Page 23 of The Wayward Duke
“Scolding my painting.” Caroline forced her lips into a brittle smile. “You look tired. That cryptogram still plaguing you?”
“Unfortunately. Though I confess it wounds my pride to be bested by random symbols on paper.”
“I’d offer to help, but I’d likely only hinder you today.” She waved a hand at the abomination on her easel. “As you can see, I’m busy attempting to insult this painting into submission.”
He crossed the room on silent feet to stand beside her, and it took every ounce of her self-control not to reach out and trace the ink stains marring his elegant hands.
“And have your criticisms yielded any improvement?” His voice was cool, stripped of anything telling.
Caroline tossed her ruined gloves onto the nearby table. “God, no. It’s an offence to painters everywhere.” She pinched the bridge of her nose against the building pressure headache. “I ought to just quit now.”
“You’ve always been unnecessarily harsh on yourself,” he said.
“I’m serious. The proportions are atrocious. I’ve somehow made an attractive model look like some lumbering behemoth. With a face like a potato.”
“But your technique is flawless. It’s not without merit.”
“You’re being kind,” she said. “Go on, give me your honesty. Tell me what you really think of this monstrosity.” She crossed her arms, half hoping he’d tear the awful piece apart and give her an excuse to be rid of it. “You had no words for how I painted the subject.”
But Julian only stepped nearer, so close she could feel the heat of him. “My preferences on subject matter may be somewhat biased where your art is concerned.”
Are you jealous?she wanted to ask.Or do you wish I’d paint you again?Questions unspoken but pulsing against her skin like endless heartbeats – each one a plea, a prayer, a stinging accusation.
“Biased?” Her voice emerged thready.
“You mistake the root of the problem,” Julian murmured. “It’s not your technique. It’s the emotion. What do you feel when you look at him?” His eyes raked over the painting of Laurent.
She swallowed, a strange tightness settling in her chest. “Nothing.”
“And what do you feel when you look at me?”
Everything. Alive.
Ruined. Like you’re going to leave me shattered again once you board that damned ship to Italy.
Another shuddering breath left Caroline, pain crackling through her sternum. “I don’t know.” The lie scorched her throat.
“You don’t know.” His words were soft, but they fell between them like stones sinking to the bottom of a dark lake. Silent accusations.
Because they had softened towards one another in recent days but those were the words of two people irreparably altered. Two people forced to lie and evade, to shield themselves behind armour that had become second skin.
Before she could react, Julian grasped the hem of his shirt and peeled it off in one smooth motion. Revealed the expanse of smooth skin and lean muscle, the play of light across the hard planes of his abdomen. A body she knew intimately.
Her mouth went dry. “What are you doing?”
Julian lifted his shoulder in a careless shrug. Like this was nothing. “Taking off my clothes. What does it look like I’m doing? Or has it been so long that you’ve forgotten how this goes?”
Forgotten?She wanted to laugh. Or maybe scream. There wasn’t enough wine or laudanum in the world to erase him from her memory.
“Why, is what I meant.”
“That painting is a disaster, and I know from experience that we work well together. You’ve helped me with my cryptograms, so I’ll help with your art.” His stare turned mocking. “And since you can’t even put your feelings for me into words, it shouldn’t be a problem, should it?”
Julian’s eyes locked with hers, burning into her, as he flicked the buttons of his trousers open and let them fall to the floor.
His body was a work of art, and Caroline ached to reach out and touch him. The scar high on one shoulder from a childhood tumble. The thin silvery line across a hip where her nails had dug crescents into tender flesh. But she didn’t dare move.
Julian stepped closer. “Flushed skin. Racing pulse. Shallow breathing,” he murmured, bending to nip the tender spot where her neck met her shoulder. Caroline couldn’t stifle a gasp. “You don’t know how you feel about me, my duchess? I think you’re a liar.” Julian reached for a piece of charcoal and pressed it into her trembling hand. “Now draw.”
