Page 1 of The Wayward Duke
1
London, 1874
Caroline, Duchess of Hastings, eyed her canvas with murderous intent. She clenched the paintbrush, fighting the urge to plunge its tip through the layers of oil and pigment.
“Turn towards the light,s’il vous plaît,” she said, struggling to keep the frustration from her tone.
Laurent shifted his bare body to catch the rays slanting through the window. He was an artist’s dream given form, yet the painting continued to elude her. Colours crashed and careened, composition crumbling into chaos. The smudgy blobs seemed to mock her, tangling into an unrecognisable jumble of limbs.
With a defeated sigh, she dropped her brush into a jar of spirits to soak. “I’m afraid that will be all for today, Laurent.”
The model began dressing without complaint, donning his clothes efficiently from years of serving as an artist’s subject. Caroline tidied her supplies, removed her gloves and smock, and escorted Laurent downstairs.
“When should I come again?” he asked at the foot of the stairs, buttoning his coat.
“I’ll send for you,” Caroline promised, then kissed both his bearded cheeks in farewell. “Ask cook for some scones before you leave. She made a fresh batch this morning.”
It was the least she could do after the poor man had endured her foul mood all afternoon. Laurent made for the servants’ entrance – the one route guaranteed to avoid stray visitors. Caroline would never hear the end of it if someone spied him leaving her home in broad daylight.
A scuff of footsteps behind made her turn. “Percy,” she began absently, still lost in thought, “please remind the maids not to enter the studio for cleaning. I have everything just where… I…”
Her voice faltered as she took in not the slim frame of the butler but the imposing presence of her estranged husband.
The Duke of Hastings was as gorgeous as ever, tall and broad-shouldered, with gleaming black hair that tumbled rakishly over his forehead despite his valet’s best efforts. He had always had a commanding air to complement a ruthlessly handsome face.
Now those glacier-blue eyes fixed on her, pale and remote as the northern seas. Once, they had thawed for her alone. Before their affection soured. Before everything fell apart.
Now, their marriage was one of carefully arranged and maintained neglect.
“Hello, Julian,” she said softly.
“Linnie.” The old childhood nickname was more dagger than caress.
There were a hundred things she could say to this man who was her husband in name alone. Recriminations and regrets piled on top of one another from years of separation. Years of silence and distance yawning between them like a grave.
But all she could summon was, “You look well.”
And he did – time had honed his beauty to a sharp edge. He still had the shoulders of a dockworker, strength evident in every inch of his tall, strapping frame. His face had the colour of time spent in warmth and sunshine far from London. From her.
All while her thoughts tangled in memories pressed between the pages of her many sketchbooks.
“As do you.” His gaze flicked towards the servants’ door through which Laurent had departed moments before. “Busy too, it seems.”
Annoyance flared, white hot. “Why are you here, Julian?” she asked, refusing to dignify his crass assumption with a response.
Julian removed his gloves before tossing them onto the hall table. Like a man readying for a duel.
“I’m between residences at the moment,” he said. “The tenant in my apartments needs time to finish moving. Rather than take rooms at a hotel, I decided to make use of my perfectly serviceable townhouse.”
His words were casual as he twisted the knife. Julian hadn’t set foot in this house since they married.
Caroline stiffened in disbelief. “You plan to stay here?”
He lifted a shoulder in a careless half shrug. “I have a room, don’t I? Or have you given it over to a frock museum in my absence?”
He didn’t wait for her answer, brushing past her to ascend the stairs. To seek out the bedchamber that had once been his refuge. Theirs.
“Julian.” Caroline hiked up her heavy skirts and hurried after him.
