Page 16 of The Wayward Duke
Caroline searched his eyes. “Why are you doing this?” she whispered.
Julian cupped her face with a tenderness that made her breath catch. Against all sense, she indulged a spark of wild hope he might lower his head and—
But then he withdrew. “Because we’re friends,” he said simply.
Nothing more.
Never anything more.
*
We’re friends.
Friends. What a lie.
Friends did not look at each other the way they did. A friend did not ache to dominate her in every wicked way Julian’s imagination provided. Ever since that first sketch, something fundamental had shifted between them. The space where friendship once dwelled had cracked open, hunger seeping through. Her gaze had ignited him, scorching away platonic bonds until all that remained was need.
Not friends.
He did not want her friendship. Not her kindness or compassion. Those things lived in the light, and what he wanted from her belonged to the shadows. He craved the slide of her body against his, her gasps as he pushed inside her. Wanted herprimauntouched canvas marred by his hands, his mouth. No restraint. No going back.
“A few more minutes to restore your composure,” he said, keeping his tone perfectly pleasant. Propriety in flesh and blood form. He wiped the last of her tears and tucked the handkerchief in his pocket. “Then back to battle. Plenty of dances left.”
Her answering smile didn’t reach her eyes. “Oh yes, I’m sure a queue of suitors is waiting to whisk me away. Maybe I’ll just tell Gracie I want to go home.”
“Don’t flee just yet. I’ve seen a dozen idiots ogling your décolletage tonight.”
And he’d wanted to throttle every last one of those leering dandies.
“Ogling is not the same as offering marriage.”
“Then it’s a good thing you’ve ample charms beyond your bosom, Miss Winslow.”
Her answering laugh sounded brittle as glass. “And yet those manifold charms have not inspired a single suitable offer.”
Julian winced. “Your prospects can’t be that dreadful. Surely, some addled heir is ready to bumble his way into courting you. You might even inspire a baronet’s third son with more hair than wit.”
“Unlikely.” Her mouth twisted bitterly. “My meagre dowry sends most gentlemen leaping for the balcony.”
Julian knew he should jest, make light of it all. But an image flashed through his mind – her slim, talented hands motionless and idle, her paintbrushes abandoned. She’d progressed from artless childhood sketches to true mastery, bringing her visions to life in vivid oils. She’d painted him nude now countless times, and each day he could barely resist kissing her.
“Is your situation truly so dire?” The question tore itself free before he could stop it.
A muscle leaped in her delicate jaw. “With my father’s debts, I’ll be fortunate to catch a cit or a grocer this Season. Though I suppose there are worse fates than being a greengrocer’s wife.” She cast him a sidelong look through her lashes. “I could borrow one of your waistcoats and try my hand at chimney sweeping.”
He could not share her weak attempt at humour. “I see.”
Caroline swallowed and looked away. “It’s fine, Julian. Being a grocer’s wife is better than penury.”
Her bleak acceptance echoed inside him. He had learned life’s harsh lessons early. Life gave less than promised and took far more than its share. Sickness had stolen his family, leaving gaps nothing could mend. And now genteel poverty threatened to rob Caroline of the same – to deprive the world of her brilliance.
The notion was obscene. Intolerable.
“It won’t come to that,” he said. “I won’t let it.”
He could steal this small thing for himself. Gather this rare, bright creature close before she slipped through his fingers. He teetered on the edge of that precipice, poised to ruin them both.
But she was the one who moved first.
