Page 93 of A Bargain with the Rakish Duke
Beatrice looked at the familiar setup. “I don’t know if I can,” she whispered, her voice barely audible.
“You can,” Catherine insisted softly. “You must. Your art is a part of you, Beatrice. It’s where you find your strength, your voice. Don’t let anyone take that away from you.”
Soon, Beatrice found herself standing before a new canvas, a palette of vibrant colors at her disposal. The sunroom was filled with warm, natural light, and the scent of blooming flowers wafted in through the open windows.
“Remember,” Catherine said softly from her seat nearby, “this is for you and you alone. Let your heart guide your hand.”
Beatrice took a deep breath, closed her eyes for a moment, and then began to paint. At first, her strokes were hesitant, uncertain. But as she allowed herself to sink into the familiar rhythm of creation, something shifted within her.
Colors flowed from her brush—deep blues of sorrow, fiery reds of anger, soft greens of hope. She painted her pain, her frustration, her longing to be understood. The canvas became a mirror of her soul, reflecting the tumultuous emotions she’d been grappling with.
As she worked, she felt a weight lifting from her shoulders. Each brushstroke was an act of catharsis, releasing the pent-up feelings she’d been holding inside. She lost track of time, completely absorbed in her painting.
When she finally stepped back from the canvas, the sun was setting, casting a golden glow over the room. Beatrice gasped softly as she took in her work.
The painting was unlike anything she’d ever created before. It was raw, emotional, and deeply personal. At its center was a figure—clearly her—surrounded by swirling colors and abstract shapes that somehow managed to convey the complexity of her current situation.
Catherine moved to stand beside her, her eyes wide with awe. “Beatrice,” she breathed, “it’s magnificent. I’ve never seen anything quite like it.”
Beatrice felt tears welling up in her eyes, but for the first time in days, they were tears of relief rather than sorrow. “I feel lighter,” she murmured softly. “As if I’ve poured all my turmoil into this painting.”
Catherine squeezed her hand. “That’s exactly what you’ve done, my dear. You’ve reclaimed your art, your voice. This is the true Beatrice, not the mask of Eric Westback.”
As Beatrice stared at her creation, she felt a renewed sense of purpose. This painting represented her truth, her journey. It was a reminder of her strength, her passion, and her resilience.
“Thank you, Catherine,” she said, turning to embrace her friend. “You were right. I needed this more than I realized.”
Catherine smiled warmly. “Sometimes we need to return to our roots to find our way forward. This painting is a testament to your spirit, Beatrice. Don’t lose sight of that, no matter what challenges you face.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
“Beatrice!” Kenneth’s voice echoed through the entrance hall, his tone laced with desperation and exhaustion. “Beatrice, where are you?”
Thomas rushed into the hall, his eyes wide with alarm. “Kenneth, what in God’s name are you doing, screaming bloody murder in my home?”
Kenneth ignored him, his gaze frantically searching the hall as he continued to call out, “Beatrice! Please, I need to see you!”
Thomas grabbed him by the shoulders, shaking him slightly. “What’s the matter with you, man? Have you gone mad?”
“I need to see my wife,” Kenneth said, his voice hoarse from hours of riding without rest. “I have to speak with her, to make things right.”
Catherine appeared at the top of the staircase. “Beatrice doesn’t want to see you, Kenneth. She’s made that quite clear.”
Kenneth’s heart clenched, but he refused to back down. “She should tell me that to my face, Catherine. I won’t believe it until I hear it from her lips.”
Catherine shook her head, her hand resting protectively on her swollen belly. “You’ve hurt her deeply, Kenneth. She needs time to heal, to find her strength.”
Kenneth opened his mouth to argue, but Thomas cut him off, his voice low and warning.
“You will respect my wife’s wishes, Kenneth, and you will respect Beatrice’s need for space. I won’t have you upsetting them further.”
Kenneth clenched his jaw, his hands balling into fists at his sides. He wanted to fight, to demand that he be allowed to see his wife, but the look in Thomas’s eyes made him pause. He knew he was a guest in their home, and he had already pushed the boundaries of propriety by barging in unannounced.
“Fine,” he ground out, his shoulders slumping in defeat. “But I’m not leaving. I’ll stay here until Beatrice is ready to see me.”
Thomas sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Very well. You may stay in the guest wing for tonight. I’ll have a bath drawnfor you because, frankly, you smell like a hedgehog that’s rolled through a fishmonger’s stall.”
Kenneth glared at him, but he couldn’t deny the truth of his words. He was filthy, his clothes stained with sweat and dust from the road.
