Leaning back, Gerrard told them of Lord Tregonning’s offer.

“So you see, I’m trapped. I absolutely definitely don’t want to do the portrait. His daughter will doubtless prove to be a typical, spoilt featherbrain, worse, one who’s used to ruling as queen in her rustic territory. There’ll be nothing there for me to paint beyond vacuous self-interest.”

“She might not be that bad,” Patience said.

“There’s every likelihood she’ll be even worse.” He sighed deeply. “I rue the day I allowed those portraits of the twins to be shown.”

From his earliest years, he’d been a landscape artist. He still was-it was his first and deepest calling-but ten years ago, purely out of curiosity, he’d tried his hand at painting portraits of couples. Vane and Patience had been the first he’d asked to sit for him; that painting hung above the drawing room fireplace in their house in Kent, safely private. He’d subsequently painted other couples, all family or connections, but the resulting paintings had always graced private rooms. Yet his hankering for challenge had lured him on; after painting portraits of each couple, he’d decided to paint matching portraits of the Cynster twins, Amanda, now Countess of Dexter, and Amelia, Viscountess Calverton, each holding their firstborn sons.

The portraits were intended to be hung in their country homes, but those of the ton who saw the portraits while they’d still been in London had set up such a clamor the custodians of the Royal Academy had begged, literally begged him to allow the works to be shown in the annual portrait exhibition. The attention had been sweet; he’d allowed himself to be persuaded.

And had lived to regret it.

Vane regarded him with amused affection. “So hard to be such a success.”

Gerrard snorted. “I should appoint you my agent and let you deal with the horde of matrons, each of them ineradicably convinced that their daughter is the perfect subject for my next great portrait.”