Part 46 (1/2)

But William was too engrossed in the picture to rise to Edward's challenge, too lost in the image of the rosy-cheeked young woman.

”She's the one, Edward,” he said softly. ”Mind how I told you before I'd know the next girl when I saw her. This is the one, in this painting. This is the girl.”

”What girl?” asked Francesca, her dark eyes lighting with curiosity. ”Whatever are you saying? Ah, my dear friend! You sound at last like a gentleman ready to fall in love and marry!”

”Perhaps I am, if I could only find this fair G.o.ddess of yours,” said William, trying to make a jest from his inadvertent confession. The duke and d.u.c.h.ess were closer than most married couples, but there was still a good deal about his activities in the Admiralty that Edward would rather his wife didn't know, and William's trips across the Channel were among them. ”A perfect English Venus like this one-how could I not fall in love outright?”

”Fah, what do you know of beauty?” Francesca wrinkled her nose with contempt. ”When you look at this picture, you're seeing the girl as I painted her, not as you'd see her for yourself.”

”You're saying I'm no judge of a pretty face?” asked William, bemused. Certainly all his worldly experience among the fair s.e.x should account for something. ”That I've no eye for telling a sow's ear from a silk purse?”

But the d.u.c.h.ess was serious. ”No, Bonnington, listen to me. Real beauty is more than a pretty face, and deeper, too. Women see more in our sisters than men ever will, and discover the beauty that comes from grace, or intelligence, or cleverness, beauty that you men so willfully overlook. You could come within three paces of this girl as she really is, and not recognize her.”

”I would know this lady anywhere,” said William confidently. She was so fresh and different from any other woman of his acquaintance that perhaps she truly was the girl-no, the G.o.ddess-he was meant to marry, and for perhaps an entire two seconds, he amused himself with the notion. ”How could I miss such elegance, such breeding?”

”And how perfectly you prove my point, Bonnington!” said Francesca with a merry laugh. ”Granting her all blessings, simply because I dressed her as a G.o.ddess!”

”You can't claim all the credit, Francesca,” insisted William. ”Not for that face. To have her gaze at me like that, all sweet devotion-what man could want for more?”

” 'Devotion,' hah,” said Francesa, raising her gaze toward the ceiling with dismay. ”When I drew this girl, Bonnington, she wasn't gazing at you. She was watching the antics of the ducks on the pond in St. James's Park. She didn't even realize I was sketching her. I never spoke to her, nor will I likely ever see her again. A great pity, that, for I'd love to draw her again.”

”But surely the lady's sweetness, her gentility-”

”She was not a lady, Bonnington,” said Francesca, the hoops in her ears swinging emphatically against her cheeks, ”at least not how you mean it. She was an orange-seller in the park with her empty basket on the bench beside her, and her look of happiness likely came from having sold all her wares so early in the afternoon. That was what made her as beautiful as any G.o.ddess to me, and that was what I wished to capture: her satisfaction and joy in the afternoon.”

An orange-seller. William smiled wryly as his sentimental ideal disintegrated. The girl would never be his countess, then, nor anyone else's. All the beauty in the world wouldn't compensate for her parading through the park selling fruit and likely herself as well. A pity, a royal pity, and William sighed with genuine regret as he looked at the painting again.

Not that he was ready to forget her completely. She still might do as his companion on board the Fancy. An orange-seller wouldn't be shy, but she'd know her place, and wouldn't cause mischief by putting on airs above her station the way Jenny had. No one of any consequence would miss her if things went wrong and she disappeared, either, for London swallowed up common girls like this each day. She'd be malleable, agreeable, and obedient, and she'd still be beautiful, no matter how Francesca had tried to deny it. The girl would do, then; she'd do.

And once he found her, perhaps he could steal a bit of that glowing, enchanting joy of hers for himself.

”Thank'ee, lad, thank'ee,” said Harriet Treene, smiling as she handed the little boy his orange. He took the fruit solemnly, staring at it in his hand like a golden prize as he trotted back with it to his hovering nursemaid. The poor overbred little gentleman was so trussed up in white linen and leather slippers, his blond hair long and curled like a girl's, that it was a wonder to Harriet how the sorry mite could manage to move. If he were her son, he'd be running barefoot and free like a regular boy, getting into dirt and mischief. But then if he were hers, he'd be selling oranges, too, instead of buying them from her, and with a wry shake of her head, she s.h.i.+fted the remaining fruit to the front of her basket, and smoothed the checkered cloth around them.

”Sweet Indian oranges, oh, so sweet!” she called, her voice lilting up and down. Every girl had her own cry, as distinct as a bird's call, and in the four years since Harriet had begun she'd never stopped perfecting hers. It had to be loud enough to be heard over a summer crowd, yet clear and never shrill, as sweet upon a buyer's ears as the orange would be upon his tongue, and as easy to call with a tired voice at sunset as it was early on a fresh new morning.

But Harriet's workdays rarely lasted so long. To her considerable pride, she nearly always sold every last one of her share of the oranges from Shelby's wagon before the Westminster bells chimed three. Not only would her penny-laden pocket swing against her leg with a comforting heft, but she'd earn a precious hour for herself in the park.

She'd only eight more oranges left for today. On an afternoon this fair, she could sell them all to a single buyer, if luck were with her. Resolutely she lifted her head and smiled sweetly, eagerly, as if her shoulders didn't ache from her basket's straps and the sweat wasn't p.r.i.c.kling her forehead beneath her wide straw hat or trickling down her back. No, instead she must look as if selling these eight oranges were her greatest single pleasure in the world, and sound as if she meant it.

”Sweet Indian oranges, oh, so sweet! Buy me sweet Indian oranges, oh, so sweet!”

”Here, darling, here,” called a man's voice behind her. ”I'll try your sweet oranges.”

”Ah, good day, sir, good day!” Harriet turned gracefully with the basket before her, on her toes the way she'd seen the fine ladies do so their skirts would twirl around their ankles. Gentlemen liked such niceties; she'd learned that here in the park, too. ”Fine Indian oranges, sir, direct from the s.h.i.+p what brought them! How many shall you try, sir? How many shall you take?”

The gentleman was astride his horse, a tall bay with black-stockinged legs that seemed to echo the man's own dark polished boots and buff-colored pantaloons. With her view shaded by the broad straw brim of her hat, those well-muscled legs were all Harriet could see of the man, but they were enough to judge that he rode often and in more challenging places than this park.

He was wealthy, too. Only rich men could afford to wear breeches that were so perfectly tailored and so flawlessly spotless. Faith, even the soles of his boots were blacked and polished! A fine gentleman like this could afford the rest of her basket without thinking twice, and before Harriet lifted her gaze she lightly bit her lower lip to make it redder, then smiled.