annoyance, Celia blushed prettily.
“Damian,” she chided with a little giggle. “Don’t be naughty.”
“Me? As if I could be accused of such a thing,” he replied, giving the wretched woman the perfect opening to attack him and deflect attention from Celia. Good God, she ought to have enough ammunition where he was concerned.
“Is there anything you have not been accused of, my lord?” Mrs Chalmers asked, making the question seem innocuous by laughing with delight.
“You are lucky you have such a fat dowry, my dear. Poor Miss Bradford did not fare so well, but then she was a nobody, and you are a duke’s daughter. It makes such a difference.”
The temperature suddenly plummeted and Damian glanced at Celia. Her expression remained placid, but murder blazed in her eyes.
“You are mistaken, Mrs Chalmers. The difference is that I am not a spiteful child just out of the schoolroom who wishes to trap Damian in order to punish him. I wish to be married to him because I like and appreciate him and believe we shall do splendidly together. Now, if you would excuse us, I believe the viewing it about to begin. Come, my dear.”
Damian followed her, but if not for her hand guiding him, he might have remained rooted to the spot.
He told himself she was playing a part, that her words were no more genuine than anything else she had told the horrid woman, yet she had sounded so sincere, and the fury in her eyes had seemed so authentic.
Well, she truly was adept at moving in society, just as she had promised him, and if she could lie with such aplomb, maybe she really could make him acceptable to society once more.
Only time would tell.
The Earl of Sheringham made his way down the grand staircase, heading toward the parlour where the painting was being displayed.
He always enjoyed spending time with Hawkney, who was wonderfully easy to irritate, and the dowager duchess was a splendid grande dame who put him in his place as rudely as he could wish for.
He cared little for the drama playing out under their noses which, fascinating as it was, was nothing more than a scandal followed by a prudently swift marriage. No, Justin preferred his intrigues to be more complex, more tantalising, more—
“Good morning, Miss Halfpenny, I am so glad to see you. Miss Foxworthy was rather anxious you would not arrive before the unveiling.”
Justin paused on the stairs, watching Howard greet the young lady with remarkable familiarity and… fondness? How interesting.
“In truth, I am not entirely certain I shall go in,” the young woman admitted, her voice little more than a whisper.
Justin continued his leisurely stroll down the stairs. The woman he had been so curious to meet for so long, the author of those fascinating and ill-advised letters to the duke, was before him. Yet her back was turned and he could not get a good look at her.
“Oh, miss.” Howard sounded a little disappointed. “If I might be so bold, the duke believes the portrait to be a triumph, for you as well as Miss Foxworthy. Do you not—”
“Might I escort the young lady in, Howard?”