Page 64 of The Duke
Cole swallowed around a dry tongue as he watched her gaze trace the exposed lines of Achilles’ form with naked admiration.
“More of your passion for Greek mythology?”
She shook her head, surprising him yet again with her audacity, even as her lashes swept down. “No, actually, he… reminds me of someone.”
“The Duke of Wellington, I presume? The thing was cast in his honor though, obviously, not in his image.”
“No.” She glanced back up at the imposing statue, and Cole had the absurd notion that she was studiously avoiding his gaze. “Someone else.”
Cole glared at the statue with a renewed distaste for it. It reminded her of someone… Someone she’d apparently experienced in flagrante delicto.
Were he a lesser man he’d be jealous.
But he wasn’t.
Not in the least.
Though he had to admit it a balm to his ego that his physique could rival that of Achilles, at least, this particular rendering of him. The one she so admired. He couldn’t help but wonder what her aesthetic eye would capture if she were to gaze upon him so revealed. Would she see his strength and sinew, or only his impediment?
“I like his stance most of all,” she said, studying it as though she’d done so a thousand times before. “It’s as though the sculptor captured the heartbeat before a great triumph. His shield is brandished in a way that leaves no question that he deflected the blow of his enemy. His sword is readying for a maneuver that he’s mastered. One can almost complete the moment in one’s mind in all its fierce victory, even though other variables are missing.” She finally turned to him, eyes shining with the fanatical enjoyment he’d often envied in the intellectual set.
“It’s the mark of a great artist, don’t you think? To still convey what isnotcaptured on the canvas, or… in the clay or stone, as the case may be. It’s a talent to which I aspire.”
For a moment, Cole forgot where they were or what they were talking about. All he could do was gape at her, as though seeing her for the first time. He could stare into her eyes all day and never catalogue all the hues. The ring at the center of her irises was decidedly brown, and then bled with color to the verdant edge. From a distance, the sunlight turned them green, the moonlight burnished them a silvery-gray, and her tears made them murky as the Thames in a storm.
By what magic, he had no idea, but Lord, did he enjoy the spectacle.
Grace, he realized, was something this woman had in spades.
“And here I thought you merely painted the landscape of your garden,” he murmured, discomfited that his voice seemed to have lowered a few unnecessary octaves.
Her brow puckered again, as it seemed to do when she was distressed. “If I’m honest, I’ve been unable to enjoy my garden since…”
“Lady Broadmore?” he guessed.
She nodded, again avoiding his gaze. “And also, I confess I’ve had the distinct feeling that I’m being spied upon when I’m out there.”
A guilty flush stole from beneath his collar. He’d spent more time than usual at the window with the intent of watching her, but for no other reason than Morley had asked him to, of course.
“Though, I suppose, venturing from the safety and anonymity of my gardens probably does me some good. I not only challenge myself artistically this way, but I endeavor into the unknown potential of the day.” She summoned a sunny smile for him, and again his heart sputtered. “For example, I might chance to meet a newly mended acquaintance, or notice an art gallery I hadn’t previously visited.”
Or happen to be an easy target for an enterprising murderous rapist.
Cole scowled, then opened his mouth to admonish her for her carelessness, but somehow he couldn’t bring himself to cause the death of one more of her winsome smiles.
Instead he said, “As a soldier I had little need or care for the arts. I’m curious, if I were to happen upon a gallery, which paintings are the ones most worth my time and admiration?”
She gave her answer less consideration than he expected. “The paintings with the dustiest frames.”
“Pardon?”
Her smile disappeared regardless of his efforts, and Cole immediately missed it. “Often, when a gallery has a showing, there are those paintings that are advertised by some great master, the ones that draw the largest crowds. Then, the walls are frequently scattered with others of lesser acknowledgment.” She plucked at a loose thread in the violet lace overskirt, her gaze ever more distant. “Patrons often walk past those other paintings with a single-minded idea that the only worthy piece of art is the one coveted by others. But those paintings, the ones with the dusty frames… someone must appreciate them, mustn’t they? Someone should give a thought for them, for the visionary who created them. Else they are returned to the shadows. To a basement somewhere. Locked away. Quite forgotten.” The whites of her eyes turned pink as the lids washed with tears. “Sometimes I can’t bear the thought of it.”
She sniffed, removing her gloves to catch the tears with her fingers before they fell. “Forgive me, Your Grace, I must still be overwrought. Surely you didn’t come here to watch me weep like a silly schoolgirl. Somehow, I can’t seem to help myself. It’s not at all like me. I’ve never—”
Before he realized what he was doing, Cole caught her bare hand in his, and brought it to his lips. His eyes didn’t stray from her face as he kissed the moisture from her fingers, tasting the salt of her sorrow.
Her breath quickened behind her stays, and her gaze darted about the crowded park as though only just realizing what an exhibition they made. “Please don’t be kind to me,” she begged in a husky whisper. “I’ll fall apart in front of everyone. I’ll humiliate us both.”
