Page 48 of His Duchess of Scandal
But this—this new style he had adopted ever since meetingAphroditeat Anton Bentley’s party, the woman he was now married to, was new.
He gazed upon the canvas he had been working on. It was another painting of Hermia, except it was also not.
The concept was born from what she stirred inside him, but a part of him was scared to put her features on canvas. So he painted them in the most delicate, subtle of ways: the freckles beneath her left eye became stars—a constellation for a constellation. He took the chocolate-brown shade of her hair and made it the base color of thread that he painted throughout the canvas, as if he could connect one part of Hermia to the next.
At the center of the canvas was the ruby-red of the wine she had served during the dinner she had organized during her first week at Branmere Hall.
He drew a heart in that shade, for that was how it felt—a heart that was so marred with scars, still leaking, but not blood. No, the heart leaked shadows, for his desire was as dark as night.
He painted the texture of silk that ribboned across the canvas… and he lost himself in his work.
Christian Dawson took over and poured every thought, every desire, and as he finished up his piece for the day, he carefully reconstructed himself back into the Duke of Branmere.
Desire was replaced with duty, and heat with coldness that would keep him safe.
Chapter Twelve
“Iwanted to order you a drink before you arrived, but I now believe I might have to order you several.”
Charles shifted his gaze, unimpressed and unamused, to Levi, who only smirked at him.
“I am fine,” he told him. “One will do. One, for the duration of this conversation.”
“I see.” Levi chuckled. “I am on a time limit. Is your wife keeping you so busy now?”
Charles ignored him and took his seat.
Around them, the Wayside Inn was not too busy at such an hour, especially with dusk hanging over the sky. Too many would be hurrying home to start work at dawn in Fernsham, the village over from Branmere.
Levi was dressed more casually in a shirt and breeches, but Charles maintained his usual full outfit. He only forwent formalities when he worked in his study, but otherwise, they continued to be his armor.
“Oh, come on,” Levi pressed. “You must tell me about her! She was very lovely when I spoke with her after your wedding. I dare say it ought to happen again.”
“I dare say it ought not to.” Charles nodded to the bartender, signaling for two drinks to be brought to their table.
They frequented the inn often, for Fernsham was a perfect place for the two to meet between business in London and other matters at their respective country estates.
“I am certain your wife will want to invite me for dinner.” Levi pulled a face, as if he wouldn’t believe anything Charles said anyway. “I am interested in getting to know more about her.”
And I am interested in seeing less of her.
It had been a week since the clover incident, and Charles had found it difficult to approach either Hermia or Phoebe. Phoebe, who teared up whenever she saw him, even when he tried to show her that he had pressed the clover into a small, glass box.
“That is not where my interest lies,” he muttered.
He was aware of his friend’s eyes on him, silently questioning, while their drinks were placed down before them.
Once the server retreated, he was left to sip his drink and hope it would slow his racing mind.
“Mine lies in my daughter. She is… I do not—God, I cannot even describe it properly.”
“Phoebe will be Phoebe,” Levi said, as if it were so simple. “She is the furious wind that sets a forest aflutter. She scatters leaves and delights in their lack of formation once she is done.”
Much like Hermia.
Before Charles could shut down that thought, Levi caught him.
“You think the same of the Duchess,” he guessed.
