“A display?”
“An act then. Of whatever it was people asked of you. But recently...” Furrows appeared on her mother’s brow. “Recently, you are different.”
“So, you are concerned that I am not being...artificial?” Violet pressed up from the chaise and slid her feet to the floor then rested the feathery fan upon her lap. She wafted away an errant feather from her face, watching it drift to the rug underfoot.
Her mother made a sound of disapproval. “We all put on acts of a sort. Everyone has a different face depending upon the situation they are in. But, Vi, I always rather thought you enjoyed it all—the dancing, and the smiles, and the laughter.”
“I still like to dance and smile and laugh!” Violet protested.
Just not with every man she met these days. It became too tiring trying to laugh at their terrible jokes or smile through a long story of their latest business acquisition that inevitably had little to do with the business acumen and everything to do with their vast funds and accountants.
“Then perhaps you can channel that into this painting, my darling? Because you look frightfully dull.”
“Why, thank you, Mother,” she replied tartly.
Her mother rolled her eyes. “You hardly need me to pander to your ego. You always were a confident child.”
“I cannot think of anyone who would appreciate being called dull, Mama.”
Mama rose, the folds of her gauzy wrap drifting about her. Her mother had painted for as long as Violet could remember but only in recent years did Mama adopt a more eccentric appearance in the privacy of their home.
When questioned about it, her mother insisted it was because she was channeling a new muse, but Violet concluded it was mostly because the garments were far more comfortable to be sitting around in for hours at a time. It was a shame, then, that the same courtesies were not extended to her and her sisters when they posed for paintings. Violet’s stays were going to leave quite the mark on her ribs from the contorted position in which she’d been sitting.
Violet’s mother covered the distance between them and took Violet’s face in both hands. Violet closed her eyes briefly, relishing the slightly rough touch of her mother’s hands. She might be a countess and the daughter of a duke, but she had painter’s hands and they always made her feel warm and fuzzy inside, as though she were a child again, being nursed back to health by her mother’s touch.
When she opened her eyes, her mother stared at her intently. “Allow me, if you will, to express concern for my oldest daughter. Since Clem married, you have not been the same.”
Violet stiffened and shifted away from her mother’s touch. Clem and Roman were desperately in love and so wonderful together. She was happy for her sister, really. To have found a clever, sweet, and devoted man like Roman was quite marvelous.
But there was the tiniest part of her that wondered why she had not managed to find such a man. From a young age, she’d been told how easy it would be for her to find a match. After all, she was an excellent dancer, and her fair looks had been fashionable since her debut.
If it wasn’t for the taint of scandals that had seen them ousted from London some six years ago, she would likely be wed and perhaps even a mother by now. She did not much mind their abrupt exit from London—Bath had plenty of diversions and the Season was not without its entertainment—however, there was no denying the sudden wrench from good society had harmed her prospects.
“I am absolutely fine, Mama, I can assure you. I have a wonderful family and some excellent friends. What more can a girl want?”
“A girl like you?” Her mother fixed her with a firm look. “Why? Romance of course?”
Violet rolled her eyes. Romance was most certainly not for her.
∞∞∞
“Forgive me, sir. I know you requested not to be disturbed.”
Marmaduke Cameron glanced up from his desk to find the butler peering around the door. Shaw knew how Duke felt about being disturbed partway through work, so the matter had to be urgent.
“What is it, Shaw?”
The man entered the room, glanced about at the general chaos with the vaguest tick of annoyance flexing his jaw. Duke preferred what he called organized chaos. Far easier to find things at a moment’s notice if they were not all tucked away neatly, he reckoned though there were many acquaintances who would argue otherwise.
“There is a, um, person in the garden.”
“A person?”
The slender man’s cheeks reddened. Older than Duke by nearly two decades, Shaw had worked for Duke for mere months but was reliable and kept out of Duke’s business. Usually anyway.
“A woman. She appears to be, well, stuck.”
“Stuck?” Duke scowled. “What do you mean stuck?”