Daughter of the Rainbow: The Longleigh Chronicles, #3

By Lynn Shurr

Shy but lovely Lady Iris Longleigh is passionate about only two things—painting and Lord Valls.

Shy but lovely Lady Iris Longleigh cares little about her upcoming debut into society. She has no interest in husband hunting and wishes only to spend her time painting at Bellevue Hall. Her mother, the ever-scheming duchess Lady Flora, has other plans. She engages a young man of the nobility, Lord Valls, to paint her daughter's portrait to promote her eligibility. The two artists are made for each other. However, Lord Valls has a secret he cannot reveal that prevents their marriage. After displaying a scandalous painting of Iris, Valls is offered a choice by the duke—marry his daughter or die!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wings ePress, Inc.
• Release date: Mar 1, 2023
• ISBN: 9781613094068

Book preview

Dedication

For Lisa Thomasson Jung, book reviewer, blogger, and long-time Facebook friend

As Recorded in the Family Bible

The progeny of Pearce and Flora Longleigh, Duke and Duchess of Bellevue, as recorded in the family Bible:

James Logan Longleigh Storm Cloud born in the Ohio Territory, April 12, 1784?

Thalia Amabel Full Moon Woman Longleigh, b. March 1, 1785.

Iris Emily Doe Eyes Longleigh, b. October 16, 1787.

Twins Calliope Constance Corn Tassel & Clio Judith Small Turtle, b. June 22, 1789.

Joshua William Big Paw Longleigh, b. January 24, 1791

Jason Samuel Benjamin Rattler Longleigh, b. January 24, 1792

Pandora Jane Black Wing Longleigh, b. September 15, 1794

Euphemia Dorcas Little Dove Longleigh, b. December 31, 1795

Justinian Giles White Bull Longleigh, b. July 10, 1800

And all made the lives of their parents very interesting.

One

Northern England

Bellevue Hall, January, 1805

Aspate of icy snowflakes collided with the warm glass panes of the conservatory at Bellevue Hall and vanished. Inside Lady Flora Longleigh’s favorite spot in the immense country home, the tall windows ran wet with humidity. Two furnaces kept her palm trees perfect, her pineapples productive, and her own lovely, pale complexion dewy even when the worst of the northern winds marauded out of Scotland and assailed their park lands. Outside in the huge fountain of Triton, its torrents leashed for the winter, the stone maenads appeared blue with cold, a trick of the light as the day waned.

Lady Flora enjoyed her daily sojourn there listening to the soothing trickle of water from the pottery jug held by the statue of a naked nymph in the pool at one end of the room and sharing the company of her beloved husband, Pearce Longleigh, Duke of Bellevue. They had finished their nap, a euphemism for a bit of bed sport in the afternoon, and were enjoying a light repast because such a romp made the duke peckish. He indulged in a goblet of wine, a piece of cheddar and several water biscuits, while she sipped tea and nibbled on preserved fruits. Mostly content, one small matter niggled at Lady Flora’s mind. How to broach the subject of a painting with her great bear of a man who had little regard for art, music, or the theater? Directly or obliquely? Blunt himself, the duke would prefer to just have it out.

I believe we should have a portrait of Iris painted for her coming out this spring.

Whatever for? Let her future husband bear that cost and spare us the reek of turpentine and the company of lecherous dabblers. I will not have one near my daughter. The duke slammed his silver goblet on the small marble table that sat between them and crossed his brawny arms over his shirt. He had shucked his jacket, neckcloth and waistcoat in the heat of the conservatory because this was his house and he damned well could if he wanted, as he so often told Flora.

Moving on to the indirect approach, Lady Flora said, Not all artists are lechers, dearest. Iris has been so very overshadowed by her elder sister that she needs an extra advantage to attract the very best of suitors. Her lithe form and sweet face will show beautifully if painted full length and we can use its viewing to introduce her to society.

Iris has a dowry of twenty thousand pounds and a quiet nature. She will be swamped by suitors exactly like Thalia last season. I thank the Great Spirit our first daughter chose a warrior over the rest of those mincing dandies who courted her. At times, the duke forgot he had elected to be an English lord for his wife’s sake and given up his life as a Shawnee Indian living amongst his mother’s people. Grateful for his decision, Flora overlooked such lapses.

A strapping soldier like Godric Erikson would intimidate Iris. She needs a selection of gentler men. A pity I made my mother’s same error and hired Miss Thurgood to perfect our first two daughters. I did not take well to such training myself. Why did I inflict it upon them?

The duke took her small hand in his large paw and patted it. You were new to motherhood and now the harpy that sucked the spirit out of our girls is gone. We aren’t making that mistake with our remaining four daughters.

No, though I might have swung too far in the opposite direction, especially in rowdy Pandora’s case. However, Iris is our main concern this year. Miss Thurgood did educate her very well, but spent so much time grooming Thalia that she failed to build the girl’s confidence. Iris is still so shy and dreamy. Drawing and painting remain her major delights. Think what a sparkle having her portrait painted would bring to her beautiful brown eyes, so like yours.

But large and lustrous like her mother’s own. The duke frowned. As I recollect, that French artiste found your eyes particularly attractive along with your dainty toes. He talked you clean out of your stockings. If I had not come along and tossed him in the fountain, he would have had his oily hands up your limbs in a trice.

Lady Flora fanned her face. I would have allowed no such liberty. He posed me in that swing garlanded with flowers and said having my bare toes showing would add to the frolicsome nature of the painting. I did not expect him to kiss them!

As a married woman, you should have known better.

So many years ago, and now I am an old society matron glad to have that painting to recall my youth even if we did have to hire Mary Moser to complete the floral background. Iris would adore having such a painting, too, in her later years.

My darling, you are as dainty and delectable as the day we wed. The duke leaned across the little table separating them and kissed her cheek. However, Iris would not have the spirit to fend off such a man even though I gave her a stiletto to ward off improper advances.

The duchess knew both these statements to be true. For a woman past her fortieth year, she remained remarkably well preserved, though she did work at it, keeping out of the sun, and never overindulging in sweets. Her figure stayed petite despite giving birth to ten living children, or perhaps because of it. They demanded a great deal of her energy and attention. She might as well say it outright.

The artist I have engaged to do the portrait—

Without consulting me! The duke, stiff with outrage, drew back into his wicker armchair that creaked beneath his large frame.

Luke Beckham is an amateur painter, a gentleman of the highest order holding the title of Viscount Valls and being the Earl of Weston’s heir. He will not take a penny for his work. If you had bothered to go with me to any exhibitions last season, you would know he is most talented.

Considering, the duke rubbed his broad jaw. No charge for the painting, you say? And a gentleman of high rank, an eligible gentleman I am certain. If he dallies with my daughter, her match is made. As usual, my beloved, you are one step ahead of me and wily to boot.

The duchess cocked her head, acknowledging the compliment. If the weather grows no worse, he will arrive tomorrow.

Two

The announcement at supper did put the sparkle into Iris Longleigh’s large, dark eyes—Doe Eyes, exactly as her Shawnee middle name proclaimed. With the twins and two of her brothers returned to their schools after the holidays, the heir abroad, and the three youngest Longleighs dining in the nursery, only four sat at the round table in a lesser space than the grand dining room. Lady Kristiana Erikson, Thalia Longleigh’s sister-in-law and very near Iris’ age, joined them at the meal. The young ladies shared a retiring nature, neither one bold nor confident, though Krista’s sheer size should have ensured that.

Nearly six feet tall and big-boned, her flawless fair skin and nearly white blonde hair glowed in the candlelight. Still, she kept her big blue eyes downcast most of the time. Lady Flora had offered to work with the girl and bring her out with Iris while Thalia and the Earl of Danelagh enjoyed an extended stay in Italy. Initially, this overgrown girl had made Iris feel very tiny and brown, her complexion being all the fault of her father’s ancestry. However, Krista’s stingy upbringing left her lacking in education and grace, something Iris had in abundance and was willing to share. They soon became fast friends as Krista had not a hint of meanness about her.

Looking across the table at the girl who had replaced her sister as a confidante, Iris declared, Krista must have her portrait painted as well.

We should ask her brother’s permission, and I doubt if a letter will get from here to Italy in adequate time to secure the artist, the duke said.

Nonsense! As young Beckham is a gentleman and charges no fees, I believe we should take advantage of him, Lady Flora declared.

Right as always, my dear. Please pass the bread, Iris. As they dined informally, the duke wished to sop the gravy of his ragout and did so.

Giddy with the news, the girls barely ate another bite of their meal, and Krista usually had a hardy appetite which the duchess begged her to suppress in public. Their excitement continued into the evening, allowing neither to sleep. Iris risked catching a chill in the drafty hallway flitting to Krista’s bedchamber and snuggling into the feather mattress beside her friend simply to speculate about the painter.

An artist and a gentleman, can you imagine any man more perfect for me?

For you, no.

Sorry, I did not mean to remind you of Hugh Grey. Iris encircled Krista with her arms. Cry if you must.

No, I am done crying. He has hardly written to me since Godric drove him still bleeding from Battle Hill after their sword fight. Oh, I know a man in the military has little time to pen sentimental letters, but I thought there would be more, both in amount and feeling. If Godric and Thalia had not stayed in Italy, I doubt I would have received even those few.

Mama has not withheld your mail, Iris replied, a bit offended. But she says your brother did have your best interests at heart. He felt you were too young and that Hugh took advantage of that.

The three of us were friends from childhood, and Hugh was ever my champion when others teased about my size. We did nothing more than embrace and kiss.

Enough to force a marriage.

Oh no, a poor clergyman’s son is not good enough for the Earl of Danelagh’s sister, no matter how compromised. It seems I should have some say about whom I marry. Krista punched her pillow with good-sized fist.

Mama and Papa will not force you to accept an offer, but think, Krista, of the season ahead! We shall have such adventures together. Marvelous things might happen, and you could meet another who puts Hugh Grey in the shade.

Never.

I will stay the night with you, and together we will dream of our futures full of delight and surprises because I know there will be.

Krista turned over and let her long body sink into the feather mattress. Beside her, Iris barely made a dent in the bedclothes, but her presence offered comfort. The girls slept soundly and when daylight broke, they stayed abed until their maids had stoked the fires and warmed the rooms. Iris coaxed her friend into one of her most becoming day frocks, a fine-gauged wool in a shade of blue that brought out the color of Krista’s eyes. She chose her own gown as carefully, a golden yellow that complimented her darker complexion. Of course, she would have to be painted in virginal white and thought it quite a pity when so many colors filled the world.

After breakfast the two wrapped in shawls and found pretenses to haunt the high-ceilinged foyer with its stylish checkerboard marble floor, a blessing in summer, but drafty and cold underfoot in winter. The duchess shooed them to warmer parts of the house lest they catch their deaths of cold. They ended up in the nursery on the third floor where Krista played with little Justinian, and the new governess drilled Pandora and Euphemia in French and basic mathematical problems their precocious little brother often solved. Iris sorted through her portfolio of sketches and watercolors, selecting only the best to show Viscount Valls.

When the crunch of wheels on gravel sounded in the drive and the household began to bustle at the arrival of a coach, lively Pandora was the first to abandon her studies and rush to the window to spy down on their guest. "He seems very haute couture judging by the top of his hat and his walking stick, nothing like Papa." She glanced at her governess to see if using a French term would gain any accolades, but the woman merely bade her go back to her seat.

Iris took Pandora’s place. He travels with many curious boxes, probably full of his art supplies, she speculated. Look at the fuss he is making over how they are handled. He truly cares.

To herself, Iris thought ‘nothing like Papa’ would be good, not that she failed to love her father, but he was so large and intimidating. Pandora and the other children climbed the duke like an oak tree, but she had always held back just a tiny bit afraid. From way up here, the painter appeared to be of slender build, possibly even delicate. Not too delicate, she hoped, but not a big brawler like her eldest brother James either.

Krista’s practical voice cut into her thoughts. Don’t you think we had better go downstairs, make our curtseys, and size him up from there?

Yes! Iris tucked her portfolio under her arm and took off in haste with Krista pounding after her down the staircase at the end of the hall. She held out a cautionary hand when they approached the grand staircase to the foyer. Mama will be upset if we approach like wild Indians. Shoulders back, heads high, posture perfect.

She allowed her shawl to slip down her arms to show a modest amount of bosom and the charming hand-painted medallion of irises that hung on a black ribbon around her slender neck. Valls glanced up from making his manners to the duke and duchess. Yes, slender and not nearly as lofty as her father and brother, but with enough height to be more than a head taller than she. Iris, meanwhile was assessing his form, not limp or willowy, possessing a tensile strength like a fine rapier, shoulders not huge, but broad enough to fill out a tight jacket, and legs that did justice to snug pantaloons and high boots. He had luminous green eyes that seemed lit from within, made more noticeable by dark brows and lashes, a straight nose, and lips that she judged to be sensitive. Black hair, well-barbered, and very lean, clean-shaven cheeks completed the picture. He did not answer her eager smile.

LUKE BECKHAM, VISCOUNT Valls, observed his subject, another young woman ready to fall in love with an artist, especially one who had a title. At least the duchess showed no inclination to start a dalliance, not the way her immense husband brooded over her. Luke had that problem with women who begged to have their portraits painted but really wanted a rich husband of romantic ilk or an affair with an artist to be bragged about with their friends. Thus he rarely painted females and kept himself busy with portraitures of his father’s friends, horses, dogs, and estates. However, the petite Duchess of Bellevue had a way all her own of getting what she wanted. No small brain rested beneath that head of still golden curls, and her large, gray eyes were the most perceptive he had ever seen on a woman. She had appealed winningly to his father and here he arrived ready to portray her second daughter, like it or not.

As usual, he found himself imagining how all of the people before him should be painted, not as they wanted to be, slightly better than they really looked, but as fanciful creatures. The large blonde girl, for instance, should appear in armor, a veritable Valkyrie, a Brunhilde asleep within a ring of fire waiting for her knight to awaken her. He did have a taste for German myths as well as the Greek and Roman of his classical education.

The other young woman, brown of skin and black of hair, dainty like the duchess, came down the stairs so lightly she might have borne the golden wings of the goddess Iris on her feet. He could envision her flitting across the flowered Elysian Fields trailing rainbows behind her. Her large brown eyes appeared already enraptured, her full lips quivering for a kiss. This was the one he must paint.

He had to tread carefully, though his father with not one iota of sensitivity remarked before they parted, Look her over, boy. She has twenty thousand you know, and that can make a colored complexion look like alabaster. Luke had no qualms about her skin. In fact, he found her coloring to be more vibrant and interesting than all the pallid misses who populated the London ballrooms. However, he had no time for, or inclination, to marry.

Now the duke, he’d heard, had once been painted as a near naked savage. That would suit the man exactly. He still wore his thick black hair, beginning to go gray, long and tied back in a queue and showed off muscular legs to great effect in white silk stockings and knee breeches. Though his jacket and waistcoat were fairly plain, he wore more lace at his neck and cuffs than most modern men. Still, that broad, burnished face with its high cheekbones and burning, black eyes would deflect any jests about his mode of dress with one hostile stare.

Luke could well believe another artistic tale that the duke had doused the French painter who portrayed Lady Flora barefooted in a floral swing, into a fountain and nearly drowned the man. The artist took a ship to Paris posthaste after crawling out of the water. Little, lively Lady Flora, yes, a swing would suit her well—and bare feet. He wondered if Lady Iris had the same spirited nature and beautiful toes. Then he noticed the portfolio tucked under the girl’s arm. Oh no, not another young lady wanting him to compliment her accomplishments. Their efforts were always so dismal.

He did not return her hopeful smile. No sense in encouraging her efforts. He would eke out a few dampening platitudes—not too bad, decently executed, good effort—and pray she put her wretched scribbles away until he completed his task and went on to more important matters. He endured the usual introductions to the two young ladies and gave them a disinterested nod. The duchess offered refreshments, and that declined, suggested he might want to rest in his chamber after his arduous winter travels.

To be honest, I would rather see the area provided for my studio and assess the light.

The duchess fluttered a bit. We thought the conservatory might do as it is kept very warm in winter. You see, we would like Iris to seem as if she walked in a garden in springtime, a suitable venue for her tender age. The conservatory offers many delightful views both inside and out, and you may take your pick. Also, a wall of tall windows faces north. That is what artists require, northern light?

Yes. Quite.

Wonderful! Then your two lovely subjects will escort you there. Lady Flora waved her folded fan in the general direction.

Luke had turned toward the conservatory when her words penetrated. Two lovely subjects? Are the young ladies to be painted together?

No, of course not. We merely thought that since you were here you might do Lady Kristiana’s portrait as well as an especial favor to her brother, the Earl of Danelagh.

I do not believe I am acquainted with him.

He has been abroad, came home briefly upon his father’s death, and currently resides in northern Italy with his wife, our eldest daughter, Thalia. The duchess presented him with a most winning smile.

Ah, I see. He did entirely. The new fledged earl had landed in England and immediately been plucked from circulation and lured into marriage with Thalia Longleigh, thanks to her mother’s clever machinations. As for the duke, he never willingly gave money to the arts and saw his chance to wangle two portraits for the price of none. Luke appraised the large girl. She would take a lot of paint and canvas to portray. As if the young lady read his thoughts, her flawless white skin colored red from bosom to the roots of her nearly white hair. Still, she would make an interesting subject, a challenge to whittle down to size in an attractive way.

Very well. I will expect the both of you to report to the conservatory shortly after daybreak, attired as you wish to appear. Winter days are short, and we must make the best use of our light. So, no lazing abed until noon and no whining about holding a pose if I ask it of you. Understood? Aware that he sounded like an ill-tempered governess, Luke simply did not care.

The duke took exception. "Longleigh women do not laze and whine, young man.