The Look of Love

An accomplished sculptor with secret ambitions, Ina Duncan has managed to avoid marriage for years until an accidental encounter at a party leaves her near ruin and in need of a husband. Fast. Determined to find a willing husband for Ina, Edinburgh’s most powerful matchmaker, Moira Sullivan, quickly realizes that the solution to Ina’s problem might be right in front of her.

Ina’s best friend, Gavin Barrett, has a secret no one knows: he’s loved her for years. As the second son of a baronet, however, he knows he has little chance with his brilliant, beautiful friend. All that changes when Moira convinces Ina to propose a marriage of convenience to Gavin to save her from ruin. Ina only wants two things from him in return: a vow she can continue to sculpt and a promise they’ll remain in Edinburgh.

After a rocky start, happiness—and maybe passion—seems on the horizon for the newlyweds until a twist of fate bestows the title of Sir Barrett on Gavin and forces him to assume responsibilities he’s never wanted. Forced to mold herself into the perfect baronet’s wife, Ina must choose between her dreams and the man she’s learning to love.

The Look of Love (Sample)

Julia Kelly

Pocket Star

Pocket Star Books

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This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real

people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2017 by Julia Kelly

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First Pocket Star Books ebook edition October 2017

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Interior design by Alison Cnockaert

ISBN 978-1-5011-7290-8

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Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Ready for More Romance?

Also by Julia Kelly

About the Author

Chapter 1

Edinburgh, 1875

The curling peacock plume woven into Ina Duncan’s upswept hair bobbed as she looked around the well-appointed drawing room, desperate for an escape. All around her, guests of Mrs. Moira Sullivan—celebrated hostess, notorious matchmaker, and well-loved bon vivant—were clumped in little groups, discussing the monologue they’d just seen performed by one of London’s leading actresses on a tour of Scotland. The conversation was lively, as it always was during one of Mrs. Sullivan’s salons, but, unlike at most of these gatherings, Ina wasn’t enjoying herself one bit.

The blame lay solidly at the feet of Mr. Bartholomew and Mr. Gable. She’d made the mistake of wandering too close to them as they were in the midst of a heated discussion, and their talk had so offended her sensibilities she could hardly tear herself away. Now, if she wasn’t careful, she was liable to upend a tray of wineglasses on these pompous buffoons.

“Most women don’t have the capacity for the serious study of art,” said Mr. Bartholomew.

“On that we can both agree,” said Mr. Gable. “It’s preposterous the Royal Academy’s started letting them sit classes.”

Classes Ina would’ve given both her pinky fingers to attend—not that they knew or cared.

“What’s next? Live draping?” asked Mr. Bartholomew.

Mr. Gable scoffed, sending a cloud of condensation into his glass. “Can you imagine? A nude man sitting in the middle of a roomful of women.”

“That would give the ton the vapors.”

“It’s no matter,” said Mr. Gable. “The gentler sex has no eye for art.”

“Then why teach your daughters to paint and draw?” Ina asked, inserting herself into the loathsome conversation. “And Her Royal Highness Princess Louise sculpts. In fact, there have been a number of talented women sculptors. Mary Grant. Caroline Shawk Brooks. Alina Forsman. I could continue.”

“Those names are not familiar to me,” Mr. Bartholomew said with a shrug, as though his ignorance was the fault of her sex.

“Surely you don’t wish for ladies to exhaust themselves with such physical labor, Miss Duncan,” said Mr. Gable, clearly not sensing that she was a steam engine ready to explode. “Ladies need protection from themselves. That is why you’ll be under the care of your father until you’re married and your husband after that.”

“Ina Duncan need protection? That will be the day.”

She didn’t have to turn to see who’d come to her aid. She’d be able to pick Gavin Barrett’s voice out in a crowded room until her dying day.

“Mr. Barrett, perhaps you’d like to weigh in on this debate,” said Mr. Bartholomew.

She felt her friend stop right at her elbow, and when she stole a glance at him he wore that bemused look he so often donned when near her.

“I’m afraid I must steal Miss Duncan away for a moment,” he said apologetically. “Our hostess is asking after her.”

“Oh, what a shame,” said Ina, her voice as dry as French wine.

Gavin plucked up her hand and tucked it into the crook of his arm. To the casual observer, it was an innocent gesture, but the truth was he was clamping her fingers tight as a vise.

“This way,” Gavin said, leading her through the crowd of people, nodding hellos every few feet.

“If you value that hand, you’ll let go,” she whispered.

“Not until I’m certain you won’t pick up a fire poker and hit both of them,” he said, leaning in so only she could hear.

“I would do nothing of the sort.” Though now that he suggested it . . .

“Only because the poker was a good dozen feet away,” he said with a chuckle. “You look positively murderous.”

When they were well out of earshot of most people, Gavin loosened his grip and she snatched her hand back.

“That hurt,” she said as she shook it out dramatically.

“No it didn’t. You’ve got hands of steel from all your years of sculpting.”

She scowled. “Those hands won’t do me any good if you break them.”

He grinned. “I was hardly squeezing. Besides, I couldn’t risk you throttling Bartholomew. Although I’m sure Gable was just as odious.”

“Was it that obvious?” she asked.

“Only if someone were looking directly at you. What on earth were they talking about and how did you get roped into it?” he asked, helping himself to two glasses of wine that sat on a sideboard. He handed one to her and tipped the other in a little mock toast.

“I walked by as they were talking about how women can’t produce great art,” she said.

“I’m shocked you didn’t suddenly acquire the ability to shoot lightning bolts from your eyes.”

Gavin was one of the few people outside of her household who knew just how deeply those horrid men’s comments would have cut her. Sculpture was her passion, even if most brushed her art off as the amusing eccentricity of an overindulged young lady.

“One of these days I’m going to tell those men exactly what they can do with their opinions,” she muttered into her claret.

He leaned in. “Does it involve coarse language?”

“The coarsest.”

“That’s hardly ladylike,” he said.

“Neither is teaching me to swear with such variety in French, Italian, German, Latin, and Greek, but that didn’t stop you.”

A rich laugh bubbled up from Gavin’s chest. “I know you have a reputation as an original, but we’ve been friends long enough that I know there are two times you might make a bit too much trouble even by your standards: when you’re bored and when you’re angry.”

“I’m not a child who needs to be managed,” said Ina, crossing her arms over her chest before realizing it was a rather childlike gesture. She quickly uncrossed them and fiddled with the stem of her glass.

“Oh no,” he said. “I’ll not be goaded into an argument with you just because those men made you angry.”

“You’re no fun,” she said.

“Ah, but I am. Who else will teach you to throw a proper punch or go tearing through Holyrood Park with you at eight o’clock in the morning?”

She shrugged. She had to give him that. When it came to indulging the frantic energy that sometimes consumed her when she didn’t have a project, Gavin was always by her side.

He’d been her father’s friend first, one of the rare few writers Arthur Duncan respected enough to summon to his study to discuss some aspect of his sprawling book that never seemed to be done. But over the years Gavin had become her friend, as well.

She’d never forget the day he’d walked uninvited into the poky little room she called a studio, sat down, and begun chatting as though it was completely normal for a young lady to be going at a block of stone with a set of tools. For some inexplicable reason, having him in her space didn’t bother her, and she found that he was one of the few people around whom she could work.

He kept coming back—at first every week, and then every other day, and finally every day—bringing her sandwiches when she forgot to eat and talking to her about everything from the novel he was working on to the latest lecture he’d been to at one of the city’s art societies. Soon she found herself debating him between chisel taps, reaching into her own knowledge as an artist to hurl counterpoints at him. It was on this mutual love of art that their friendship had been born.

“Did you know that Mrs. Sullivan is in possession of a Carriera?” Gavin asked suddenly.

Ina’s heart skipped a beat. “What?”

“It’s one of her lesser works and small, but it’s undoubtedly a Carriera hanging in the library,” he said.

Rosalba Carriera had painted for the kings of Europe more than one hundred years ago. Carriera had achieved such acclaim that no one could deny the vivacity and brilliance of her work. Her paintings were treasures, rarer than colorless diamonds.

“How did she acquire one? And when?” Ina had only ever seen Carrieras reproduced as lithographs in her father’s huge art books.

“No one is entirely sure, but some say Mrs. Sullivan was given the painting by a groom as a thank-you for smoothing the way for his marriage to the woman he loved, despite opposition from the parents on both sides. Speaking of our hostess, I’m to understand she has some connection to Mr. Dunne and his new journal. He’s looking for works to serialize.”

Gavin had published his first and only book five years ago to modest success—enough to encourage him to write another. But then a year had turned into two years and then three.

When he'd finally delivered the manuscript to his publisher, he was told it wasn’t quite up to snuff. Ina had watched him swallow that disappointment and close in on himself. If he wanted to write again, surely that was a good sign.

“Go speak to Mrs. Sullivan. Everyone should know how brilliant you are,” she said.

His eyes crinkled with his smile. “You’re sure you’ll be all right? Bartholomew and Gable are still roaming free.”

“If I see them advancing in this direction, I’ll run,” she said.

“That would be a sight.”

Ina watched her best friend retreat. As soon as she was sure he wasn’t about to turn back, she let her shoulders sag with exhaustion. What she really wanted was to go home, but suggesting such a thing to her aunt would only earn her a lecture about how Ina still hadn’t secured a husband and never would if she didn’t apply herself socially.

What Mrs. Coleman failed to understand was that she didn’t want to be married. It brought too many complications and demanded too many sacrifices— nearly all of them falling upon the wife. She was in the unique position of being an heiress of a large enough fortune to ensure a comfortable life of independence, but not so much that she attracted too much unwanted attention. That her father couldn’t care whether she married or not so long as it didn’t interrupt his work was also to her advantage.

Ina had her art and her friends, and that was more than enough.

Of course, she thought as she peered around the room, tonight she did want one more thing. To see the Carriera.

Under normal circumstances she would’ve asked directly to view the work, but that would’ve meant wading through the crowd surrounding her hostess. In all likelihood, she’d be put off until another visit, and it might be days before she was able to see the Carriera. All for a painting that was hanging in a room on the very floor on which she now stood.

What if I took just a peek?

She knew she shouldn’t. Snooping around the house of the woman who’d extended her hospitality was beyond the pale, and yet if she was clever about it she could slip away, let herself into the library, and have a few moments uninterrupted in front of the painting. It just might be the trigger she needed for an idea; after tonight she might have the subject for her entry into the Royal Sculpture Society of Scotland’s exhibition.

She set her glass down gently. No one was watching her. The library shouldn’t be hard to find. All it would cost her was five minutes. If she encountered a servant she’d simply say she’d become lost when looking for the ladies’ retiring room—the little white lie would hurt no one.

With a shiver of excitement, Ina backed up to the door behind her, found the brass handle with her back, and gave it a turn. The door opened silently on well-oiled hinges—a sign that this was exactly what she should be doing. With a secret smile, she slipped through the doorway.

She crept down the quiet corridor on the balls of her feet, grateful that there was carpet to muffle the fall of her leather-soled slippers.

Overhead, something creaked, and she leaped up, her hand clutching her chest.

Breathe, you fool. It’s just the house settling.

She was still scolding herself when she heard voices down the hallway—of two women, if her ears could be trusted. Moving swiftly, Ina darted into a room with a half-open door, closing it just as the voices grew louder.

“It’s like watching a pot of water boil. If you sit around waiting for the toffs to clear out we’ll be here all night,” said a young woman.

Her companion snorted. “And think what a state the drawing room will be in when they’re all gone.”

Maids. She closed her eyes and prayed they wouldn’t think to look in the room where she hid.

Mercifully two sets of footfalls passed the door without stopping.

After several moments she poked her head around the door and glanced in either direction. Everything was silent, save for the dull hum of hubbub from the drawing rooms.

Swiftly Ina crossed the landing at the top of the grand stairs and tried the first door on her right. It was nothing more than a small closet, stuffed with tables, chairs, and bric-a-brac. She shut the door and shot across the hallway to the next room.

“Found you,” she said softly. Although the gaslights were turned low, she could still make out rows and rows of books sitting like neat little soldiers on massive shelves lining all four walls.

Her skirts rustled as she stepped into the room and shut the door behind her. Someone had left the fire burning in the hearth and, mingled with the musty comfort of old paper and leather bindings, it wrapped her in a warm hug.

Now where was the Carriera? She skimmed the walls before landing on a gap in the bookcases where the fireplace stood.

There, hanging in stately fashion above the mantel, was the painting.

Ina’s lips parted as she approached. In this warm glow of light, the painting almost shone.

The woman immortalized in oils looked out at her boldly, her hands resting gently in the folds of her elaborate, embroidered dress that sat on hoops so old Ina’s grandmother might have worn them had she not been a mere shipbuilder’s wife.

She reached her fingers up until they were just inches away from the paint so she could trace the line of the brushstrokes through the air. “Aren’t you a wonder?” she murmured.

“I was just thinking the same thing.”

Ina yelped and spun. Sitting in a large leather armchair with one leg crossed casually at the knee sat Sir Kier Gowan, rogue and reprobate.

“I thought I was alone,” she said, her heart pounding in her throat.

“So did I.” His eyes raked over her body as though she wasn’t wearing a stitch of clothing. “But I’m always pleased to find myself in the company of a beautiful woman.”

She took a tiny step backward toward the door, keeping her eyes fixed firmly on Sir Kier as a deer might a wolf. “I wouldn’t dream of interrupting your respite,” she said, nodding to the cigar that dangled from his left hand.

He brought the cigar to his lips and took a pull. Slowly he blew out a stream of fragrant smoke, and then pointed it at her.

“Do I know you?” he asked.

“I don’t believe we’ve ever been introduced.”

And that’s the way it’s going to stay. Toying with rakes was a dangerous game she didn’t want to play.

“Well, we can hardly stand on ceremony, can we? Not when there’s nobody here to make the introductions,” he said, a cruel smile crossing his lips.

“There’s no need. I’m already fully aware of who you are,” she said, keeping her tone casual—bored, even—in hopes that he’d see there’d be no fun in chasing her.

“Of course you do,” he said with a chuckle. “Who doesn’t in this waterlogged city?”

“Are you disparaging Edinburgh?” she asked, before she could stop herself. Engaging in any more conversation with this man would be social suicide, but defending her home was a powerful instinct too.

“I suppose it’s all well and good for one who’s never known anything else, but there’s really no substitute for the pleasures of London,” he said, chomping down on his cigar again.

Ina crossed her arms over her chest and stared him down. “Then you’d best take the next train out of Waverley.”

He leaned forward in his chair, his arms braced on his knees. “Who are you that you’re so bold when alone in a room with a gentleman you don’t know?”

Panic flared up in her. She’d intrigued rather than repelled the man. Not a good idea.

“I’m just here to see that painting,” she said, struggling to insert ennui into her voice.

Sir Kier followed her gaze. “That?”

“Yes, that.”

He stood to get a closer look. “It hardly looks worth the canvas it’s painted on.”

Her eyes narrowed. “It happens to have been painted by one of the most important women artists of the last century.”

“Well, that explains it.”

She bristled. “I beg your pardon?”

He took one step toward her and then another. “Have I offended your sensibilities, Miss . . . ?”

She stumbled back to keep the distance between them, her mind racing as it ran through each scenario. If he laid even a finger on her and anyone found out, she’d be ruined. She could try to run, but if he caught her she’d be ruined, and likely hurt in the struggle. She couldn’t scream, because if someone came to her aid, she’d be ruined. Ina was struggling to find any scenario that didn’t end in her complete and utter ruination.

Her father might be wealthy enough to make her spinsterhood acceptable, but there was no amount of wealth that’d make society take her back if she was found with Sir Kier. Her friends would be forced to give her up for the good of their own reputations. The invitations would dry up. She’d be alone, the fate that awaited all women who overstepped society’s boundaries, whether it was their choice or not.

Gavin would still be there for you.

But at what cost? She had no doubt he’d stand by her, but losing his good opinion would hurt more than anything else. She wouldn’t—couldn’t—let that happen. She had to get herself out of that room, and fast.

“Is this what you do at parties?” she asked, forcing haughtiness into her voice. “Wait for young women to stumble into your web?”

Sir Kier’s next step hitched. “If you’re implying—”

“And what are you doing in Mrs. Sullivan’s library?” she asked, hands on her hips, mimicking the pose her aunt struck when she was about to deliver a lecture. Men like Sir Kier were used to being the predators, and if she was bolder, more powerful than he perhaps she stood a chance of unmanning the brute.

He cleared his throat. “I’m the guest of Count Erovick.”

No doubt the German aristocrat had failed to mention Sir Kier’s name when he inquired about bringing a friend along, for she doubted very much that Mrs. Sullivan would want a man of Sir Kier’s reputation at her salon.

“So you decided to take advantage of your hostess’s hospitality and skulk in the lady’s library?”

She’d frozen him in place. Here was a man rumored to be nothing if not a hellion, a libertine, a very bad man indeed, and yet he was thrown by a young lady standing up to him. Perhaps she would be able to extricate herself from this situation after all.

“Wait, I do know who you are.” Sir Kier’s eyes sparked with some wicked idea. “Miss Ina Duncan. I’m beginning to believe the rumors I’ve heard about you may be true.”

The rumors. The bane of her existence.

“Please enlighten me,” she said, but her haughtiness was rushing away. She had to get to the door and away from this horrible man.

“You’re the daughter of that crazy recluse Duncan no one ever sees anymore. Not that anyone can blame him when his wife was two steps away from being a whore.”

It wasn’t anything she hadn’t heard before, but Sir Kier’s words slashed at her heart nonetheless. Tears pricked her eyes, but she refused to give this man the satisfaction of seeing her cry. No one got to see that.

He was leering at her now. “How much do you take after good old Mamma?”

“I’ll bid you good night,” she said, turning quickly.

He lunged and snatched her hand off the doorknob.

“What are you doing?” she cried, jerking her hand back, but his grip didn’t slip.

“I’m going to lift your skirts,” he said. “And you’re going to like it.”

Moving fast, she twisted out of his grip, a decorative bit of lace tearing from the cuff of her evening dress. He staggered, and she realized that the man was so deep in his cups he could barely keep his balance.

Good, she thought, putting an armchair between them.

“You don’t want to do this,” she said. “We could be caught. You don’t want to be saddled with marrying me.”

The monstrous man began to laugh. “Marry you? As though anyone would believe Brianna Duncan’s daughter.”

He made another lunge for her, his meaty hand wrapping around the bones of her wrist and squeezing. She cried out and, acting on pure instinct, she drew her other hand back and hit him square in the face.

Sir Kier roared as his nose exploded with blood. The door banged open, and Gavin barreled in and slammed the blackguard against a bookshelf.

Any relief Ina might have felt, however, was short-lived, for standing in the doorway was Mrs. Sullivan, and it was clear that the most powerful hostess in Edinburgh was livid.

Chapter 2

Gavin had been standing with Mrs. Sullivan, watching the lady put off the advances of a comically young and noticeably poor poet named Avery who no doubt had an eye out for a wealthy patron, when the lady’s butler, Fergus, edged into view. With him stood a nervous-looking maid in her trim cap and black dress. Excusing herself, Mrs. Sullivan stepped away from her guests.

“What is it, Fergus?” he could hear her ask.

“I beg your pardon, madam, but Jessa believes she overheard voices in one of the rooms.”

His eyes darted around the room, searching out Ina. He shouldn’t have left her alone. Years of friendship had taught him that a bored Ina was a dangerous Ina. She had little patience for society and, in turn, society extended her little understanding.

Things might have been different if she’d stayed with the Bohemian circles she moved in so comfortably, but her position as a wealthy—albeit eccentric—man’s daughter meant her world was wider than that. Money opened doors, prompted invitations, and brought scrutiny.

“Certainly that’s not cause for alarm,” Mrs. Sullivan was saying.

“I heard a gentleman and a lady speaking,” the maid said.

Why couldn’t he find Ina? She wasn’t with Lana Russell, Christine Nell, or Anne Breck, three of her close friends.

“I see,” Mrs. Sullivan said quietly. “Which of the rooms was it?”

“The library,” said Fergus.

The same room he’d told her the Carriera hung in. Damn but he was an idiot. He’d dangled a carrot in front of Ina and then wandered off, more interested in propping up his faded career than in her well-being.

“Mrs. Sullivan, I’m sorry to interrupt, but I think I know who may be in your library,” he said, inserting himself with the same low tone the hostess and her butler had used.

“And who is that, Mr. Barrett?” Mrs. Sullivan asked.

“Miss Duncan.”

“With a gentleman?”

He pursed his lips. “It would be out of character for her to seek out an assignation.”

Wasn’t it? Although sometimes he felt as though he knew Ina’s mind better than his own, love and marriage was the one area they always stayed away from. She didn’t ask him the details of his life, and he didn’t want to know hers. It was the only way he could keep the story he told himself about them being “just friends” alive.

“Then you’re worried for her safety,” said Mrs. Sullivan.

He tilted his head in confirmation.

“Well, I suppose you’d better come with me,” said the matchmaker.

It was Fergus’s turn to quirk his brows. “Are you certain, ma’am, that I cannot be of assistance? Your guests—”

“Will be just fine without me,” she said firmly. “However, if you could find a discreet way to collect Mrs. Coleman without alerting her that there are concerns about her niece’s whereabouts, that would be welcome. There’s no need to worry the lady if it isn’t, in fact, Miss Duncan at all.”

Please don’t let it be Ina.

Without another word, Fergus bowed and led the way out of the room, opening the door for them both as they went, followed by Jessa.

They’d just reached the staircase leading to the upper floors when a woman’s scream pierced the air.

“Oh my God,” Mrs. Sullivan said, picking up her skirts.

Without thinking, Gavin broke out into a run, stopping abruptly when Mrs. Sullivan threw open a nearby door just in time to see the flash of Ina’s hand hitting Sir Kier Gowan squarely in the nose. The man roared in pain, blood soaking his fine leather gloves, and Gavin was on him, hauling him by the throat and ramming him against one of the towering bookshelves.

Now he could feel the satisfying crunch of Gowan’s windpipe as the bastard clawed at his hand.

Gavin’s breathing was ragged as he held onto what little self-control he had left. The man had laid his hand on Ina. It would give him no end of pleasure to put Gowan through a wall, strangle him, or throw him out of a window into the street.

A soft touch fell on his shoulder. “Mr. Barrett, you must let him go,” said Mrs. Sullivan.

He squeezed a little harder, and Gowan’s eyes bugged as he scratched at his hand with more urgency.

“Miss Duncan is safe,” Mrs. Sullivan said, more firmly this time.

Reluctantly, he let his grip loosen. Gowan tore away from him, staggering back a few steps before hitting a low table and falling to the ground.

“What the hell were you thinking?” Gowan shouted, his hand at his throat as he stared in disbelief and disgust at Gavin.

“I should think the same thing could be asked of you,” said Mrs. Sullivan, her voice booming through the room now.

Real fear replaced the anger in the lout’s eyes. Good.

There came a squeak. Jessa was peering out from behind Mrs. Sullivan, her jaw slack.

“To the kitchen, Jessa,” the matchmaker ordered sharply.

The maid scrambled out the door, shutting it behind her.

“Are you unharmed?” Mrs. Sullivan asked Ina, taking her by the arms to study her.

Ina’s cuff was torn and there was blood down the front of her dress. Gavin’s own blood began to boil anew.

“Yes, but I wish I’d hit him harder,” said Ina as she kneaded the base of her palm.

That was the Ina he knew—strong and spirited. If Gowan had diminished that spark in her, no amount of cajoling from Mrs. Sullivan could have saved the man.

“Sit here,” said Mrs. Sullivan, guiding Ina to a chair. “Now, will you tell me what happened?” she asked as gently as if she was speaking to a frightened child.

“I’m the one who’s hurt,” muttered Gowan.

“If that’s all that happens to you after tonight, you’ll be fortunate,” he snarled.

“That deranged harlot broke my nose,” Gowan whined from behind his handkerchief.

Gavin strode across the room and hauled Gowan up to his feet by his lapels. “Call her a harlot one more time, I dare you. I’ve dreamed of this since we were at school together.”

“You know him?” Ina asked.

“He was great friends with my brother at Rugby. He was a bastard then, and obviously not much has changed.”

Mrs. Sullivan cleared her throat. “As much as I would support you thrashing any man who lays a finger on an unwilling woman, Mr. Barrett, there are things of greater concern at hand.”

“I can’t think of one,” he growled.

“Miss Duncan’s reputation is a start,” said Mrs. Sullivan.

“Jessa has not been in my employ long and—”

“Ina!”

Mrs. Coleman nearly knocked Mrs. Sullivan over with her wide dress as she too rushed into the room.

“I’m fine, Aunt Jacqueline,” said Ina, trying to smooth her hands over her rumpled, blood-spattered skirts. “Although this gown has seen better days.”

Mrs. Coleman looked at her niece in horror, and it clearly had nothing to do with the state of Miss Duncan’s dress.

“What happened here?” the woman asked.

“A bloody misunderstanding,” said Gowan. But before the man could elaborate, Gavin twisted his shirt collar a little harder, eliciting a strangled gurgle.

“Mr. Barrett, what on earth are you doing?” asked Mrs. Coleman.

“Discussing the finer points of manners with Sir Kier,” he said, glaring at the red-faced man.

“I don’t understand,” said Mrs. Coleman.

“Sir Kier was attempting to . . . to kiss me when Mrs. Sullivan and Gavin found us,” said Ina, drawing her shoulders back as she no doubt prepared herself for the explosion that was sure to follow.

“But why were you with him in the first place?” Mrs. Coleman asked with a gasp.

“I was hoping to see Mrs. Sullivan’s Carriera,” said Ina, as though it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Her what?” her aunt asked.

Mrs. Sullivan pointed at the painting. “My Carriera. Miss Duncan has excellent taste.”

“But why would you leave unaccompanied?” asked Mrs. Coleman, wringing her hands.

“Mrs. Sullivan was occupied and I wished to see the Carriera alone. I thought I could step away for just a moment and no one would notice I was gone.”

Again, guilt slid through Gavin. This was his fault. He hadn’t protected Ina, and now she was in a mess he couldn’t fix.

“Of all the selfish, dangerous things you’ve done,” said Mrs. Coleman.

“I just wanted to see a painting,” said Ina in a whisper. “I was only going to be gone ten minutes.”

“Please say that no one saw her,” said Mrs. Coleman, her eyes pleading with Mrs. Sullivan.

The matchmaker shook her head. “Unfortunately, there was a maid. I don’t know the extent of her loyalty yet as I only just poached her from Mrs. Abercrombie.”

Every face except Kier’s fell at the name of the city’s worst gossip.

“You’re ruined,” said Mrs. Coleman, pulling a handkerchief out of her sleeve. “Even without your mother’s reputation, no one would ever believe that you hadn’t been complicit in this tête-à-tête. What will I tell your father?”

Ina opened her mouth, but no words came out. Instead, she looked helplessly at Gavin. His shoulders sagged at the realization that he might be prepared to give her the world but, if she was compromised, he could do nothing for her.

“I don’t know, Ina,” he said, his heart clenching as defeat broke over her face.

But then Mrs. Sullivan stepped forward. “Perhaps I can be of assistance.”

* * *

Moira Sullivan had seen her share of scandal—a lady didn’t reach the age of fifty-two without drama washing up on her doorstep. Considering she was Edinburgh’s finest matchmaker and general solver of problems great and small, she was often the woman tasked with cleaning up the aftermath of impropriety. This, however, was a first for her.

“Everyone sit,” she said. When no one moved, her tone sharpened. “Sit. Now.”

Each of them scrambled into a seat, even Mr. Barrett, although he kept a close eye on Sir Kier, no doubt ready to strangle him again if the man put even one foot out of place.

“Tell me exactly what happened here,” said Moira. “Do not leave out details.”

Miss Duncan swallowed, but Sir Kier was faster.

“The chit practically dragged me away from the drawing room. I tried to stop her but—”

“There are three things in life I cannot abide, Sir Kier,” she said sternly. “Being lied to is one of them.”

“What are the others?” Miss Duncan asked, her eyes curious despite the gravity of the situation.

“Infidelity and”—Moira smiled—“cucumbers.”

Miss Duncan snorted, earning her a look of reprimand from her aunt.

“Cucumbers?” Mr. Barrett asked. “Who objects to cucumbers?”

“There’s something about the texture I can’t stand,” said Moira.

“Oh, who cares about cucumbers at a time like this?” cried Mrs. Coleman, her hand clenching creases into the handkerchief she always carried. “Ina, did you go with Sir Kier?”

“No!” the young lady protested. “He was here when I arrived.”

“But you did leave the drawing room unchaperoned,” her aunt said.

Miss Duncan nodded. “Yes, I left the drawing room unchaperoned. I apologize, Mrs. Sullivan. I realize that it was unwise and impolite.”

“Oh, Ina,” said Mrs. Coleman, dabbing at the corner of her eye with her handkerchief.

“There are far worse transgressions in this life than seeking out a painting during a party. What happened next?” asked Moira.

“I was looking at the Carriera, and then Sir Kier made himself known. I felt trapped, as though I couldn’t just leave,” she said, shuddering at the memory. “He tried to grab at me, and he threatened to . . . to ruin me.”

Mr. Barrett’s lips curled up in a snarl. “I should kill you.”

Very interesting . . . A plan had begun to form in Moira’s mind the moment she saw the way Mr. Barrett defended Miss Duncan’s honor, and now she was more sure of its success than ever.

“I’d prefer if we could dispense with any notions of killing tonight, tempting though they might be.” Moira fixed Sir Kier with a glare. “You realize you’ve exposed Miss Duncan’s reputation to untold damage?”

“Damned if I care,” said Sir Kier.

“You should care. There’s a young woman’s reputation at stake,” she said.

“And your continued bachelorhood as well,” said Miss Duncan.

Sir Kier’s lips cracked into a hard, smug smile. “I’ll not be caught up in some scheme to entrap me in marriage.”

“I don’t want you,” said Miss Duncan, her words fierce.

“But, Sir Kier, you have to marry Ina,” said Mrs. Coleman.

“You’ve ruined her.”

Ruined. It was a dirty word. An illicit one that conjured up all sorts of images of a young lady’s bad behavior. Very little of it ever fell back on the gentleman involved unless he was caught so publicly he was forced to marry the girl. But that required the lady to have parents with a strong hand. Perhaps if Ina’s mother, Brianna, had still been alive, Moira could’ve coaxed the match, but Brianna had been dead too long, and she doubted Arthur

Duncan ever emerged from his study long enough to pay his daughter any mind.

Still, it was worth a try.

“You will marry Miss Duncan,” said Moira, “or I will see to it that you’re barred from every household of quality in this city and a good number of those in London as well. The women of the ton will put up with a great deal from a gentleman, but they can be formidable when they set their minds to it.”

Fear crept into Sir Kier’s swiftly blackening eyes, but still he held his ground. “You couldn’t do that.”

Moira arched a brow. “Is that a challenge?”

Sir Kier rose to his feet, clutching his bloodstained handkerchief to his nose. “I’ll not be threatened like this.”

“You can’t leave!” cried Mrs. Coleman. “Mrs. Sullivan, make him stop.”

The man sneered. “Try.”

No one moved when Sir Kier marched to the door.

“Excellent,” she said as the door slammed shut. “I’m glad we’ve cleared that up.”

No woman should be saddled with a husband like Kier.

Mrs. Coleman swung round, her eyes pleading. “You must fix this.”

“I plan to,” said Moira.

“This happened under your roof,” Mrs. Coleman continued. “How could you invite such an odious man?”

“Aunt Jacqueline,” Miss Duncan chided, “Mrs. Sullivan isn’t to blame for Sir Kier’s actions.”

“But he was a guest in her home,” her aunt pressed. “If she didn’t keep such inappropriate company, none of this would ever have happened. All of those artists and poets and libertines.”

Clawing her way up the social ladder from poor relation to dancing mistress to wealthy man’s wife until finally she was a woman of independent means had instilled in Moira a higher degree of tolerance for insult than most; however, even she had her limits.

“He wasn’t a guest,” she said, her tone low and warning. “He was brought by someone without my knowledge, and you can be assured there will be consequences. However, those artists and poets you speak so derisively of are welcome in my home, and I will not have them maligned.”

“My apologies. I spoke without thinking,” said Mrs. Coleman quickly. “This is all most distressing.”

At least on that they could agree.

“This still happened under my roof, and I’ll take responsibility for the safety of Miss Duncan.” Moira’s expression softened.

“Did he hurt you?”

The young lady shook her head. “The heel of my hand stings a bit, but that’s because I used it to hit him.”

“Good,” Moira said, even though she could see that the skin exposed by Ina’s ripped cuff was covered in goose bumps from shock. “Then I’m afraid it’s time to face the fact of the matter.”

“What is that?” asked Mr. Barrett.

Moira shrugged. “As Mrs. Coleman says, Miss Duncan must marry.”

* * *

For the second time that evening, it felt as though the bottom had fallen out of Ina’s stomach.

“No,” she said at the same time her aunt said, “It’s high time.”

“No,” she repeated more emphatically. “I don’t want a husband.”

“I’m afraid your options are limited, my dear,” said Mrs. Sullivan gently. “Unless you wish to recede from society.”

For a moment, she weighed the idea. The prospect of sculpting without calls or suppers or balls interrupting her was thrilling, but giving up society would mean losing so much. Already Anne’s mother didn’t approve of her, and she wouldn’t hesitate to bar her daughter from seeing Ina. Lana, an artist’s model, and Christine, an opera singer, would be free of such pressures, but even being seen walking in the park with a ruined woman would eventually wear away at their careers. She’d have to give them up for their sakes. She’d have to give up Gavin.

Her heart ached at the very thought for, although she knew he’d want to stand by her side through whatever came, he couldn’t afford a friendship with a notorious woman. The second son of a baronet who received only a nominal allowance from his father, he’d been supporting himself on the proceeds from his first novel, but she knew those must be drying up. He needed work, and she couldn’t stand the thought that associating with her might make cautious editors think twice about him.

“There must be another way,” she said, twisting her hands.

Mrs. Sullivan shook her head. “I don’t see one.”

The unfairness of the entire situation stung. She’d not fended off three proposals in five years only to end up married to a stranger. What if he disapproved of her sculpting? What if he disapproved of her friendship with Gavin, preferring his wife to keep only female friends so there could be no whispers of impropriety? She couldn’t take those risks.

“I’ll not marry a random man,” she said.

“You should’ve accepted Mr. McDonald’s proposal,” her aunt sniffed.

“I was never going to say yes to him. He wanted me to give up art entirely,” she told Mrs. Sullivan.

“And he’s twice her age,” muttered Gavin from his corner.

“I’m familiar with the gentleman, and I can honestly say that Mr. McDonald would’ve been entirely wrong for you,” said Mrs. Sullivan with a sympathetic smile. “Miss Duncan, I need you to know that what I’m suggesting is in your best interest. You would have been too young to remember this, but I was a friend of your mother’s a long time ago.”

Ina’s heart squeezed in her chest, and her fingers wrapped around the tapes of her crinoline through the heavy fabric of her green skirts to ground her to something—anything—real. Her mother’s friend. There weren’t many women who’d admit to that any longer.

“I didn’t know,” she said, her voice thick.

“She was delightful company—the sort of lady who would’ve been more at home in Paris, where uniqueness is seen as a virtue. You remind me of her in that regard.

“I should have been a better friend to you over the years. I see that now,” said Mrs. Sullivan, “but your father and I were never easy in one another’s company.”

Ina bit her lip to keep from saying, “Not many people are.”

“I want you to know that I’d never try to force a girl to marry if she didn’t wish to, but your situation must be addressed immediately before rumors begin to spread. I can’t pretend that I ever knew your father well, but he’s never struck me as the sort of man who would invite gossip and scandal into his home.”

“No,” she said. Scandal meant interruptions. Interruptions would take him from his manuscript. Anything that did that sent him into a sulk punctuated by periods of anger.

Mrs. Sullivan nodded. “I can help you, if you’ll trust me.”

The funny thing was she did trust this tall, stately woman with stone-gray hair swept back from her forehead and topped with a single, sapphire-encrusted comb. There was something about her manner that was matter-of-fact yet maternal. Mrs. Sullivan was just the sort of person you wanted to tell all of your secrets to, knowing they’d never escape her tightly sealed lips.

“Tell me what I need to do,” said Ina.

Mrs. Sullivan’s smile sparkled. “Good. Now, Mr. Barrett, is there any chance you find yourself in need of a wife?”

Ready for More Romance?

Can’t wait to read the rest of Ina and Gavin’s story? The rest of The Look of Love is available for preorder at major ebook retailers today! Just click on the cover below to find out more!

Also by Julia Kelly

The Matchmaker of Edinburgh Series

The Taste of Temptation (Book #2)

Only desperation could have driven Caroline Burkett to her brother’s home in Scotland, but desperate is exactly what she is. After suing her former fiancé for breaking their engagement and causing a scandal in the papers, her only hope of starting over is to enlist the help of Edinburgh’s famous matchmaker, Moira Sullivan.

Born to a butler and maid, Jonathan Moray fought hard to find his place in Edinburgh society. Now a powerful newspaperman, he can make or break a person’s reputation with his headlines, but Jonathan knows his success isn’t guaranteed. He needs salacious stories to keep his readers enthralled, and Caroline’s story is just the sort to sell papers in droves.

When Moira introduces Jonathan and Caroline at a salon, Caroline knows the editor is exactly the wrong man to associate with if she wants to find a husband and restore her reputation, but even as another, more suitable suitor begins to court her, she can’t deny the power of her attraction to Jonathan. Now she must ask herself if she’s strong enough to choose between the man who can give her a secure, quiet life, or the one who promises her a passion she’s never known.

Releases on February 6, 2018 — Preorder now!

The Governesses Series

The Governess was Wicked (Book #1)

Elizabeth Porter is quite happy with her position as the governess for two sneaky-yet-sweet girls when she notices that they have a penchant for falling ill and needing the doctor. As the visits from the dashing and handsome Doctor Edward Fellows become more frequent, Elizabeth quickly sees through the lovesick girls’ ruse. Yet even Elizabeth can’t help but notice Edward’s bewitching bedside manner even as she tries to convince herself that someone of her station would not make a suitable wife for a doctor. But one little kiss won’t hurt…

Start reading now!

The Governess was Wanton (Book #2)

Mary Woodward, a young veteran governess, has one job: guiding a young debutante through her first season in high society. And up until now, keeping her focus and avoiding temptation has been easy. But never before has the father of her young charge been as devilishly handsome as the single, wealthy Earl of Asten…. Convinced to risk it all, Mary let’s herself enjoy one night of magic at a masked ball in Asten’s arms, but will they both regret everything when the Earl learns her true identity?

Start reading now!

The Governess was Wild (Book #3)

When Lady Margaret Rawson is caught trying to elope with the thoroughly unsuitable James Lawrence, Lord and Lady Rawson decide it’s time to send their daughter away from the temptations of London. The job of delivering the headstrong girl to the family’s isolated Yorkshire estate naturally falls to her governess, Jane Ephram. It should be an easy task, but with the wild Lady Margaret, nothing ever goes according to plan. To make matters worse, Lord Rawson has made it clear that if anything happens to his daughter along the way, Jane will be dismissed without a letter of reference. When Jane finds Lady Margaret’s inn room empty and the charming Lord Nicholas Hollings’s horse missing one morning, she must embark on an adventure of her own with the devilishly handsome baron. Will Jane and Nicholas find Lady Margaret, the scheming Mr. Lawrence, and the missing horse, or will they discover something else entirely?

Start reading now!

About the Author

Julia Kelly is the award-winning author of sexy historical romances about smart women and the men who love them. She also writes fast-paced contemporary sports romance as Julia Blake. She picked up her first romance novel and the bad habit of reading well past her bedtime when she was thirteen. Years later, she decided to try writing books of her own and never looked back.

An Emmy-nominated TV producer and recovering journalist, Julia has called Los Angeles, Iowa, New York, and England home. She never met a pair of stilettos she didn’t love and still stays up too late reading.

The Matchmaker of Edinburgh Series

The Look of Love

The Taste of Temptation

The Governesses Series

The Governess was Wicked

The Governess was Wanton

The Governess was Wild

One Week in Love Series

Seduction in the Snow

The Wedding Week

One Week in December

The Game Changer Series

(Writing as Julia Blake)

Changing the Play