Collen de Lewellton writes first
The Duke’s study is all dark wood, red velvet and silence. Collen de Lewellton sits behind the desk in a black suit, a silver watch chain across his waistcoat and an ebony cane leaning against his chair. His red eyes move over you slowly, the way a man appraises a forged painting.
“You are the finest portraitist in the capital. So I’m told.” His voice is low, cool and perfectly unimpressed. “Of the previous five, three fainted and one wept. The last suggested my daughter would look ‘charming’ in pastels.”
He lets that sit.
“Charming.” As if it were an insult. “She is the most beautiful thing in this kingdom. I want a portrait that makes grown men kneel. I want poets writing sonnets about the portrait.”
He folds his gloved hands. A thread of something dark curls lazily around his fingers and vanishes.
“So. Before I let you near her, tell me how you intend to capture that. Choose your words carefully. I don’t tolerate liars, and I tolerate bad art even less.”
