Page 37 of A Bargain with the Rakish Duke
Kenneth straightened up, his eyes narrowing in irritation. “What is it?” he barked.
The butler entered the room with a respectful bow. “My apologies, Your Grace. The new saddles for your horses have arrived. I was instructed to inform you immediately.”
Kenneth’s jaw tightened, but he nodded curtly. “Thank you, Jennings. I’ll see to it.”
He cast one last intense glance at Beatrice before turning on his heel and striding out of the room.
Beatrice stood there, breathless and confused, her emotions a tangled mess of longing and frustration.
As the door closed behind Kenneth, she leaned against the bedpost, trying to steady her racing heart.
The encounter had left her more uncertain than ever. The tension between them was undeniable, and she couldn’t ignore the intense attraction that simmered beneath their constant bickering.
What is happening to me?
Chapter Twelve
“What should I paint?” Beatrice asked herself as she set up her easel near the window, allowing the soft, natural light to illuminate her canvas.
She handpicked her brushes and arranged her palette, her fingers deftly mixing colors. The familiar scent of oils and the smooth texture of the canvas beneath her hands brought her a sense of calm, images and shades already flashing through her mind as she stared out the window at the sea.
She longed to paint the stunning coastline in front of her, but she knew it was too risky. Someone might recognize the landscape, and her secret identity as Eric Westback could be exposed. She needed a subject that resonated deeply with her yet was far enough from her current surroundings.
A memory surfaced, bringing with it a wave of nostalgia. Her family had visited Cornwall when her father was still alive. Those were happier times before Patrick’s violent actions had cast ashadow over their lives. The rugged cliffs and wild, untamed beauty of the Cornish coast had always stayed with her.
Beatrice dipped her brush into the paint and sketched the outline of the cliffs, the strokes coming naturally as she recalled the vivid details of that visit. The crashing waves, the vibrant hues of the sea, and the windswept grass all came to life under her brush. She lost herself in the process, the act of painting providing an escape from the complexities of her current situation.
Several hours later, she stepped back from the canvas, assessing her progress. The rough idea of the painting was beginning to take shape, the familiar rhythm of her brushstrokes providing a sense of accomplishment. However, as she looked down, she realized she was covered in paint. Her hands were stained with vibrant hues, and several splatters of various colors covered her dress.
Her mind raced. If she went out into the corridor, all the servants would see her. Even if she claimed she was a hobby painter, someone might grow curious and discover her secret. She needed to keep everything under wraps.
Poking her head out the door, making sure her paint-covered arms and dress stayed hidden, she scanned the corridor.
Spotting a maid passing by, she cleared her throat softly to get her attention. “Excuse me, could you come here for a moment?”
The maid turned, her eyes widening slightly at the sight of the Duchess peeking through the partially open door. She hurried over, curiosity evident on her face. “Yes, Your Grace?”
“Could you fetch the housekeeper for me, please?” Beatrice asked, her voice low and urgent.
The maid nodded quickly. “Of course, Your Grace. Right away.”
She hurried off down the corridor, the sound of her footsteps echoing off the stone walls.
Beatrice closed the door behind her and leaned against it, a smile tugging at her lips despite the situation. She glanced at her paint-covered hands and let out a soft laugh. This was certainly not how she had imagined spending her first few weeks as a duchess.
A few moments later, Mrs. Whitfield arrived, her expression one of mild confusion. Beatrice let her in quickly, shutting the door behind them.
The housekeeper’s eyebrows shot up when she saw the stains on the Duchess’ arms and dress. Her eyes widened further as she took in the sight of the canvas and art supplies spread across the room.
“Your Grace, I thought you were resting,” she began.
Beatrice smiled sheepishly. “I was… busy, but I need your help with something. I must ask you not to tell anyone about this hobby of mine.”
The housekeeper looked puzzled. “Why would you want to hide such a harmless activity?”
“Please, Mrs. Whitfield,” Beatrice implored. “Just go along with it and keep it from the Duke. It’s important to me.”
Mrs. Whitfield hesitated, clearly reluctant. “I don’t feel comfortable going behind His Grace’s back, Your Grace. If he ever finds out…”
