Page 7 of Passion Painted in a Lady's Heart
He was a man who might once have been handsome, but his graying hair and protruding stomach spoke of the autumn of life, rather than the spring. His cheeks were ruddy, his nose somewhat large, and, by his own admission, he suffered terribly with gout, causing him significant pain as he had crossed the drawing room.
“Your Grace,” Rosalind said, curtseying as best she could, while the duke continued to hold her hand in his.
“Don’t you look pretty, my dear,” he said, looking Rosalind up and down and smiling.
Rosalind flanked at her mother, the expression on the duchess’ face imploring her to make an effort.
“That’s very kind of you, I’m sure,” Rosalind replied.
The duke took up his sherry glass again, raising it in a toast, and smiling at Rosalind, who now stood awkwardly next to her mother. She wanted to be back in her bedroom, surrounded by half-finished pictures and with the smell of the paint hanging in the air. Rosalind had always dreamed of being an artist, even as her parents had entirely forbidden it.
“Women aren’t artists. Rosalind,” her mother had said, and that had been the end of the conversation.
But Rosalind longed to talk about her art. It was her passion, and if ever she found herself in conversation with someone who shared her passion, she came alive. But the duke had no interest in art. His interests lay in business and horses, neither of which Rosalind could summon any enthusiasm for, even as the duke and her father made both the sole topic of conversation throughout the dinner.
“And personally, I don’t think the Regent has a chance at the steeplechase on Saturday. He’s running two horses, Zeus and Emperor, but neither of them have form,” the duke was saying, as the final dish, a Charlotte Russe, was placed on the table.
Rosalind liked Charlotte Russe, but she was so bored of the conversation. She hardly noticed its arrival, her mind preoccupied with thoughts of finishing Ariadne’s eyes. Modeling them on her own had been a boon, and it would take just a few more brushstrokes to complete the work.
“I favor the Earl of Southbourne’s horse, Pegasus. He’s had some success, though I don’t think he has much to do with the training. He’s one of those who lets a trainer deal with his stable. Nevertheless, they say he’s a fine horse,” Rosalind’s father said.
“Oh, the Earl of Southbourne, Sebastian, yes, a funny business with his father, wasn’t it? He went quite mad. Just like his father before him. One wonders if it’s catching,” the duke said.
Rosalind looked up from her musings with interest. A mad earl was far more likely to catch her attention than the form of a horse.
“Mad?” she said, and the duke nodded.
“Quite mad, yes. Both of them. It’s a family curse, I suppose. Imagine knowing you were going to go quite mad. One should feel sorry for him, I suppose,” he said, as the Charlotte Russe was served.
Talk now returned to the horses and Rosalind lost interest, but she could not help but continue thinking about the mad earl and his lineage. She imagined painting a man with such an affliction and thought back to paintings she had seen depicting madness in the classical world. The writhing in the torments of hell, the gnashing of teeth, the open-mouthed demons crying out…
“Rosalind.” her mother said, and Rosalind looked up in surprise.
“Oh, I’m sorry, Mother.” she said, realizing her portion of Charlotte Russe had been placed in front of her.
“The duke was just talking about the masquerade ball. We’re going, aren’t we?” the duchess said, and Rosalind nodded.
“Oh, yes, we’ll be there. Though I suppose we won’t know who else will be there; they’ll all be wearing masks. That’s the point, isn’t it?” she said, and the duke smiled.
“A person can be unmasked, though, can’t they?” he said, raising his eyebrows.
Rosalind smiled. The point of the masquerade was to dance with those with whom one might not necessarily dance. In the Venetian tradition, a carnival brought together rich and poor alike, so that the dauphin might dance with the poorest street urchin, each of them caught up in the spectacle and exuberance of the festival.
But for the ton, only the well-to-do were brought together for the masquerade, even as one might find oneself dancing with those whom one would never otherwise have chosen.
“Oh, but that’s not the point, is it? My mask is on a stick, to hold up to my face, but I’ve attached ribbons, too. I can tie it, you see, and keep both hands free to dance. I won’t be taking it off until the very end,” Rosalind replied.
Her mother raised her eyebrows, but Rosalind was not about to wholeheartedly agree with every word the duke said. For a moment, he looked disappointed.
“But how am I to know I’m dancing with you?” he asked.
Rosalind shrugged.
“But isn’t that the point? You won’t. I’ll dance with whoever asks me to dance, and you’ll do the same. It defeats the object to know with whom one’s dancing. I hope I’ll dance with all sorts of people,” Rosalind replied, knowing the duke would not like to hear this.
“Rosalind, don’t be difficult. You can take your mask off for a moment, I’m sure,” her mother said, but Rosalind was adamant, and the dinner ended on a sour note, with the duke expressing his disappointment at not having the guarantee of her attentions at the masquerade.
On her part, Rosalind was far from disappointed. She was not the duke’s personal property, a possession to be paraded at will. They were not even courting, and having only just made her debut, Rosalind had no intention of giving in to the demands of her parents, or the expectations of their friend.
