10. Chapter 10

Chapter 10

A s the date for Isabella's impending outing approached, Rosalind found herself wanting to spend more and more time in the company of the Duke of Somerton. The initial animosity between them had gradually given way to a growing sense of mutual respect and admiration, their conversations flowing with an ease and familiarity that surprised them both.

When the appointed date arrived, Rosalind hurried Isabella through her morning toilette, giddy with anticipation. So eager was she that she found herself nearly snatching the brush out of the maid's hands so that she might pin up Isabella's hair all the faster. For her part, Isabella endured all of this with a languid, disinterested air, which only served to heighten Rosalind's impatience to depart.

Isabella managed to rouse herself a little when she spotted the Duke's grand carriage waiting for them outside the house. The Duke himself stood next to it, and offered the sisters a deep bow in greeting. She cast a dubious glance to Rosalind, who only smiled and took her hand. "Don't you worry, my little rosebud," she said, "there are only good surprises today."

Hesitatingly, Isabella allowed herself to be handed up into the carriage. Within, Rosalind could still sense her unease, the way that she attempted to squeeze herself deep into the corner. "Thank you for the ride, Your Grace," Rosalind said, attempting to keep the excitement from her voice.

"Not at all, Lady Rosalind," he returned formally. His own face was alight with bemusement, clearly enjoying the subterfuge.

The journey was largely spent in silence, the richly upholstered carriage surprisingly comfortable as it rolled over the uneven London streets. Rosalind and the Duke engaged in polite conversation, which felt oddly impersonal given their usual honesty, but they didn't wish to give anything away. Isabella stared silently out the window as London passed by.

They stopped in front of a plain townhouse, the facade plain but lovely in its symmetry. There were a number of other carriages there, with people regularly disembarking.

"We're here!" Rosalind announced, seizing Isabella's hand. "Come on, Bitty-Bella, you don't want to miss this!" she said, using the baby-name they'd called Isabella, encouraging her up. Isabella, once out of the carriage, put her hand to the back of her bonnet to steady it as she looked up dubiously at the house.

"Where–where are we?" she asked.

"This is Lord Percival Tyrell's London residence," the Duke said, coming up behind them.

"The famous collector?" Isabella asked, her eyes sparking a little.

"The same," the Duke confirmed. "Shall we?" he said, gesturing towards the door with his walking stick. That was all the encouragement it took to get them inside.

From the moment they entered, Isabella's pale blue eyes were wide with wonder, her rosebud mouth open in silent appreciation. Rosalind watched her with satisfaction, glad that her plan was already working, and they were only in the vestibule. There were two small marble statues in little alcoves, Cupid and Psyche, and Isabella was immediately drawn to them, murmuring about their shape and form.

"I think it's working," Alex whispered to Rosalind. She hadn't realised how close he was standing, and the play of his words on her ear made her shiver a little.

"I think so too," Rosalind replied.

They stood for a moment side by side, their shoulders nearly touching as they watched Isabella flit about. "'If you saw me, perhaps you would fear me, perhaps adore me, but all I ask of you is to love me. I would rather you would love me as an equal than adore me as a god,'" the Duke quoted quietly, staring at the statue of Cupid.

Surprised, Rosalind turned to him. "I must confess, I never took you for a lover of poetry, Your Grace," Rosalind remarked, a playful smile tugging at the corners of her lips.

Alex chuckled, his gaze warm as it met hers. "There is much about me that might surprise you, Lady Rosalind. Just as there is much about you that continues to intrigue me."

Rosalind felt a flush creep up her neck at his words, her heart fluttering in her chest. In that moment, caught in the intensity of his gaze, she found herself lowering her guard, revealing a part of herself she rarely shared with others.

"I have always dreamed of using my position to effect positive change in the world," she confessed, her voice soft but filled with conviction. "To make a difference in the lives of those less fortunate than myself."

Alex's eyes widened, a flicker of admiration dancing within their depths. "It seems we share a similar passion, then. I, too, have long held the desire to create a more just and equitable society." As they spoke, their hands brushed against each other accidentally, sending a jolt of electricity through their bodies. They stared into each other's eyes, and Rosalind found herself swallowing hard, her mouth suddenly dry.

"Come on, Rosalind!" Isabella said, breaking the spell. "We must see the rest of the collection!"

With a rueful smile, Rosalind turned her attention back to her sister. Linking arms together, Rosalind gently guided her through a series of rooms, all hung with an astonishing amount of paintings. Isabella protested, digging in her heels and demanding to see the pieces they were simply passing by.

"Patience, Isabella," Rosalind said. "We're going to see something very special indeed."

At last, they came to a spacious hall, which was populated with a number of easels. On these, a collection of oil paintings stood, with a number of people clustered around, admiring them. Rosalind, not wishing to give anything away, made a great show of casualness, but watched Isabella surreptitiously from the corner of her eye.

"These are quite good," Isabella murmured, leaning forward to look closer at a painting of a woman seated at an easel, while an older woman peered around to gaze at the painting-within-a-painting. "These are–wait," Isabella said, glancing about at all of the canvases. "These are by Sharples! Oh, they're exquisite," she said.

"I'm delighted you think so," a gentle voice said from behind them. Rosalind and Isabella turned, and there, in a fashionable white dress, stood a rather unassuming woman with dark hair and playful eyes on the arm of the Duke, who was grinning like a child who'd stolen the last biscuit.

"Lady Rosalind, Lady Isabella, may I present Miss Rolinda Sharples? Miss Sharples, Ladies Rosalind and Isabella Harrington," the Duke said, still smiling.

"Miss Sharples," Rosalind said as they exchanged polite bows, "I am so delighted to meet you. My sister, here, is quite an admirer of your work."

"So I gathered," Miss Sharples replied with a glint in her eye. "Tell me, Lady Isabella, are you an admirer of the arts?"

Isabella opened her mouth to answer, but no sound came out. She shrank back a little, partially hidden behind Rosalind. Rosalind recognised this posture well, it being a constant in their childhood. Refusing to allow this opportunity to pass her sister by, Rosalind stiffened her grip on Isabella's arm.

"She's more than an admirer," Rosalind said proudly. "She's an artist herself."

Miss Sharples' eyes lit up with interest. "Are you indeed? Come then, my dear, you must tell me all about your work." And with that, she inserted herself between Isabella and Rosalind, taking the former by the arm. Speaking in low, gentle tones, as if she innately understood Isabella's shyness, the artist began squiring the girl around the room, pausing occasionally to discuss a painting.

Rosalind watched with a mix of pride and fondness. She could feel the Duke's presence beside her, a kind of charge in the air about him.

"I can't thank you enough for arranging this," Rosalind said, nodding toward Isabella. "It means so much to her, and...and to me."

"It was very much my pleasure. You are an extraordinary woman, Rosalind," he murmured, his voice low and sincere. "Never doubt that. The qualities that make you unique, that set you apart from others, are what make you so incredibly special."

Rosalind's breath caught in her throat, her heart swelling with an emotion she dared not name. In that moment, lost in the depths of his eyes, she felt a connection to Alex that transcended the boundaries of their social positions and the expectations placed upon them.

As they stood there, surrounded by beautiful things, Rosalind and Alex began to see each other in a new light. The initial prejudices and misconceptions fell away, replaced by a deeper understanding and appreciation of the complex individuals they truly were. Rosalind was delighted to find that beneath the Duke's exterior of duty and propriety, there was a real heart beating, a truly generous soul.

"Of course, Lord Tyrrell was all too happy to help me with the arrangements," the Duke said. "In fact, he was rather keen to meet Lady Isabella as well."

"Was he? Why?" Rosalind asked, her protective instinct surging to the fore.

"He's always on the lookout for new extraordinary talent, and I believe it's safe to say that means your sister," Alex said with a nod toward her. "He has quite an eye for it. In fact, there he is now," he said, dipping his head at a tall, tow-headed man across the hall. Lord Tyrrell, spotting the Duke, smiled widely and made his way over.

"Your Grace!" he said affably, clapping the Duke on the shoulder jovially. "I am delighted you were able to attend today. Delighted! Now, tell me, is this charming young lady the one who wished to meet our Miss Sharples?"

"No, Percival," the Duke said with a shake of his head. "This is Lady Rosalind Harrington, Baron Harrington's middle daughter."

"Ah! Well, I am pleased to make your acquaintance then," Lord Tyrrell said, accepting Rosalind's hand as if she were a man and shaking it vigorously. "Pleased, very pleased! I understand it was for your sister's benefit that this meeting was arranged?"

"It was, milord," Rosalind replied, blinking and gently extricating her hand from Lord Tyrrell's enthusiastic grip. "Ah, there she is now," she said, happy to see that she had linked arms with Miss Sharples. Their heads were close together in private conference, with Isabella nodding emphatically.

"Ah, Miss Sharples!" Lord Tyrrell said, the smile on his face widening. "So you have met His Grace's young friend, then. Wonderful! Just wonderful."

Isabella and Rosalind exchanged a knowing sort of glance between themselves, the sort often shared by sisters that have mastered the art of silent communication. Rosalind suspected that Lord Tyrrell was the sort of happy person that could find happiness in the most mundane of circumstances. There was a sort of overeager, puppy-like aspect to him that was endearing and somewhat undercut his classical, chiselled good looks.

After the requisite introductions with bows and curtseys were completed, Rosalind spoke up. "Lord Tyrrell, I understand that you are quite the patron of the arts."

"Oh yes," he said, nodding so that his straw-coloured curls bobbed against his forehead. "Ever since I was a young lad, I've had a passion for supporting any and all artistic endeavours."

"Your collection is breathtaking," Isabella remarked, her eyes shining with admiration. Rosalind was surprised but delighted by the steady, confident tenor of her voice.

"He has a real eye for recognising talent," Miss Sharples agreed with a self-satisfied smile.

"And recognising a lack of talent, too," the Duke muttered darkly. Rosalind turned a querying look on him, and he shrugged. "I had thought once that I might be a great gentleman artist. It ah...it did not work out as I had hoped."

"Oh come now, Alex," Lord Tyrrell said, "it was a delightful country scene. I can't remember seeing a more attractive cow."

"It was a portrait of my governess," Alex replied, deadpan. "And you advised that I burn it. Immediately."

Rosalind, unable to contain herself, burst into laughter. The Duke turned to look at her with surprise, but seeing her delight, found himself chuckling as well. "It wasn't that amusing," he protested, attempting a serious expression but failing miserably.

"Oh, I can just see you now, you poor thing," Rosalind said, still laughing. "I imagine you were such a serious little artist."

"I was. It was devastating. Do I not look devastated?" Alex asked, which made Rosalind laugh harder. With great affectation, he heaved a dramatic sigh. "You had better be grateful you're so lovely when you're amused," he muttered, full of mock indignation.

"Oh please," Rosalind said, tapping him playfully on the arm. Rosalind caught Isabella's eye then, and there was a strange expression on the younger sister's face, like she was trying to understand something. It was almost as if she recognised something she had glimpsed once before and was trying to recall it. Immediately, Rosalind sobered and remembered why it was that she was really there.

"Actually, Lord Tyrrell, if it's new talent that you are seeking, you might have a look at some of my sister's work," Rosalind said, nodding toward Isabella. "She has a rare gift."

"I–oh, no, I don't think–" Isabella began.

"It's true," the Duke confirmed. "I might not be able to wield a brush, but I recognise masterpieces when I see them."

"That's kind of you, but I really am not–" Isabella protested again.

This time, it was Miss Sharples who put a hand on her arm, interrupting her. "Listen to me, my dear," she said, looking Isabella directly in the eye. "This is a hard world for lady artists; you will never claw out a handhold for yourself if you do not seize the opportunity. Now: Is this what you wish? Do you want to keep your light hidden under a basket, for the world to never see your work?"