Page 8 of Her Rogue to Ruin
“Lady Portia Hastings,” Selkirk finished for him, “has an eager curiosity about her that I like. She watched me with interest at the Hampton dinner party last week.”
“That could mean anything. Perhaps she was sizing you up for a future portrait.”
Selkirk ignored him and pointed at the painting. “It’s Louisa.” He spoke the words through a smile. “Good grief, she’s become a beauty.”
“Don’t you dare set your cap at my sister either.” The sentiment emerged in a teasing lilt because Phin didn’t think the notion of Selkirk becoming part of the family was a bad one at all. But, of course, Louisa had been promised to a lordling of his father’s choosing too. Phin struggled with the idea of his seventeen-year-old sister becoming a bride to any man.
“Is there any lady I am allowed to pursue?” Selkirk asked with his usual faux-serious tone.
“I’ll think on it.” Phin pointed at the painting. Its vibrance and colors made the whole room seem brighter. “She’s a very proper sort. Lady Hastings.”
“Hogwash, she’s a member of that widows’ club.”
Phin arched a brow. “What club?”
“Foxworthy calls it the ‘wanton widows’ club’. Apparently, Lady Fiona Prescott—pardon, the Countess of Granford now—has gathered a group of like-minded widows to meet and plot and do all sorts of charitable work. A little league of masterminds, they are. And apparently they give each other advice about which of us eligible noblemen would make the best lovers.”
Phin swigged back the last of his whisky and imagined a wanton Lady Hastings. Portia. He liked thinking of her as Portia, and he yearned to earn the right to speak her name aloud. A wanton Portia was a tantalizing, mind-boggling prospect that made his mouth water.
“So what are you going to do?” Selkirk had poured himself another dram of liquor and settled back into his armchair before the fire while Phin got lost in thoughts of red tresses splayed across his pillow.
“About?” There were so many things on his mind of late.
“The painting, my friend.” Selkirk arched a brow. “In your birthday suit.”
Phin only barely resisted rolling his eyes. His pursuit of Mrs. Grove had become less appealing since the lady had set him such an awkward task.
“Lady Hastings is the best option and you know it.” Selkirk flicked his fingers toward the nearly finished portrait of Louisa. “Damned talented and you’re already her patron. That, if nothing else, will ensure her discretion.”
“Either that or she’ll balk at the very prospect and walk out of Pemberton House for good.” Even saying it caused an odd pinch behind his upper waistcoat buttons. “I don’t want to offend her. I can’t afford to. My mother adores her. My sisters too.”
“May I speak bluntly?”
Phin let out a low chuckle. “When have you ever required permission to be blunt?”
“The lady is a gentlewoman. There’s no denying that. An earl’s daughter. But she’s been driven to supporting herself via commissions. And…” Selkirk lowered his tone as if imparting a secret. “Word is that Hastings didn’t leave her a farthing. Damned wastrel. She lives with her spinster aunt, who’s even more impoverished if rumors are true.”
“Does she?” Phin had always imagined her in a studio teeming with art and with living quarters attached. A space filled with her unfettered art—not the kind she did for others but the pieces she created for herself. When she felt free. He wanted to see those works most of all.
“For a lady you’re very defensive of, you haven’t inquired about her private life much. Have you?”
“I try not to think of her at all, if you must know.”
“Mmm.” Selkirk eyed him thoughtfully. “Well, I think you should think of her for this task. This isn’t something you could askanyartist to paint. It requires discretion.”
Phin knew his friend’s argument made a good deal of sense. Lady Portia Hastings wouldn’t want to jeopardize her commissions with his family, but nor did he want to offend her with his request.
Was the lovely widow willing to keep a secret between them?
* * *
Portia had forgottenhow a ballgown felt, the weight of the voluminous fabric and the way it swished and swayed around her body as she moved.
Running her hands over the plum skirt and low scooped bodice of a dress she hadn’t worn in months, she couldn’t help but smile at her reflection.
“It’s been ages since I’ve seen you in anything so lovely.” Aunt Claire stepped through Portia’s open bedroom door with a pile of post in her hands.
“Fiona is hosting a charity ball tomorrow evening and sent me an invite. I wanted to make sure this still fit.”
