Free The Pretender by Jaclyn Reding Page A

Unfortunately, the man had arrived only a few hours after two members of the family, Elizabeth and Isabella, had gone from home. And it was this fact the duchess had spent the past several hoursbemoaning while they sat poised on that picturesque hillock.
    “Alaric, I simply cannot believe you are having such a significant piece of family history done without the whole of our family in it.”
    The duke rolled his eyes beneath his cocked tricorne, muttering out of the side of his mouth so as to keep his expression as noble as possible. “I’ve told you already more times than I care to count, Margaret, there is nothing I can do about it. Mr. Ramsay is a very difficult man to engage. If only you knew the devil of a time I had getting him here at all. He only has a short amount of time to do the portrait now as he is on his way to London to paint a portrait of the king—the king, Margaret—George II, to celebrate his defeat of the Scottish insurrection. I rather doubt our cousin from Hanover would be pleased to be kept waiting whilst we call our daughters back.”
    “Then let Mr. Ramsay return when he is through with the king.”
    Good God, though he loved the woman deeply, at times he wanted to throttle her.
    “Once he arrives in London, he’ll without doubt be kept busy for months, even years afterward painting portraits of everybody else, too. If the king smiles upon Mr. Ramsay’s work, as he likely will, every earl, duke, and marquess will flock to his studio for their own. So if we don’t have him do the thing right now, while he can, we may never get it done at all. And so help me God, this family will have an Allan Ramsay portrait!”
    The duke’s voice had gained in volume throughout his diatribe until he’d nearly been shouting at the finish.
    “Your grace,” said the famed artist from behind theshield of his canvas. “I must ask that you please hold still.”
    Alaric glared once at his wife, then nodded to the artist. “Yes, of course, Mr. Ramsay. So sorry. We won’t distract you again. Will we, Margaret?”
    The duchess, however, only managed to hold her tongue another thirty seconds.
    “Can you not pay the man more to induce him to wait until we can at least summon the girls home from Scotland? It is your fault they aren’t here to sit for the portrait in the first place, sending them off all in a huff as you did. What will people think, Alaric? They will look at this portrait for centuries to come and they will say, ‘Oh, yes, it is indeed a lovely piece, but did not the duke have five daughters?’ ”
    “That is quite enough, Margaret . . .”
    The duchess simply frowned, knowing when she’d pushed her husband too far. She also knew that for as long as she lived, whenever she looked at the famous Allan Ramsay portrait of her family, she would only think of how ashamed she was for having allowed Alaric to send the girls off as he had.
    She had never seen Alaric as furious as he had been when he’d learned of Elizabeth’s involvement with that notorious publication, The Female Spectator. While Margaret agreed that Elizabeth had indeed gone too far, deep down she knew her daughter’s intentions had been good. Her method of following them, however, was just a bit too scandalous for the daughter of a duke.
    If only she had defended Elizabeth more strongly against her husband’s anger, perhaps she could haveprevented him from sending her off to Scotland, and especially into the hands of that toad Purfoyle.
    What could Alaric have been thinking? The man would make Elizabeth the very worst of husbands, he with his corpulent belly and even more corpulent opinion of himself. Elizabeth deserved a man who would treat her with respect, who would admire her for her intelligence, who would honor and esteem her, and love her with as much passion and commitment as she showed for everything she did in life. Elizabeth deserved no less.
    And despite all his thunder and fury, the duchess knew Alaric would