Page 10 of The Duke's Twin
This time she laughed. “Oh heavens, you will be in for quite a surprise, I fear,” she said and dipped one of her brushes in a bit of a paint on the palette he held.
Above them the clear skies were quickly filling with blue-gray clouds heavy with rain. Maybe it would storm and wash away whatever devastation she was about to wreak upon her canvas.
The duke stayed beside her, keeping her engaged with polite conversation about a number of subjects that she was interested in as she studied the landscape for a subject to paint. She decided to go with the lake and a grove of trees. Surely that would not be beyond what little talent she possessed.
“I’m surprised we’ve not crossed paths in town,” Wiltshire noted, taking a stool next to her as she began to paint.
“I’m not a lover of town. At least, not the balls and social engagements.”
“And what are you a lover of?” The silken words flooded her entire body with a dizzying warmth. He was a flatterer, she could tell, but he was choosing to flatterher, and that caught her well off guard. She struggled to think.
“Music, the theater, quiet hours reading in sunshine, riding… What about you?” She masked her curiosity by splashing some blue on her canvas.
Wiltshire struck a thoughtful pose and looked skyward, as though the answers hung somewhere in the clouds.
“Reading and music, though I avoid musicales like the plague. Too many debutantes believe they can sing, and some can make a man’s ears bleed. We could have used such ladies at Waterloo and brought the French to their knees that much sooner.”
Rebecca burst into laughter, dropping her paintbrush by her feet. Wiltshire dove for it and remained on one knee as he picked it up. His free hand toyed with the embroidered hem of her gown, then drifted beneath the fabric, brushing his fingertips over her stocking-clad leg.
She jumped. His featherlight touch lingered a second longer than it should, sending tingles through her body before he withdrew his hand and stood, offering her the paintbrush. She couldn’t help but wonder if his hand had continued to rise… Her parents, sister, and Mr. Beresford couldn’t see them because of the bushes nearby. Scandal be damned—she would have given anything to know what would have happened if it had.
“So…you read?” She attempted to focus by resuming their conversation, hastily slapping gray and blue paint on the canvas in an attempt to look busy.
“Yes. But only the most lurid books.” He winked at her, and her heart skipped a beat as she caught sight of that dimple close to his mouth. “I obsess over Gothics. Now, Miss Livingston, tell me. Why has no man snatched you up? Surely your shuttlecock skills have men flocking to you.”
The blunt honesty of his question shocked her, and she gaped at him. But rather than answer him she turned a question back onto him.
“If you are so eager to marry, as my father believes, why are you not courting my sister instead of allowing your brother to do it for you?”
The duke’s dark brows lifted, and a gleam of surprise flashed in his brown eyes.
“Well…my brother has much more sense than I. He doesn’t walk away from something good. I’m not sensible. I am drawn to things that tempt me.” His face reddened. He slid a finger beneath his cravat, trying to loosen it.
Things that tempt him? Did he mean her or Lydia? Rebecca looked toward Lydia and Beresford. Their heads were bent together, Lydia smiling as she gestured to something on her canvas. She and Beresford made a lovely sight. Another twinge of melancholy and envy fluttered in her chest.
“I say, that is a remarkably well-done elephant,” Wiltshire said, staring at her canvas.
“I beg your pardon?” She looked back at what she’d been painting. Wiltshire pointed to the blurry gray shape on the canvas.
“The elephant. I can see clearly the trunk and… Why are you laughing?”
“It’s not”—snicker—“an elephant”—chortle. “It’s supposed to be thelake.” He soon dissolved into a fit of giggles with her, until the pair of them were both gasping for breath.
“Christ,” Wiltshire moaned and clutched his stomach. “I haven’t laughed that hard in years.”
“Nor have I,” Rebecca admitted.
Seconds later, without warning, the skies opened up and unleashed a torrential rain.
“Oh!” She leapt to her feet, knocking the easel over.
Wiltshire dove to catch the painting. “Your elephant!”
“Leave it. We must get out of the rain.” She had already reached for his hand before she gave it a second thought.
His fingers laced through hers as he took the lead. “Of course. This way.”
They dashed up the slippery green grass from the lake and headed into the gardens. Her parents, sister, and Mr. Beresford all ran back toward the manor. There was a small white gazebo cloaked in climbing ivy and adorned with pale-pink roses. Wiltshire grasped her by the waist and hoisted her up the set of steps and into the center of the structure. Her dress was soaked through, and a shiver racked her. He shrugged out of his coat and helped her put it on. The scent of sandalwood mixed with leather teased her nose. A fluttery warmth stirred in her chest as she snuggled deeper into his coat.
