Page 25 of Must Love Dukes
“You did.” His breath danced over her cheek. “You’re blushing, Miss Bell.”
“The greenhouse is overly warm.” Muriel lifted a brush, pointing it at the canvas. “I’m ready to paint. You arrived at a most fortuitous time.”
“Aren’t you going to ask where I ran off to?”
“None of my affair,” came her flippant reply as he approached the canvas, studying her sketch with a tilt of his head.
“Leaves for my hair, which I suppose makes a great deal of sense, given you keep insisting I’m a mighty oak.”
“I don’t believe I ever said ‘mighty’, Your Grace.”
His eyes narrowed. “Wait, is that a lemon for my ear?” Buxton seemed somewhat taken aback. “I don’t mind the olives. But the radish for my nose is completely wrong.”
“It isn’t.” Muriel turned back to study the canvas. She’d spent hours on the radish. “Once I employ color and shading?—”
“The shape, Miss Bell. It should look something like my nose, should it not?” He took his seat before her and tapped the end of his nose. “Somewhat?”
“Well, yes. But?—”
“And it does not. Fix my radish nose, please.” Buxton’s fingers drummed on one thigh. “I insist.”
“I hardly think you are qualified to critique my drawing, Your Grace. You are not a student of Arcimboldo. And…it is hardly my fault you were not here the last few days. I had to work without a model. Draw from memory.”
“Prickly, aren’t you Miss Bell? I’ll put that down to missing me. Very well, I appreciate the inspiration to use peas as buttons for my coat. A bit small, but I suppose they’ll do.”
Muriel gritted her teeth. “Clearly, those are olives, Buxton, not peas. Green olives.” She breathed through her nose. “Your Grace.”
“Frankly, I don’t see it. But olives are more acceptable than peas. Can you imagine such tiny buttons on a gentleman’s coat? Well…” He held up a broad palm. “I suppose you could. You imagine a great many odd things, I think, Miss Bell. How is Todson, by the way?”
Peas. Was Buxton blind?
“Much the same.” A small falsehood, given Todson’s attentions had turned completely to Miss Phipps, though she didn’t want to admit as much. “Lady Savorton informed the guests that you and Lord Savorton were paying a visit to a friend. So your absence did not concern me.”
“You aren’t the only one in need of aid, Miss Bell,” Buxton’s tone was mild, though his gaze never left hers. “There are times when only a duke can…facilitate matters. But never fear, I would never abandon you to Todson.”
But Murielhadconsidered as much. That Buxton might simply decline to return the house party—after all, he didn’t enjoy house parties. He could have fled back to London. “I knew you would return for the portrait.”
“Among other things,” Buxton purred in that blatantly sensual way which had her insides twisting about. “Now…” He leaned back and crossed his legs. “Carry on. If I dose off, nudge me with your foot or something.”
Two hours later, Muriel paused, looking between Buxton and the canvas. The light streaming through the windows had dimmed somewhat, which had thrown off the shading of the leaves for his hair. Rain was coming. But if nothing else, the group of spectators peering at them would be forced inside. Including Lady Lavinia, who had once more returned to furiously pace before the greenhouse without pretending to do so. She’d pause every so often to glare at Muriel.
“Don’t worry,” Buxton drawled, casting a glance to Lady Lavinia. “She wouldn’t dare interrupt and risk my displeasure.”
“Because if she does, you won’t offer for her?” Muriel asked boldly, dabbing her brush in the pinkish red she’d mixed for the radish. Buxton had said he wasn’t enamored of Lavinia, comparing her to a vase—rather impolite. But he might have changed his mind.
“Weren’t you listening the other day?” He stretched out his legs. “If I must take a wife, I prefer one for whom I have a depth of feeling. I like Lavinia. She’s lovely to look at. But that is the extent of things, I fear.” He shot her a wicked look. “You need not be envious of Lavinia.”
“I’m not,” she bit out, which was entirely untrue. But his words didn’t make her feel a great deal better. There could be someone in London.
I don’t care.
“My father often told me that the best decision he ever made was wedding my mother, though he’d known her only one day.”
“One day?” Muriel looked up from the canvas.
“His Grace said it wasn’t love immediately, but the promise of it. He knew he would love her madly, given enough time. And he did, until they both perished in a carriage accident. Together. Which is fitting, since my parents were rarely apart.” Grief flashed across his handsome features before the arrogant smirk returned.
“You miss them.” Muriel understood. She still missed her mother, though Nora had tried to be a fitting substitute.
