Page 26 of The Duchess Games

Viola narrowed her eyes suddenly. “What’s going on?”

Cat swallowed. “What do you mean?”

“You hate performing for people.”

“I don’t hate…” Viola was right. She did hate it. And also, none of her skills would translate to this sort of house party.

“Not to mention that we won’t know how to do any of the things the dowager expects,” Viola pointed out, voicing Cat’s thoughts. “My curtsy was a lucky accident.”

“You want this,” she said, willing her sister to believe her. “The chance to meet the peerage, whatever comes of these ludicrous Duchess Games.” Please let Viola fall in love with someone other than the duke. The vicar. A stablehand. The scullery maid. Anyone. “So I’ll help.”

There was a beat of silence before Viola relaxed against the pillows, grinning. “You are the best sister.”

The best sister. But possibly the worst person. Her reasons were not… good. They were not honourable, however loving her motivations might be. She was sacrificing Callum for her family. He was a duke, she reminded herself yet again. He would survive this.

She might not survive what he would surely do to her when it was all over.

Or the thought of what he might have done to her were things very different.

“And you’ll be right as rain after a little rest,” she added out loud, mostly because her sister was looking at her again.

Viola sneezed. Violently.

The next task took them to the gardens for which Cat was grateful. Sunshine, fresh air, grass under her shoes. Well, crushed seashell pathways and too many roses that tickled the nose, but close enough.

She’d hoped for lawn bowling. Swimming. Leaping the hedges like a horse. Deboning a haddock.

Not…watercolors.

Cat was not particularly artistically inclined. She’d drawn as a child, like all children, with bits of charcoal from the fire or with a stick in the sand on the beach. Not on thick paper that cost more than her dress. With fancy pencils and soft paintbrushes made of sable and paint that had traveled all the way from London.

The dowager duchess spent a good half an hour terrorizing the ladies by wandering between them like a general running a military drill. She peered down her nose at shading and brushstrokes and composition. She blinked at Cat’s decidedly lopsided hedge complete with roses that looked painfully squashed. And slightly bloody, truth be told. She sniffed. Honestly, Cat couldn’t blame her.

Summer met her gaze and rolled her eyes. Unsurprisingly, Summer’s rendering of a Greek statue was perfect. More than that, she had true talent. Even Cat could tell. Her technique was no doubt the result of years of lessons with painting masters, but her choices were her own. The shading was deeper where it might have been light, light where it might have been dark. She used unexpected colors to make the marble gleam, the leaves glow.

Cat made a lovely mud color. Several times. Despite never using brown of any kind. Her trees looked unwell.

Lady Imogen’s trees looked like the saint of painting had taken her by the hand.

Cat was fairly certain Viola had her nose pressed to the window behind them and was laughing at her. Cat wiped her paintbrush and chose a bright, cheerful red. May as well have fun with it.

Oh dear, her berries looked even more like blood.

She would call it A Garden Massacre.

Lady Imogen glanced at them and then offered a pained smile. Cat just grinned. Lady Imogen squeaked. Cat frowned at her easel. That reaction was a bit much. And then Lady Imogen curtsied low, far too low for someone covered in paint. Except Lady Imogen wasn’t covered in paint. Neither was Lady Summer or Lady Siddal or anyone else. Only Cat. Because, of course.

And they were curtsying because Callum had decided to join them.

Or else he’d been hiding in the hedges and had not realized he would stumble right into the lion’s den. Cat’s money was on the latter.

If she had any money, that was.

“Your Grace,” Lady Ruby wore a yellow dress today and it glowed against the backdrop of green leaves and white roses. Cat would not be surprised if she’d bribed someone on the household staff first thing in the morning in order to know where they would be situating so as to better match her surroundings. She was stunning. Her curtsy was stunning, her painting was stunning.

So why was Callum walking towards Cat? Glowering, as usual. If only his glower weren’t quite so… stirring. She was sure it said something unsavory about her character. That she liked being the object of all of that dark focus.

But she was tucked into the furthest spot from his mother and from the other guests taking tea and offering suggestions and critiques, for a reason. Discretion being a part of valor, she much preferred not to be noticed at such an event. Especially as Viola ought to be here instead.