Page 70 of His Grace, the Duke
***
An hour later, Rosalie was dressed in her favorite new walking gown—the pretty, long-sleeved French design with the forest green overlay and pink patterned skirt. She paused at the top of the stairs, one hand on the banister, as she spotted Piety and the duke on the middle landing.
“Oh, Miss Harrow, what a relief,” Piety called. She was a vision in sapphire blue, her blonde curls piled high in a style not unlike the one typically worn by the duchess. “Myfidanzatoand I are having a disagreement. You must come arbitrate.” She waved her hand airily over her shoulder, already turning back to the apparent object of their tiff.
Rosalie came down the stairs and stood at Piety’s side.
“I think it is grotesque, and want it boxed away,” Piety explained, pointing up at a large painting on the wall. “But His Grace believes that art must be allowed to be art. What is your opinion?”
“Cabbage is an expert in pencils,” the duke complained. “What can she know about oils?”
Piety giggled. “Did you just call her a cabbage?”
“Hmm,” he replied, still looking at the painting. “Don’t the lower classes eat cabbages?”
“Oh, Your Grace, you are cruel.”
“Thank you,” Rosalie murmured, to which the duke just shrugged.
“Well?” Piety gestured at the painting. “What are your thoughts, Miss Harrow?”
Rosalie took in the life-sized portrait of... well, he was surely a man, a lord, perhaps? But the proportions were off—his torso too narrow, and his thighs longer than his calves. The details of the face were so obscured by the heavy-handed application of thick paint, it made the features seem almost deformed. If the sitter actually paid for this portrait, he was grossly abused.
She pursed her lips. “Well, from a certain angle, perhaps...”
“It is horrid,” Piety whined. “It shall haunt my dreams, Your Grace. It should have no place on the walls of a house as great and noble as this. Whoever put it in such a spot of honor must have been playing a cruel joke.”
The duke just chuckled. “I had this piece hung here. It may be one of my favorites in the house.”
Rosalie fought her laugh as Piety sputtered. “But—you have an original Reynolds,” she cried. “A Gainsborough portrait sits in your drawing room. There is a Vittore Carpaccio in your dining room, Your Grace. How can you even compare—”
“I never said I was trying to compare them,” the duke replied.
“But—”
“My darling lemon drop, if it bothers you so much, simply avert your eyes,” he said, patting her on the shoulder.
“Avert my eyes on the stairs? Do you wish me to tumble to my death?”
Turning sharply, he wrapped his arms around her, nuzzling her neck and cupping her bottom in a display that had the lady squealing.
“Your Grace, not in front of Miss Harrow,” she said with a giggle.
Yes,pleaseGod,notinfrontofme.
Rosalie took a step back as the duke growled into Piety’s neck. “I shall build a litter for you with silk curtains, and my footmen shall carry you down the stairs past the offensive painting every morning and every night.”
“You are impossible,” Piety cried.
“Nothing is impossible for a duke.” Over her shoulder, he caught Rosalie’s eye and winked.
Rosalie grimaced. “I shall just... leave you, then.” She inched around them, trying to blot out the sounds of panting as she escaped down the stairs. No sooner had she turned the corner than she paused in her steps with a gasp.
The duchess stood before her, resplendent as ever in a blush pink gown. A little lap dog sat curled in her arms. “Are they still there?” she said, her mouth tipped into a frown.
Behind Rosalie, peals of laughter echoed down the stairs, followed by a squeal of “Oh, Your Grace!” She shifted awkwardly. “It would seem so.”
The duchess tsked. “Apparently, Mr. Nash has not managed to buy any class with his buckets of new money. The girl is offensive.”
