Page 22 of Must Love Dukes
“Miss Bell could never do so, my lady,” he said smoothly before Muriel could protest. “Allow me to direct you to one of the tables set up on the terrace. You’ll be pleased, I think.”
Good lord, he was really good at that. Leading about females. Disarming them. Not Muriel, of course, but the others. Nora was speechless, blushing like a schoolgirl at his attention.
Muriel marched to the greenhouse and stepped inside, breathing deeply of the orange scented air as she entered. Buxton was right. This was the perfect place to sketch him, far better than the gardens. Not only would they not have to worry about rain, but there was a line of orange trees and what lookedlike an entire box of tomatoes, the plump red orbs dripping from the plants.
Muriel stopped short, considering the tomatoes.
Perhaps for his cheeks?
Not a moment later, the air in the greenhouse shifted. Cedar and spice mixed with the scent of the oranges. Muriel stayed perfectly still at Buxton’s approach, her form vibrating with awareness.
“Where do you want me, Miss Bell?” he purred, sending a delicious quiver trailing down her spine.
“Must every word you speak be laced with innuendo, Your Grace?” Spinning about, Muriel brandished a bit of charcoal, only to be met with those startling eyes, greener than the leaves of the lemon tree to her right. There was a bit of indecency in them, which Buxton made no attempt to hide.
“Part of my charm, Miss Bell.”
“Dubious charm.” She did her best to ignore the sparks lighting against her skin and struggled to keep her heart from racing. He was only a gentleman, much like…Epcot, for instance. No matter how spectacular. “Just there, I think.” She pointed to a bench beneath an orange tree. “Your Grace,” she added.
“Ah, I hadn’t thought of tomatoes.” Sunlight streamed through the glass of the greenhouse, striking Buxton’s shoulders and turning the curls around his ears to burnt copper. The light dipped along the line of his jaw, highlighting the slash of cheekbones, making his gaze that much more feline.
Muriel’s pulse skipped once more.He is really quite…stunning.
“I’m considering incorporating tomatoes into your cheeks,” she replied in an authoritative manner.
A low chuckle filled the greenhouse. “Of course you are.” Amusement gleamed in the depths of his eyes, along with something else.
Goodness.
Last night, Muriel had considered why Buxton would ask for a kiss as part of the payment for helping her with Todson. The portrait, she completely understood. He found her hobby to be eccentric. Could he be…attracted to her?
Don’t be foolish.
Muriel hadn’t fallen all over him upon their first meeting. To Buxton, that in itself must have been a small blow to his ego. The only reason he might ask for a kiss? To make a point.
Yes, that was it.She nodded to herself. His arrogance wouldn’t allow for anything else.
Buxton took a seat on a nearby bench, crossed his legs, and made an exaggerated pose. “Like this, Miss Bell?” Lifting his chin, he pretended to look down on her. “Appropriately ducal?
A laugh escaped her. Buxton liked to be dramatic and possessed a flair for ridiculous behavior. Not what she would have expected from a duke, though pretending a relationship with a young lady to save her from the clutches of Todson wasn’t either.
“Perfect.” She settled across from him on a stool she’d found by the potting bench, sketchpad and charcoal in hand. “I must draw you first, Your Grace.”
“Where will the radish go?” He tapped the end of his nose. “Here?”
“Too obvious,” she informed him crisply. “You are overly concerned about radishes, Your Grace.”
Buxton shrugged. “I like them, Miss Bell. Roasted or not. Sliced. A bit of salt.”
“Stop speaking,” she instructed. “I need you to remain still.” He was already distracting enough without his witty remarks.
“You are exceptionally authoritative, Miss Bell.” His voice was like the low rumble of a waterfall, making her insides twist in a delicious way. “I find I like it.”
“Be still, Buxton.”Drat. “I mean, Your Grace.”
His eyes followed Muriel’s movements as the bit of charcoal in her grasp moved across the paper, quickly outlining Buxton’s magnificent set of shoulders and broad chest. The greenhouse went silent except for the muted sounds of the other guests outside on the lawn. The minutes ticked by as Muriel focused on the portrait of Buxton, considering what else besides tomatoes and radishes she might use to paint him. Olives, somewhere. Perhaps in place of the buttons on his coat.
“Why don’t you wish to marry, Miss Bell?”
