Chapter Fifteen
Ever since she’d been a young girl, Grace had loved sketching. In her earliest memories, her mother was smiling as Grace sat by her side, watching the swift, sure strokes of Mama’s pencil. How she’d marveled at the creation of images where once there had been nothing but plain white paper. As she’d grown older, her own pad and drawing pencils had become prized possessions. With patience and love, Mama had taught her the elements of capturing a subject with her pencil, whether that subject was a flower, a gown, or a purring kitten. Over time, she’d encouraged Grace to develop her own technique and style. When she was ten years of age, Grace was capable of portraying a convincing likeness on her sketch pad. She’d dreamed of being a portrait artist when she grew to adulthood.
Little had she imagined then that she’d use her skill as part of a disguise. She could never have dreamt her small, journal-sized sketchbook would add just the right touch to her charade. As Grace walked into the museum, drawing book in hand, she’d once again play the part of an heiress who fancied herself a patron of the arts. Wasn’t it peculiar how life worked out?
With Harrison at her side, they made an attractive couple, if she said so herself. She caught sight of their reflection in the gleaming glass. So far, they’d convinced everyone they’d encountered they were newly wedded and basking in the blissful early days of matrimony.
Beneath her elegant lace gloves, she wore a simple gold band on the third finger of her left hand. Of all the props she’d used to carry on her charades, somehow, that plain ring made her feel more of a cheat and a fraud than all the other disguises she’d donned over the years. Something about the masquerade was simply…wrong.
Not that it mattered. How shefeltwas not relevant. The only thing that counted now was completing the job.
At her side, Harrison had dressed the part of an elegant gentleman. His fingers rested at her elbow with a lightly possessive hold. Through the layers of fabric, the heat of his skin warmed hers. Or was that a mere trick of her imagination? Wishful thinking, perhaps?
They’d crossed the threshold of the museum well before the scheduled unveiling. If Belle Fairchild’s behavior was true to form, she’d arrive early, soaking up the peace and calm of the place before the throng descended for the evening’s main event. And if the heiress didn’t show up before the crowd, Grace would still delight in the sights she’d take in.You have an artist’s heart, Aunt Thelma had said on more than one occasion. The thought was a bit fanciful for a woman who couldn’t afford a new hat from the milliner, much less acquire an artist’s work. But that didn’t mean she couldn’t drink it all in when the opportunity presented itself.
Making their way through the gallery, she moved at a leisurely pace, examining each piece in turn. At her side, Harrison offered commentary that ranged from humorous to insightful. Somehow, she hadn’t expected this man who seemed more interested in science than the humanities to possess a knowledge of art. The opportunity to see this aspect of Harrison delighted her far more than it should have.
In the back of her mind, doubt reared its crone-faced head. She should not be enjoying her time with Harrison so very much. Nothing good could come of it. This foray to the gallery was a job, nothing more. She’d be well-advised to keep that fact firmly in mind and resist any attempt to tear down the armor around her heart.
“Do you possess a talent for sketching the human form?” he asked as they entered the sculpture gallery.
“The human form?” she repeated with a raised brow. “I take it you are referring to nudes.”
He regarded her with an expression so no-nonsense, one might have mistaken him for a diplomat negotiating a treaty. “Are there any other renderings worth mentioning?”
“I would venture that there are. I presume you’ve heard of the Venus de Milo.”
“I’ll give you that one,” he said with a small nod. “But you must admit, she’s not the most modest of women, is she?”
She studied him. If it wasn’t for the gleam in his eyes, his deadpan manner might well have lent her to believe he was serious.
“Well, she is a goddess,” she said. “In her position, she can follow her own fashion dictates.”
He slanted a glance toward a matron wearing an enormous, feather-laden hat. “Ah, the dictates of fashion. I suppose that’s how one would explain a woman wearing a peacock pinned to the crown of her head.”
“Indeed,” she said, holding back a giggle with great effort.
“If you did happen to sketch one of those…ahem…sculptures of some fellow from the Ancient World, you would thoroughly scandalize Mrs. Carmichael. I’d give my last shilling to see her reaction to that particular page in your sketchbook.”
“Well, I suspect you would be disappointed,” she said, applying pencil to paper as they stopped before a statue of David.
“Are you telling me you’d deprive the poor fellow of his manhood?”
“Of course not. I wouldn’t think of it,” she replied, prim as a governess. “But it goes without saying I’d sketch in a proper fig leaf.”
“A fig leaf?” He furrowed his brow. “Surely you wouldn’t humiliate him like that.”
She gave a little shrug. “Why not? It was good enough for Adam.”
“I highly suspect the attire was not Adam’s idea.”
“At least they did not happen upon a patch of poison ivy,” she said with as straight a face as she could manage.
“If poison ivy had provided adequate coverage, he would’ve had more pressing problems than attire.” Wicked amusement flashed in his eyes. Was he attempting to make her blush?
“I am shocked, Dr. MacMasters,” she said with feigned indignation.
“You shouldn’t be. You should know that beneath every noble hero’s armor lies a scoundrel in waiting.”
