Page 2 of Her Rogue to Ruin
Viscount Pemberton was irritatingly gorgeous, possessed undeniable wit, and Portia did not doubt his ability to charm every woman he encountered. Portia’s late husband and father had been charming men too, in their own way, and yet it was all pretense. Behind closed doors, each wielded his little patch of power without much patience or kindness. Her father had been cold, and her husband had been snide, controlling, and judgmental.
She’d come to distrust charming men.
To make it worse, Lord Pemberton matched his excessive charm and physical beauty with a magnetism that filled the room every time he came into view. Portia couldn’tnotnotice him any more than she could ignore a sleek lion sauntering into a drawing room.
Though, of course, he never noticed her.
And that was to be expected. She’d become a bit of a fixture in their home. The widowed portraitist who lugged her paintboxes and easel in and claimed a spot near a light source for a few hours day after day.
He was never rude to her, of course. How could he be? Such behavior might mar his reputation for congeniality. For being the life of every party. For being the most sought-after bachelor on the marriage mart.
But even brief encounters unsettled Portia. She couldn’t help but study the shape of his mouth, mentally measure the width of his shoulders, catalog the shifting color—from bronze to hints of umber to lush chocolate brown—of his hair. And then there was his laugh—an abominably rich, smoky sound. Every time she heard it, heat kindled in her own chest like she’d swallowed a warming sip of whisky.
His perfection was an irritation to be sure, but she’d told herself she could avoid him. His mother handled her payments and all the arrangements for his sisters’ portraits. That suited Portia. Because one look at Lord Pemberton and she could feel the confidence she’d worked so hard to build inside herself begin to wobble. His nearness caused her pulse to race, her cheeks to heat, and, very much against her will, her lungs to pant out air as if she’d just sprinted across Hampstead Heath.
“What if you gave me a beauty mark?” Louisa tapped her lower lip as if she wasn’t quite convinced of the idea. “Or at least make my cheeks brighter, and feel free to add some color to my lips.”
Portia smiled and peeked her head around the edge of the canvas.
“Anything you can do to make me seem prettier,” Louisa urged.
“You’re lovely as you are, Miss Pemberton.”
“Oh please, do call me Louisa.” She cast her eyes downward demurely for a moment and smiled. “And thank you. Do you really think so?”
“It is an irrefutable fact. That honey-spun hair and those sea-blue eyes. A true beauty.”
“But my bosom is rather—“ She twisted her mouth into a disappointed moue.
“You will have suitors aplenty.”
“I’m already betrothed.” The girl sighed and then took up the fan she held as a prop, flicking it open to fan herself.
“Are you?” Portia had assumed the viscountess’s desire to have Louisa’s portrait completed next had to do with the coming Season. She’d be eighteen and have her presentation at court.
“Indeed.” Louisa nodded and bit of her vibrancy seemed to ebb. “Our father arranged our marriages when we were just children, making deals for land or bloodlines.” She leaned forward and lifted a hand to shelter her mouth, as if intending to convey a secret. “Caro got out of it. Lucky old thing. Father set her up with an earl, but she went to a ball and caught a duke. So Phin agreed to let the earl off the hook.”
When she settled back, she looked wistful. “I hope I can get out of it too.”
Portia focused on filling her paintbrush with enough color for a large section of fabric.
The girl’s story was similar to her own. Her father hadn’t planned her marriage when she was a child, but he had maneuvered her toward a man of his choosing. A man nearly twenty years her senior.
Every member of the Pemberton family she’d met was warm and kind. It was odd to discover that their futures had been so predetermined by their father. But, of course, he wasn’t viscount anymore. The girl’s brother was, and he seemed the most charming of them all.
“What about the viscount?” she asked, almost to herself, though Louisa heard it too.
“Oh he has a future bride our father negotiated for too.”
“No, I meant does he still hold to these plans of your father’s?” It was perhaps indelicate to ask so bluntly, but Portia couldn’t imagine that, a few months from the new century, such old-fashioned notions of matrimony still held sway.
Louisa seemed to ponder the question a while. “I do not think he likes it, but we’ve all always done what was expected of us.” She twisted her mouth ruefully. “Except for Caroline, of course.” She slumped down and fussed with the folds of her gown as if completely forgetting that she was posing.
They’d been at it for over an hour and Portia understood the girl’s restlessness.
“Perhaps this is a good stopping point,” Portia offered in case the young lady wished for an opportunity to end her sitting for the day.
“No, I can go on. I promise. I don’t want to delay this portrait.”
