Page 41 of His Duchess of Scandal
“You still did not tell me how you met my papa! I really,reallywant to know. And Papa, what did your painting look like? How did it look like Hermia if you did not know her?”
“Phoebe,” the Duke warned, his smirk dropping instantly. “That is enough questioning.”
“No,” Hermia interjected. “She is fine. I understand her curiosity.”
She slowly cut through her meat and took a bite to buy herself some time. She seemed to do a fair amount of that here.
“I do want to know about the painting,” Phoebe sighed. “I am ever so curious, and Papa, I have seen some of your other paintings! Why not this one?”
The Duke tensed at the comment.
Hermia’s curiosity was piqued.
What other paintings?
She had assumed he painted her for pleasure, but this sounded more established. As if making paintings was a common occurrence. But his eyes remained fixed on the table, even though he had not lifted his knife and fork for some moments.
Hermia’s gaze swept along his black tailcoat and equally black shirt and waistcoat. His cravat was stone gray, a dark shade.
He looked macabre. Handsome. A god of shadows, perhaps, come to wrap her up in his mysterious darkness as he had that night?—
Oh, do not be so foolish, Hermia.
His eyes flicked to hers as if he sensed her thoughts. She averted her gaze for a minute to steady her breath.
Those eyes of his…
It was as though they held entire constellations, ever so bright, even in anger. His stoic expressions were sometimes betrayed by those beautiful eyes.
She recalled how they looked, softened in pleasure yet intense.
“Do not look away,”he had told her that night, tilting her chin up.“Keep your eyes on mine.”
And Heavens, she had, even as her lashes fluttered, desperate to close in the throes of pleasure.
Heat crept up her neck, and she chased it down with wine. “I, too, would like to see the painting, actually. I have not seen it, but it appears everybody else in the ton has.”
“Except for me,” Phoebe butted in.
“Neither of you will see it,” the Duke snapped, before softening his voice. “Especially not you, Phoebe. It is not for your eyes at all.”
At that, his daughter looked most upset but said nothing.
“It should be formyeyes,” Hermia insisted. “If I am the subject, then I have a right to see it.”
“You were the subject for a mere, fleeting moment, Duchess,” the Duke replied, his voice clipped. “After that, I simply took inspiration from wherever it struck.”
“Oh, forgive me,” she said coolly. “I hadn’t realized I was so easily replaced by a passing whim.”
He exhaled harshly through his nose. “You’re twisting my words.”
“Am I?” Her eyes flashed. “You paint a scandal, hang it up for the world to gawk at, and somehow I’m not entitled to the smallest sliver of honesty?”
“It was never meant for public display,” he said through gritted teeth.
“And yet it is! Proudly displayed, in fact, making everyone whisper about your mysterious muse. A mystery I’m not even allowed to solve.”
“You are blowing this out of proportion.”
