“You should’ve asked about his summer in Scotland.”
“Mother, I almost did. Remember?”
“He’ll come back. Scots can’t stand crowds but he’s a duke after all, he’ll know it’s proper to return.”
Alasdair made sure to put distance between himself and the clatter of gossip. With each measured step, the noise dimmed, leaving space for the sharp clarity he craved.
He sought a balcony for solitude but found no refuge.
The first was occupied by a circle of smokers gossiping loudly about the latest scandals.
The second was dominated by a married marquess pressed uncomfortably close to a young debutante.
The third held a couple caught in a near-kiss behind the curtains, thwarted only by a footman who, with a conspiratorial grin, tipped a tray of jellied sweets onto the floor, provoking a chorus of indignant voices.
Alasdair’s jaw tightened. The ton’s farce was persistent. But so was he.
It was never his scene, but Alasdair knew the value of showing up. Escape was what he needed.
Then he spotted a narrow corridor lined with velvet, leading toward the gallery. He took the path and stepped through the doors. As they closed behind him, the noise of the ballroom faded into a distant hum, then vanished entirely.
The thick walls and heavy tapestries reminded him of home. He exhaled, relief flooding through him.
Candelabras cast an otherworldly glow over the oil paintings: portraits, battle scenes, pastoral landscapes. Beautiful works, though he’d seen many like them. People might call him uncultured, but the brushwork here was undeniable, violent, alive, like the knight on horseback raising his sword as if ready to strike.
The artist had flair, certainly, perhaps even a touch of the melodramatic. But Alasdair sensed something more. The gallery’s layout suggested an inner chamber. The paintings progressed from tame portraits to scenes of adventure, guiding him toward a partially concealed door, hidden behind velvet drapes, left ajar.
Curiosity flared. Ducking beneath the velvet rope, he followed the corridor.
“Mmm,” he murmured, “finally something interesting.”
The narrow hall no longer displayed noble portraits or heroic deeds. Here, figures were less clothed, sometimes not at all, and the lighting grew intimate, the colors warmer, more charged.
One painting showed a woman reclining, a blend of vulnerability and defiance in her gaze. Her fallen bodice revealed more than decorum allowed, capturing a moment of raw human yearning, perhaps lust for something unattainable.
Alasdair was struck by the audacity of these works. They seemed better suited to a gentleman’s club than a noble’s gallery.
He intended a brief glance before slipping back to the crowd. Seth would wonder, but he cared little.
“Oh.” A soft intake of breath drew him forward.
Ahead, a young woman stood alone, her mouth slightly parted in awe before a massive canvas.
Flickering candlelight traced her profile: smooth cheeks, a delicate nose, full lips set in quiet reverence. Her blond hair was swept into a modest chignon, with loose curls framing her face. Her gown was simply elegant.
For a moment, Alasdair thought she was part of the gallery brought to life.
Alasdair froze, unsure whether to stay or leave.
She didn’t know he was there.
Her fingers hovered, hesitant, as if itching to touch the canvas. What held her so captive?
He stepped closer, silent as a shadow. The painting showed a naked woman seated on a windowsill, light spilling across her bare back. She clutched a letter to her chest, one hand between her legs in a gesture of secret pleasure.
The emotions captured—grief, lust, longing, desire—reflected in the woman before him, watching with awe, as if absorbing all she had never known.
She whispered something, too soft for him to catch, then repeated the word, “No… no… I should go.”