Page 1 of Seductive Reprise
Chapter One
London, June 1872
So this was whatit had come to.
Dog portraiture.
Rose looked down at the gilded teacup in her hand. It was exquisitely painted and ever so delicate, an absolutely lovely piece of art.Functional as well, she thought.Though only to a point, she qualified, as she set the half-drunk cup upon the matching featherlight saucer. It wouldn’t take much of an impact to shatter the pretty thing. With both hands upon it, she sat up straighter, and directed her gaze back to the lady opposite her, who continued her speech as if Rose were hanging on every word and not admiring the elegant violets of her china pattern.
“… and so Mr. Rivière agreed to the terms, but then, oh dear, he only produced the preliminary sketches. And then what do you expect happened?”
Rose waited, but Mrs. Elizabeth Hartley only stared at her, eyes wide, the two fat curls that framed her face quivering. Rose realized the lady desired a prompt from her, so she swallowed her pride and gave her best exclamation of surprise. “Oh, I could never guess!”
The older woman paused, drawing the moment out with a gratified smile. “Well. He said he wouldn’t do it. Nay—couldn’tdo it! Can you imagine? Couldn’t! A man of his skill!”
Rose shook her head, pretending to be bewildered. “A man of his skill,” she echoed, but her heart wasn’t fully in it, and it came out sounding hollow. She shut her mouth nervously, worried her remark might be taken for cheek.
Fortunately, Mrs. Hartley had directed her attention to the scraggly little dog in her lap, lifting the poor creature up to her face so that its lolling tongue nearly touched her nose. The dog’s tail began to wag even as its tiny body hung suspended in the air.
“And the reason he gave, Miss Verdier, could you even guess it? No—one could not!” She threw her last words directly into the dog’s face. To the animal’s credit, it didn’t flinch at all, only continued to pant lazily and swish its tail about.
With great effort, Rose kept her eyes and her focus on the pair. She needed this commission. Rent needed paying, and then there were the exorbitant costs of canvases, paints, and model fees, not to mention the pittance she sent her father. When she could afford to, that is. Rose hadn’t actually sent anything since last winter, when she’d lost her position painting draperies for Pieter Jurgens, a well-regarded portraitist. The guilt tore at her heart even more than usual. She drew in a breath. If the fashionable neighborhood and the lady’s dress were any indication, Mrs. Hartley could well afford a score of portraits of her dog.
“And what was his reason, exactly?” Rose asked. This time she was genuinely curious.
“He said he could only paint dogs he was fond of!” At this the lady made a loudharrumph, and she squashed the dog against her chest. Her voice shook, piqued. “How could you not be fond of this face?” The dog turned to look upon Rose, goggle-eyed and panting obliviously away.
Rose supposed it might be a spaniel of some sort, though she’d never spent much time around dogs. It wasn’t from a dislike for them; only that she preferred cats. Dogs were indiscriminate, friends to all. But cats chose their own path. They either tolerated you or ignored you. Affection from a cat was not freely given, but earned. Rose respected that.
Mrs. Hartley sighed and repeatedly stroked one of the dog’s long ears with an agitated, indelicate motion.
Taking a hasty sip of tea, Rose considered the best thing to say. She found this part so fiendishly tricky, toadying up to the wealthy. She’d always been awful at saying anything besides what she actually felt, a trait many found off-putting. But while she could live without having a surfeit of friends and admirers, she unfortunately could not say the same about food.
“Well, that’s simply… simply…” She scraped about her head for the right words.
Mrs. Hartley and the dog watched her, all four eyes wide.
Rose frowned. Mr. Rivière was a very fine painter indeed, and she did not feel right calling his judgment into question. She tried a different tack. “Why, I have only met…” She fished about her memory for the animal’s name, a slight panic rising in her when it was nowhere to be found.
“Walter,” Mrs. Hartley supplied helpfully, none the wiser.
“Right. Walter.” Rose cleared her throat, suddenly feeling the pressure bearing down upon her. Dog or no dog, she simply must have a commission this month. She had to do this. Shecoulddo this. “I have only known Walter for a brief period, and I can assure you he’s the most…uniquecreature I’ve ever laid eyes on.” She exhaled and set her tea back on the small table beside her chair. There. She’d managed it, and without even telling a falsehood.
“Exactly! See, Miss Verdier, I had a feeling that you would be the one. For who else but a lady painter could grasp theimport of a noble hound to domestic harmony, to true womanly companionship?”
Lady painter. The strident words set Rose on edge, and she couldn’t help but tighten her fists atop her knees. Mrs. Hartley had meant nothing by it; she was a harmless old widow, after all. A product of her upbringing. But by God, how it rankled. Rose pressed her lips together, suppressing a grimace.
“And I daresay you’d make quite a name for yourself painting children as well. Why, if only my Marcus would finally redirect his mind from politics for the briefest of moments, he might find himself a bride and begin building out his nursery.” The lady sighed wistfully, running a spotted hand across the dog’s back. “Then I would have another commission for you. A portrait of the little ones, how dear. So, so, dear…”
Rose tamped down her irritation and plastered on a smile. As little experience as she had with dogs, she had even less with children. Hence the great difficulty with which she found herself attempting to follow Mrs. Hartley’s tale of hypothetical grandchildren.
The older lady wiped at her eyes before reaching for a bell. “Now, where were we?”
Rose hadn’t noticed any real tears coming from Mrs. Hartley’s eyes, but she held her tongue, grateful to leave the entire discussion behind.
Mrs. Hartley frowned as she gave the bell a brief but violent shake. “My son keeps a miserable house. Why, we’ve been sitting for the better part of an hour with nothing but tea to sustain us! He instructs his staff to neglect me, I’m sure of it.”
In truth, it had been closer to a quarter of an hour. Rose lowered her eyes to her cup. The tea had been the best thing she’d had to drink in weeks, though she would rather die than admit it. She and Ruth usually stretched their leaves to make several cups, and even then they could barely afford it. She triedto ignore the gnawing in her stomach that had started up once more at the mention of possible food. She hadn’t eaten since the buttered roll and coffee she’d bought at the street stall the night before.
