Page 7 of His Scandalous Lessons
In the time he’d been gone, Caroline had established herself as a woman with a sterling reputation — at least in public. She visited orphanages. She gave money to charities. Even her landscape paintings were considered a charming quality that complimented a beautiful, complex woman.
She was also Richard’s closest friend.
“No, you didn’t,” Caroline said, letting out a breath. “He’s in Edinburgh. Hastings.”
“So close,” Richard murmured, belting his robe.
“Yes, yes. He holidays there before he returns to London and expends the energy to avoid me. That is, unless his sense of duty overcomes his disgust and he decides to give me a baby.” She set down her paints with a clatter that made Richard wince.
“How could anyone ever be disgusted by you?” Richard asked her.
Richard had met Hastings many times, and if the man was an idiot, he hid it well. But only a fool would avoid his wife for seven years when she was as lovely as Caroline.
Caroline forced a smile at him. “Perhaps I’ll tell you one day when I can bear the thought of how you’ll look at me after.” Before he could ask anything else, she gestured to her easel. “What do you think?”
Richard leaned over to look at the painting. Though far from done, the scene had begun to take shape. The hunter stood in the middle, his bow gripped in a strong hand as he crouched in the trees. She had started detailing the sinew and muscle of his legs and arms, the details of his veins. Her work was, as ever, the most incredible thing he’d ever seen.
“I wish you’d take credit for these,” he told her. “Rather than use a man’s name.”
Caroline laughed. “Don’t you know? If a man paints a naked body, it’s art. When a woman does it, it’s pornography.” She began gathering her things. “I’ll send those invitations now. I do hope you know what you’re doing.”
Chapter 4
Dear Miss Sheffield,
I cannot express how delighted I am to hear from you. First, let me offer my most sincere felicitations on your betrothal. I know the difficulty of growing up without a woman to offer guidance on our roles after marriage. I am pleased to offer my assistance before your impending nuptials. I hope that once we are through, your husband will appreciate the time and effort you have put into pleasing him. You may visit my country residence at Ravenhill next week and stay for a time. I think you will find we have much to discuss.
Sincerely,
The Duchess of Hastings
“What is this?”Stanton Sheffield asked, frowning down at the duchess’s letter.
For once, Anne was glad for her father’s rule about not meeting his eyes; she wouldn’t have been able to hide her delight.
Mr. Grey had done it. He had stayed true to his word, and the invitation was more than Anne had hoped — her father could not turn down a summons from the Duchess of Hastings. Though her husband was often at odds politically with Anne’s father, the duchess herself was too influential. She'd built her reputation over the years as a sterling example of gentility. Every mother in the aristocracy pointed to the duchess and said,That is the woman you want to emulate. She is perfect.
She is perfect, Anne thought. How had Mr. Grey managed to obtain her help after such a scandalous request? Surely she couldn’t know all the details, or—
“I didn’t realize you were on such familiar terms with the Duchess of Hastings.”
Stanton Sheffield’s sharp voice snapped her from her thoughts. She peeked up to find him watching her closely, as if searching for an answer to an unasked question.
Her father was a large man, more burly than most gentleman, with ink black hair and equally dark, cold eyes. His build betrayed common stalk. For although their family came from country gentry, he was only the second son of a poor viscount. His humble beginnings hardly commanded the sort of respect his wealthier peers received. No, his money came through marriage to a rich merchant’s daughter, and his status was as a politician gained through fear, intimidation, and blackmail. He had earned nothing in his life through honest means, not even Anne’s mother.
“I met with her at a few social events, and I also greatly admired her paintings when we went to visit the Rivington Estate last year,” Anne said quietly, lowering her gaze. “I asked you then if it was all right to send her correspondence to say so. Do you remember, papa?”
She wasn’t lying. The country ball last year had been one of the few outings her father had allowed outside the City, and only to soften his image for a bribe. A man who publicly doted on his daughter couldn’t be such a monster, people believed. They were so willing to accept their public lie: he, the devoted father committed to keeping his daughter safe; and she, the pretty little imbecile who enjoyed clothes and weather and nothing else.
Such identities maintained the status quo. They were easy. Uncomplicated. No one wanted to know about what went on behind closed doors.
Stanton waved a dismissive hand. “I remember. What does she wish to discuss with you?”
Anne tried not to let her hands shake. If he said no, that was it. She had to be careful. “Kendal and I are to marry in three months—”
“What of it?”
“As duchess, my responsibility will be his happiness,” she said in a low voice. “I sought to ask Her Grace for advice on how I might...” She paused, glancing up to see if he was still paying attention. His eyes were almost overly focused on her, as if he were waiting for her to slip up. She hid her gaze again. “...be the perfect wife for him.”
