Page 20 of Good Duke Gone Hard

“One more.”

“Minute? Hour? Kiss?”

“Yes.”

She looked up at him with endless depths. He could hear them asking for more of him.

Unsure of how to give of a unknown identity, he leaned down and gave the only way he could right now.

The second kiss was slower, deeper. It was a gentle swaying of bodies, swelling of breaths, and flirting of souls. There was no urgency. Time would wait for this kiss.

Chapter 8

TOMARGARETITFELTlike fourteen days rather than a mere fourteen hours since her kiss with Jonathan. She forced herself to stay distracted, at least for the morning, before answering the bellpull of her heart to go find him.

So she sat in the garden with her watercolors, painting some of the last aster and dahlia blooms of the year. Despite her impatience at times, painting often, like today, calmed her nerves.

Enwrapped in the decision between amethyst and aubergine, Margaret didn’t hear the light tread on the gravel until the smooth baritone was directly behind her.

“Margaret,” it sang. “Lovely day for painting.”

The jolt from his voice flew up her arm and turned her aster into an aubergine.

She inhaled deeply and changed her paper to start again. Only, for the life of her, she couldn’t see asters anymore, only aubergines.

“Yes, there are only a few weeks left of weather suitable for painting outdoors for the year. I thought I would take advantage.”

“May I join you?”

She hesitated for only a second before the competitive side in her wanted to challenge Jonathan to a painting wager. Okay, she wasn’t actually going to wager anything, but she still wanted to see his weight’s worth in paint. “Alright. Have one of the footmen bring out an extra easel. Let’s see what you can do.”

“Haven’t seen enough then?” His smile shone right through her heart, warming her inside out.

“Off with you, and don’t dally.” She waved her arm dismissively.

Placing himself in her direct line of sight, he teased, “Do I look like a dallier?”

The small gauntlet had been thrown, so she took it up by eyeing him slowly head to foot, “Most definitely.”

He laughed as he strode off in search of a footman.

After fifteen minutes, Margaret observed Jonathan sitting stiffly with a brush in hand, staring at the blank sheet.

“The only way to know if you can paint is for you to try it.”

“Yes, I’m just trying to find my muse.” He paused to look around the garden. “Tell me, why do you paint?”

The question was innocent enough, but it caught Margaret unawares. Why did she paint? Because her mother had made her. Because her mother had paid for a tutor. Because it was what all genteel ladies did. Truly, Margaret could have stopped at any time. Why hadn’t she?

There was a stillness to painting. To creating first in her mind what she wanted to produce on paper. There was a production to painting. To giving of and expressing herself through color. And there was a beauty to painting. To interpreting, crafting, and capturing a final image.

Aloud, she said, “It’s quiet.”

Their eyes met briefly, and she knew he was waiting to hear more from her. He wanted to listen to her, and for some reason that was enough of an argument to choose to open up to him.

“It stills my mind, if only for a short while.”

“And then?”

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