Page 45 of Destined to be a Duchess
Marianne turned on her heel, finding Anthony standing directly behind her. He didn’t dignify her with a look, addressing the rest of the group instead.
“The dancing will begin soon, and I have come to collect my partner.” He extended his arm to Marianne. “Unless she has changed her mind …”
She couldn’t have changed what she hadn’t made up to start with. She turned her empty dance card around in case someone saw that Anthony was lying. Gulping, she took his arm and said her goodbyes to Gideon and the rest, half convinced she was going mad.
“You did not ask me to dance,” she whispered when Anthony brought her to the edge of the dance floor. “We haven’t spoken since this morning.”
He straightened the cuffs of his jacket. “Fair point. I am asking you now.”
“Not asking but demanding.” She smacked his hand away from his cuff, forcing him to look at her. “What was all that about?”
“You should have come to me first,” he said, a note of disapproval in his voice. “Patrick and I comprise your party—not Lord Foxburn. It was rude of you not to greet me as you entered the room. I had to come and correct your mistake. You can thank me later.”
“I rather think you’re making these rules up as you go,” Marianne huffed. “I don’t want to dance. I want to socialize. Just not with them,” she looked back at Gideon, “not when they’re acting like that.”
Anthony pinched the bridge of his nose. Marianne wasn’t going to apologize for being difficult when he was beingmoredifficult than she was. He scanned the room, twisting and turning.
“Then come along quickly before someone stops us,” he said, heading towards the archway that led to the art gallery.
Marianne didn’t look back as she left, worried she would catch an errant glance and have either Gideon or Eliana chasing after them with pitchforks. She marched after Anthony, who by that point had disappeared from her sight, arriving in the gallery alone.
She released her skirts where they were balled in her fists. The tension eased from her body as she glanced around the room. It was much quieter in the gallery. Only a few people had left the party proper to come and study the artwork on display.
Marianne had only heard the gallery described to her, but the descriptions of the other guests didn’t do the place justice. She had read about the museums in London, and she had to guess that not even Montagu House had a collection as impressive as Lord Hindborough’s.
The gallery was a labyrinth, with multiple rooms connected by arches and short hallways. She squinted at the golden plague beneath the painting nearest to her.
“The Peasant Dance,” came Anthony’s voice from behind her. A shiver ran down Marianne’s spine. “Painted by Pieter Brugel the Elder. I shall not point out the vulgar irony of a marquess displaying a piece like that while a plague of lords gorge themselves silly next door.”
Marianna peered up at him. His face was fixed in concentration like it had been when he had sketched her on the boat. His love for art was obvious, even as he criticized the marquess’ taste in décor. She liked seeing him like this. He belonged among paintings.
“Warren has always favoured English and Flemish artists,” Anthony explained, leaning in for a closer look. “This one has only recently been acquired.”
“How can you tell?” Marianne asked.
“Because up until two months ago, it had been stolen by Bonaparte. It was returned amid a larger collection of paintings after Waterloo—or so I read in the papers. They were divided among willing curators in theton. Who knows where it will finish up in the end? But I think there is certainly a more fitting place for it than here at Hagram Park. It should rightfully go back to Brussels … You should not tell Warren I said that.”
“Your secret is safe with me. I don’t have a horse in the race. I’m not even sure I like it,” Marianne admitted. “Something about it is unsettling … Maybe the colours … The subtle violence …”
“There’s an art critic in you yet.” She could hear his smile, even when she couldn’t see him. “I’ll show you some paintings that will be more to your taste. Come with me.”
Marianne followed him into another room with even fewer visitors than the last. Anthony paused at the entrance, allowing Marianne to lead their tour. She examined the paintings in order. Most of them were landscapes of the countryside or seascapes, though she didn’t recognize any of the depicted places.
“They’re beautiful,” she murmured, staring up at a painting titled ‘Folk Party Near a Mill’. “Paolo Alboni,” she read aloud. “I’ve never heard of this painter.”
“He’s not among the most celebrated Italian artists, to be sure. But he’s a favourite of mine. I visited the school where he trained in Bologna.” Anthony clasped his hands behind his back. “This wing is dedicated to Mediterranean art—or Mediterranean adjacent. As you can well imagine, this collection is my favourite. I’ve had a penchant for Southern European art since I was old enough to hold a pencil.”
She was somewhat out of her depth, but Marianne didn’t want to dissuade him from talking more about art when he was so passionate about it. They drifted to the next painting.
The canvas was much larger, drawing Marianne in immediately. It looked like it had been painted from the rooftop of a building in an Italian city. The roofs glinted copper, and Marianne swore she could feel a warm breeze on her shoulders. The painting was hazy, like a summer dream.
“Do you like it?” Anthony asked.
“Very much so …” Marianne took a step back, taking in the details. A rosy tint to the piece made her think of young infatuations, the likes of which she had only read about in stories. “Who painted this one?”
Anthony was quiet for a moment. When Marianne turned to him, he gave a wistful smile.
“A young, arrogant painter who had no business using a canvas so large.” He laughed under his breath. “It was me. I worked on it one summer in Bologna. Warren purchased it from me when I was eighteen. It was my first sale. Actually, it was my only sale.”
