When the Duchess Said Yes by Isabella Bradford

impatience rose and went to meet the footman halfway. Lizzie’s consolation was being able to watch him; this was a view she didn’t ordinarily see, and she unabashedly admired him. His coat was pale gray and perfectly tailored to display his height and the breadth of his shoulders; his dark hair was held back with a black silk ribbon.
    She was so busy ogling him that she almost regretted it when he returned, carrying a flat linen-wrapped parcel that he’d taken from the footman. Until, that is, he came to stand before her, the package in his hands.
    “I know it’s common for gentlemen to offer their brides some costly jeweler’s bauble,” he said, carefully unwrapping the linen. “But I wished to give you something that cannot be bought in London, not for any price, and something that only I could give to you.”
    He pulled away the last length of linen, and though he still held the object facing away, she could see now that it was some sort of framed looking glass or picture.
    “If it’s from you, I am sure to like it,” she said, her curiosity growing by the second. “Please, Hawke, might I see?”
    Looking down at the picture in his hands, he visibly took a deep breath. His uncertainty surprised her, but she found it endearing, too, that he’d worry so over pleasing her with his gift.
    “Please,” she said softly, more to reassure him than to beg.
    “Very well,” he said, and handed the picture to her.
    She took it and gasped. She’d never seen anything like this painting. An elegant lady and gentleman, married or at least lovers, sat beneath a tree with their dogs. Though the picture was clearly very old—even her uneducated eye could tell that—the colors were as bright as jewels, the gold leaf shining, the detail precise and charming. The painting of the gentleman in his fur-trimmed clothes offering a white primrose to the lady in her ermine-edged robes was the most exquisitely romantic object she’d ever held in her hands. And now, to her wonder, it was hers.
    “It’s more than three hundred years old, tempera on panel,” he said, rapidly explaining and apologizing at the same time. “It may seem peculiar to modern tastes, I know, but it’s always been one of my special favorites, which is why I wished you to have it. But if you’d rather I bought you a bracelet or some such, I will understand, and—”
    “This is perfect ,” she whispered, unable to look away from the picture in her hands. “Why would I ever long for a bracelet when you’ve given me a gift like this?”
    He dropped back into the chair beside her. “You like it, then?”
    “How could I not, Hawke?” she said. “I shall be the first to admit that I know nothing of pictures—our house at Ransom had only a few gloomy ones from the old queen’s time that scared me when I was little—but even I can tell that this is special, and right, and—and I cannot believe you would give it to me.”
    “It’s easy enough to learn the history,” he said eagerly, studying the picture over her arm. “But not everyone can see paintings, with their heart as well as their eyes.”
    She glanced at him, surprised by what she saw. She hadn’t realized how much of his charm was a mask, a guise of pleasantry worn before the world. Yet when he spoke of the painting, the mask had vanished, and his face suddenly became much more alive and almost boyishly enthusiastic.
    “Is that how you see?” she asked, her excitement matching his. “With your heart?”
    He nodded, raking his hair back from where it had slipped across his forehead. “Most Englishmen can’t, you know, being hopeless Philistines. All they can see in art is expense and value and how many guineas were spent to impress the squire in the next county. Italians discover beauty everywhere. To see like that, Lizzie, is a rare gift, a marvel, a—”
    “Ah, very good, Hawkesworth,” Lady Allred said. “I see you have given Lady Elizabeth your little token.”
    Lizzie looked