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Curator’s Note: She enters not as duchess, but as provocation personified—a sovereign blaze wrapped in red linen and velvet legacy. Behind her, the fireplace roars in silent echo, a witness to decades of scandal, wit, and reinvention. The robe is art, the cleavage a cavern of command. Her chin angles like punctuation on a scandalous sentence, her eyes the footnotes—flirtatious, knowing, burning with archival intent. This is no portrait. It is performance. She doesn’t seduce—she enthralls. She doesn’t reign—she combusts. A matriarchal flame flickering just above decorum, casting shadows long enough to sculpt memory. To behold her is to stand trial in her court of spontaneity and smoulder. To capture her is to admit that the crown was never worn—it was wielded.
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