Page 50 of The Lady Makes Her Mark

Not, of course, that he ever could or would marry her—or that she wanted to marry anyone.

“Ryland seems to have judged you a competent artist.” She sounded skeptical but resigned. “Therefore, I wish to hire you to make a small portrait of him. Flattering, but not obsequiously so. He is handsome enough without exaggerating, do you not think?”

Constantia nodded, aware that Lady Posenby was not looking at her and thus might not even see the gesture but unable to make herself speak.

“I want something to reassure prospective brides about his true character. Help them see how wrong those silly cartoons are.”

Constantia’s heart began to thump in an alarmingly erratic rhythm. “Forgive me, ma’am. But why not, er, display Lord Ryland himself?”

Lady Posenby gave a soft harrumph of displeasure. “He says he’s completely indifferent to my choice and will come to Bristol once I have matters arranged, and not before.”

No wonder his sisters were unhappy—he did indeed seem to be taking every imaginable step to ensure he would be miserable.

“I see. And, um, where will the young ladies be viewing this picture? Do you have in mind a portrait for your home, or a miniature you can carry with you at all times?”

The grande dame whipped her head about with surprising speed, as if she suspected some mockery in those questions. And her suspicions were not far off—the situation was absurd, and Constantia was doing everything she could not to laugh.

Or perhaps that stinging sensation at the back of her throat was tears.

I draw and paint to suit my patrons, not myself, she had told him.

This picture must be no different.

Lady Posenby replied to her query with more questions. “Which size do you think would better show his features to advantage? Where do your skills lie?”

Constantia weighed her answer. She hadn’t the tools or supplies necessary for completing a miniature, the fine brushes or the ivory on which to paint. And even if she had, miniatures were delicate work. Her hands were already trembling at the prospect of painting Alistair’s picture, and she did not know whether she could stop them.

“A larger portrait, I think,” she said after a moment, though she hadn’t the oils or canvas for that either. But she could make do with paper and pastels, if she must. She would not allow herself to imagine the young ladies looking up at it and tittering amongst themselves, or one of them positioning herself just so in order to be able to fancy she had caught his eye.

“Excellent,” said Lady Posenby. “I shall inspect your progress in a fortnight’s time.”

Constantia nodded. But her ladyship, who obviously expected obedience, had not waited for confirmation and was already out the door.

When she was alone again, Constantia bent, picked up Harriet’s crumpled drawing, and straightened it out on the nearest table. The likeness to one of Miss C.’s cartoons was extraordinary. She would have to speak to the girl about the perils of imitation.

And satire.

A painting of Lord Ryland could be Constantia’s chance to make amends for every hurtful sketch she’d dashed off in a fit of pique. A chance, even, to make something of a name for herself as a portraitist, if Lady Posenby was pleased with her efforts.

And she had fairly itched to draw him again, had she not?

If completing a portrait of the man she now knew him to be would also be a kind of punishment, well, it was only what she deserved.

When the clock in the schoolroom chimed two, Constantia rose from the table where she had been pretending to work, smoothed her skirts with damp palms, and went downstairs. Carefully she followed the directions she had been given, down one flight and along a short corridor, then across the empty drawing room to a tall pair of oak doors carved with the faces of the twelve apostles, their features still surprisingly sharp in spite of the doors’ obvious age. Raising her hand, she rapped her knuckles firmly in the narrow panel between Matthew and Mark.

“Come.”

The reply was muffled by the thickness of the wood. If she wished, she could claim she had not heard it at all.

But she would not be a coward.

The breadth of Alistair’s shoulders greeted her as she entered the library. He was standing looking out a window with his hands folded behind him. Nearby stood a massive mahogany desk, its gleaming surface entirely bare.

“Forgive the intrusion, my lord. Lady Danielle told me I might find you here.”

He spun, obviously startled to discover the identity of his visitor. “I was expecting—”

“Someone else?”