"Do I truly look like that?" Richard asked. His voice was low, pitched so that only she could hear it beneath the chatter of the room.
Marian hesitated. She could have lied. She could have offered a polite compliment, but the intensity in his eyes demanded something else. "Probably not when you know someone is looking," she said softly.
Richard held her gaze for a long moment. A flicker of something crossed his features—something that looked dangerously close to the laugh she had captured that morning. The tight line of his mouth softened.
"May I keep it?" he asked.
Marian blinked, startled. "It is not a finished portrait, Your Grace. It is only a few lines."
"I am aware," he said quietly. "May I?"
She looked down at the sketch, then handed it back to him. "If you wish."
Richard took the paper, folded it with deliberate care, and slid it into the inner pocket of his coat. He offered a slight, formal bow and turned back to his conversation, leaving Marian standing near the fire with a heart beating far faster than was reasonable.
The great hall of Rentham was a monument to legacy. At its center, dominating the space above the main staircase, hung the official portrait of the Duke, painted shortly after he had inherited the title in his twenties. Richard stood at the bottom of the stairs, looking up at it.
The man in the oil painting was magnificent: his posture was rigid, his gaze commanding, his expression set in cold, flawless authority. It was exactly what everyone expected of him. It was a shield he had worn for so long he had forgotten what it felt like to take it off.
Richard reached into his coat and withdrew the folded piece of paper. He opened it, looking down at the rough, hurried pencil lines. Then he looked back up at the imposing oil canvas.
He heard the quiet rustle of silk behind him. His mother, the Dowager Duchess, paused at the edge of the hall. Richard did not turn around. He simply raised his voice enough to carry: "Summon the butler, if you please, and have the footmen bring a ladder."