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The blustering baron was shown out by the determined butler, and Preston returned to the sofa next to Penelope. When they were left alone, he studied his wife. Her big eyes were stormy despite the light coming from the windows. She looked positively regal in her dress with silver embroidered patterns of interwoven vines and her pastel blue spencer, a color that made her skin glow and her cheeks rosy.

Or, perhaps, her flushed face had nothing to do with the color of her clothes and everything to do with an open, calm, and even hopeful look in her eyes.

It was the first time since they had met that she’d looked at him like that, without anger or animosity.

Did he really know her before?

He hadn’t known quite the extent to which Lord Beckett dared to offend and humiliate Penelope. But he shouldn’t be so surprised. Was it really that astonishing coming from the man responsible for Spencer’s death—a man who had auctioned off his own daughter? She really did seem quite different from the woman he had imagined her to be. Could he have been mistaken? Could Spencer have been right all along?

Preston may not see eye to eye with her on some things, but he despised how her father treated her.

“Your interest in art…” he said. “How serious about it are you?”

She frowned. “Why?”

“I had thought…in the beginning…”

He had thought she was estimating the worth of the paintings in Chalworth, not admiring them. But he decided not to tell her that, not wanting to get into another argument. She must be shaken from her father being so harsh with her.

“Never mind what I thought,” he said. “Please, answer me. Is it serious?”

“Yes,” she said. “It is.”

“Why?” he asked.

She looked at her hands and bit her lip for a moment. “My mother started my interest in art. She was my inspiration. Every year, she took me to see summer exhibitions at the Royal Academy. When Mama passed…” Her voice shook, and Preston suppressed an urge to move closer and wrap his arm around her. “Painting became absolutely necessary for my sanity. I wasn’t there when she died, being sick myself, and I’ve always regretted not being able to hold her hand in the last moments of her life. I miss her terribly, and painting is how I am able to talk to her…think of her…be with her…cherish her memory.”

Preston nodded, guilt and sorrow crushing his heart. How he had misjudged her. That was who he was, Spencer was right, quick to judge and not so quick to forgive.

“And yet your father forbade it?” he asked. “The one way for you to keep the memory of your dead mother alive?”

She nodded, her eyes watering. “Indeed. My papa is an old-fashioned man. He can’t imagine his daughter wanting to be a professional artist. I’d like to be the next William Turner. That is my dream. I didn’t want to marry. I’ve always wanted to support my papa and myself through my art and not be restricted by the ties of marriage like my mama was.”

Preston’s jaw ticked. He was her jailor, just like her papa. She said she’d never wanted to be married. Could that be true?

He admired her independent spirit. A strong woman who didn’t want to depend on anyone. He very much respected intelligence, diligence, and depth in women. He didn’t know many besides his sister and his poor, dead mama who had those qualities.

“Except for my mama,” she kept going, “I’ve had no one to teach me. Women aren’t allowed into the Royal Academy of Arts. And I haven’t had the opportunity to ask to be apprenticed by a professional artist. That would be a dream come true. But it’s not possible anymore.”

He frowned. “Why not?”

“Well…because of you.”

“Me?”

“Didn’t you say you wanted me to be a proper duchess and birth you an heir and a spare?”

“I did.” Guilt weighed inside his chest like a boulder, and then anger ignited him. “So you assumed I’m like your papa?”

The thought made his stomach burn like acid. He had already told her he didn’t mind her painting, but he supposed she might have thought he meant that she could paint as a hobby. Perhaps he had…he’d never really thought about his wife earning money as a professional artist.

“Well…yes. Aren’t you?”

He went cold. Comparing him to that man… The man he was trying to ruin. The man who’d had Spencer killed…

No. Partly out of spite, he’d bring his daughter her dream on a plate. She’d become a great artist and prove her father wrong, and he’d help her.

“Of course I’m not. In fact, I think you should pursue your dream and paint. And sell your paintings if you wish.”