The Beauty Within. Marguerite Kaye

sabotaging her father’s carefully laid plans. But even as she opened her mouth to protest, it came to her that perhaps she could turn the situation to her advantage.

      ‘You wish me to act as governess?’ Her brain worked feverishly. Her brothers were taxing, but if she could manage to teach James and Harry the principles of geometry using the primer she had written, it might provide her publishers with the evidence they needed to commit to a print date. Freyworth and Son had initially been most enthusiastic when she first visited their offices, and most reassuring on the subject of discretion. The firm had, Mr Freyworth told her, several lady writers on their books who wished, for various reasons, to remain anonymous. Surely such practical proof as she would obtain from successfully instructing her brothers would persuade him that her book really was a viable commercial proposition? Selling her primer would be the first step to financial independence, which was the first step towards freedom. And who knew, if she managed his precious boys better than any of the other governesses, she might finally gain her father’s approbation. Although that, Cressie conceded, was unlikely.

      Even more importantly, accepting his proposal meant that she would not have to spend a seventh Season mouldering away on the shelf while her father schemed and plotted an alliance. So far, he had stopped short of taking out an advertisement on the front page of the Morning Post along with the intimations of patents pending, but who knew what he might do if he became desperate enough. One daughter, without looks but of excellent lineage and diplomatic connections, offered to ambitious man with acceptable pedigree and political aspirations. Tory preferred, but Whig considered. No tradesmen or time wasters.

      Now she thought of it, it was a distinct possibility for, as Lord Armstrong never tired of pointing out, she possessed neither the poise nor beauty of any of her other sisters. That she was the clever one was no consolation whatsoever to Cressie, when she thought of how incredibly foolishly she had behaved during that fiasco of her third Season, by surrendering her one marketable asset to Giles Peyton. That she could have been so desperate—Cressie shuddered. Even now, the memory was mortifying. It had been a disaster in every possible way save one—her reputation, if not her hymen, was intact, for her erstwhile lover and intended husband had hastily taken up a commission shortly afterwards, leaving her in sole possession of the unpalatable facts.

      In more recent Seasons, her father’s attempts to marry her off had smacked of desperation, but he had never once flagged in his manipulations. He thought he was manipulating her now, but if she kept her cards close to her chest, she might just manage to turn the tables. Cressie felt a small glow inside her. Whether it was self-satisfaction or a feeling of empowerment she wasn’t sure, but it was a feeling she liked. ‘Very well, Father, I will do as you ask and act as governess to the boys.’

      She kept her voice carefully restrained, for to hint that she wished to do as he said would be a major tactical error. It seemed she had hit just the right note of reluctant compliance, for Lord Armstrong nodded brusquely. ‘Of course they will require a proper male tutor before they go to Harrow, but in the meantime the rudiments of mathematics, Latin and Greek—I believe I can rely on you for those.’

       ‘Rudiments!’

      Lord Armstrong, seeing that his remark had hit home, smiled. ‘I am aware, Cressida, that you consider your erudition rather above the requirements of my sons. It is my fault. I have been an over-indulgent parent,’ he said in all sincerity. ‘I should have put an end to these studies of yours long ago. I see they have given you a most inflated view of your own intellect. It is no wonder that you have failed to bring any man up to scratch.’

       Was it true? Was she conceited?

      ‘Next year,’ Lord Armstrong continued inexorably, ‘when Cordelia is off my hands, I shall expect you to accept the first offer of marriage I arrange for you. It is your duty, and I expect you to honour it. Do I make myself clear?’

      It had always been made abundantly clear to her that, as a daughter, as a mere female, her purpose was to serve, but her father had never before laid it out so clearly and unequivocally.

      ‘Cressida, I asked you a question. Do I make myself clear?’

      She hesitated, torn between bitter hurt and impotent fury. Silently, she pledged that she would use this year to find a way, any way save telling him the awful, shameful truth of her dalliance with Giles, of placing herself firmly on the shelf and just as importantly, of establishing herself as an independent and wholly un-dependent female. Cressie glared at her father. ‘You make yourself abundantly clear.’

      ‘Excellent,’ Lord Armstrong replied with infuriating calm. ‘Now, to other matters. Ah—’ he broke off as a tap on the study door heralded the arrival of his butler ‘—that will be him now.’

      ‘Signor di Matteo awaits his lordship’s pleasure,’ the butler intoned.

      ‘The portrait-painter fellow,’ Lord Armstrong casually informed his daughter, as if this should be the most obvious thing in the world. ‘You shall relieve your stepmother of that burden also, Cressida.’

      He had obviously walked in on some sort of altercation, for the atmosphere in the study fairly crackled with tension as Giovanni entered the room in the portly wake of Lord Armstrong’s butler. The manservant, either oblivious to the strained mood or, more likely in the way of English servants, trained to give that impression, announced him and departed, leaving Giovanni alone with the two warring factions. One of them was obviously Lord Armstrong, his client. The other, a female, whose face was lost under a mass of unruly curls, stood with her arms crossed defiantly over her bosom. He could almost taste the pent-up frustration simmering away beneath the surface, could guess too, from the way she veiled her eyes, the vulnerability she was trying to hide. Such a mastery of her emotions was intriguing, for it required, as Giovanni could attest, a lifetime’s practice. Whoever she was, she was not your typical simpering English rose.

      Giovanni made his perfunctory bow, just low enough and no more, for it was one of the advantages of his success that he no longer had to feign deference. As was his custom, his dress was austere, even severe. His frock coat with its high shawl collar and wide skirts would be the height of fashion were it any colour other than black. Similarly his high-buttoned waistcoat, his stirrupped trousers and highly polished square-toe shoes, all unrelieved black, making the neat ruffles of his pristine shirt and carefully tied cravat gleam an impossible white. It amused him to create an appearance in such stark contrast to the flamboyant and colourful persona his high-born sitters expected of a prestigious artist—and an Italian one at that. He looked as if he were in mourning. There were times, of late, when he felt that he was.

      ‘Signor de Matteo.’ Lord Armstrong sketched an even more shallow bow. ‘May I present my daughter, Lady Cressida.’

      The glance she shot her father was a bitter dart. It was received with a small smile. Whatever had transpired between them was the latest in what Giovanni surmised had been a lifetime of such skirmishes. He made another bow, a little more sincerely this time. Looking into a pair of eyes the azure blue of the Mediterranean Sea in summer, he saw they were overly bright. ‘My lady.’

      She did not curtsy, but offered her hand to shake, like a gentleman. ‘How do you do, signor.’ A firm clasp she had, though her nails were in an atrocious state, chewed to the quick, the skin bleeding around the edges. She had a pleasant voice, to his ear, the vowels clipped and precise. He had the impression of a fierce intelligence blazing from her eyes under that intense frown, though not beauty. Indeed, her dreadful gown, the way she rounded her posture, curling into herself as she sat down, made it clear that she cultivated plainness. But for all that—or perhaps because of that—he thought she had an interesting face.

      Was she to be his subject? A pique of interest flared momentarily but no, the commission was for a portrait of children, and Lady Cressida was most definitely well past her girlhood. A pity, for he would have liked to try to capture the vitality behind the shimmering resentment. She was no empty-headed society beauty, nor appeared to have any aspirations to be depicted as such. He cursed the paradox which made the most interesting of subjects the least inclined to be painted, and the most beautiful subjects the ones he was least