Page 3 of The Wayward Duke
Caroline’s lips twisted. “I understand you care very little for our marriage, but I’ve tried to maintain a reputation that doesn’t besmirch yours. I can hardly say the same about you.”
Julian’s eyebrow raised in surprise. “I’ve often complimented you in polite company. Certainly, no one can claim I’ve insulted you.”
A lick of fire burned within her. Eight years of this.Eight years.“You compliment me,” she repeated. “And yet you’re never seen with me, never present in my home, and depart for the Continent the moment Parliament so much as recesses. Now you suggest withdrawing to a distant guest bedchamber while in the same house, as if our servants won’t notice the slight.”
“And do our servants not notice your…slight?” His eyes flickered to the painting of Laurent.
Caroline straightened. “If they notice anything,” she said in French, “it’s that my languages have improved through various tutors.” She switched to German. “You speak this, don’t you?” Then to Italian. “My husband is so well travelled, maybe I hope to find common ground if he should ever deign to put himself in my company.” And then to Spanish. “Or perhaps you’d like to check my progress in mathematics,o debería parar ahora? I have a tutor forthat, as well.”
“Enough with the games.” He lapsed back into German, the language of strategy and science. Of ruthless sensibility. “Just tell me plainly what you want.”
She wanted impossible things. Things lost to the ash and rubble of their grief.
“Board your ship to Italy in four weeks,” she said. “But until then, you’ll play the role of my husband, and we’ll show a united front to society and in our home. We’ll share a bedchamber. You won’t humiliate me in my own house. If all of this poses a problem, I suggest you lie convincingly. I’m sure you can manage.”
His cold blue eyes drifted down her body. “And I suppose you’ll want me to fuck you as well.”
Crude words from an elegant mouth – designed to shock, to push her away.
Caroline stepped closer. “You don’t have to play the dutiful husband behind closed doors,” she snapped.
“One month of pretence then,” Julian conceded, in a tone that promised retaliation. “For the sake of appearances. Does that satisfy you?”
As she scrambled for a response, his attention snagged on the painting of Laurent – and his mask of indifference slammed firmly in place.
This man was not her husband. Not anymore.
“I’ll be out for the day,” he said curtly. “Don’t bother waiting up.”
He strode from the room without a backwards glance.
As though he hadn’t just ripped the foundations out from under her for the second time.
2
The afternoon sun spilled across the redbrick façade of Marlborough House, bathing the building in liquid gold as Julian ascended the front steps. Inside, the butler rushed to greet him and relieve him of his hat and gloves.
“The gallery today, Your Grace?”
“Yes. No need to accompany me. I know the way.” Julian kept his tone clipped.
With purposeful strides, he made his way through the winding halls towards the gallery tucked away at the rear of the house. He knew the route well, had walked these corridors many times over the years, both as a casual visitor and a connoisseur of the fine arts. But today, he knew which paintings he wanted to see.
He prowled down the hall lined with paintings and sculptures, the artworks separated by narrow pillars. Searching.
Until…
A harsh breath escaped his lips unbidden. There. Just as he recalled them. Two canvases tucked against the eastern wall. The first captured Achilles in all his rage and glory, muscles coiled to strike as he stormed the walls of Troy. And the second, of Galatea and Pygmalion in an embrace, Galatea’s marble body thawing to flesh beneath her lover’s touch. Both neoclassical works stood resplendent, evoking an intensity of feeling that seemed to leap from the very artwork itself.
When he’d visited the gallery years ago, he’d been drawn to them. Many were, for the realistic and frank display of the nude human body. But, as always, it was the artistry itself that captivated him. The way shadow and light blended, the delicate precision of every brushstroke, the heady balance of shape and composition. The emotions displayed through the positions of the bodies, the tension in their musculature – elements that seized hold of his senses and refused to let go.
No. Not refuse. Beckon. These were brushstrokes and lighting and a harmony of colours he knew with bone-deep intimacy.
Of course it was her. He had watched her develop her budding skills during their youth, had sat there with her as she blossomed through her talents. And, once upon a time, he had provided the figure for her paintings. Lent her his body in the absence of his skill. He was not an artist – but he loved watching her paint.
Don’t come back. Stop visiting. Just get out and leave me alone.
Julian closed his eyes against the memory. The sudden hollow ache in his chest, as if someone had taken a sharp blade and carved out some vital piece of him.
