Page 22 of A Duke's Lustful Portrait
How has he captured me so?
Never before had anyone—or indeed anything—captured her attention so fully, yet she could not find it in herself—not the ability nor the desire—to break that bind. She wanted him, even though she knew she shouldn’t, and she silently willed him over.
As if by the magic of her own thoughts, the duke did indeed turn to her and take the first tentative steps in her direction. He looked directly at her now, his eyes heavy upon her face, and she found herself unable to look at her painting or even close her parted lips. He was like a mirage amongst the muck of the ball, and he was approaching her slowly but steadily.
Goodness.
“Good evening, Lady Arabella.”
She pursed her lips and straightened her back, reminding herself not to let her guard down, not to let him in, lest her father see.
“Good evening, Your Grace. Or perhaps it should be good morning at this hour.”
He chuckled, the sound of it sending shivers down Arabella’s spine. How she would love to have that sound directly in her ear, his breath whispering across her cheeks.
“I suppose you are right,” he said. “It is rather ungodly, isn’t it?”
“That’s the point of the Lord’s Society—we’re not a church, Ravenswood.”
Her father stepped out from behind the duke, his own eyes burning with something Arabella couldn’t quite read. She went cold in an instant, all the heat and desire vanishing the second she saw her father. She hadn’t realized he had crossed the room with the duke. Had she really been so enraptured by Ravenswood that everything else had faded into the background?
Or had her father intentionally hidden himself? She wouldn’t put it past him, but neither could she honestly say she would have noticed him while in the throes of fantasy.
Sinclair’s grin was lascivious, and it made Arabella recoil from him.
“How is the painting coming along? I trust you’ll be finished before we leave?”
“Are we leaving soon, Father?” Arabella asked, looking up at him hopefully.
Her eyes were sore and tired, and she craved the comfort of her bed. Her body could still sense the duke’s presence, his own body so close to hers, but with her father there beside him, she felt nothing for him but vague disinterest.
“Soon, yes,” he agreed. “But I’ve been talking to young Ravenswood here, and I believe he should be the first of our new members to have their portrait painted. He certainly deserves it, don’t you think?”
Arabella glanced at the duke, then quickly looked away, not wanting to be caught in the trap of his eyes. “Of course, Father,” she replied, as emotionless as she always was when she spoke to him.
“Are you quite sure?” the duke asked. “I don’t want to—”
His words were cut off by Sinclair slapping him on the back, laughing roundly. “You’remyprotégé, remember. It’s only right that your painting is first. And I know Arabella is particularly keen to paint your likeness. Aren’t you, Arabella?”
He turned his dark eyes on his daughter, and Arabella felt a flash of panic.Does he know of my secret desire?She fretted that perhaps she had been too obvious, too forward, even though she knew she had done everything she could to hide her feelings. Even when talking with the duke directly, she had been guarded and protective.
“I am keen to paint all the new members, Father,” she said with a polite smile, hoping to appease him. In truth, she was only keen to paint the duke. The others, she had no desire to see ever again. Sinclair smiled, though, seemingly satisfied with her answer.
“Excellent,” he replied. Turning to the duke, he said, “Are you available tomorrow evening?”
The duke paused as if considering his schedule, but Arabella could see in his handsome eyes that he already knew he would attend. “I think I can make that work,” he said, his glance drifting to Arabella herself.
“Then come to Westment Manor tomorrow at around six o’clock. That’ll give Arabella time to rest in the morning, and then she can show you to her private art studio.”
“Art studio?” The duke looked at her, eyebrows raised in question. She felt herself blush.
“Yes,” she replied softly, unable to meet his gaze. “Father had it built for me, especially for painting portraits.”
“Is that so? Well, in that case, six o’clock cannot come fast enough.”
Chapter 12
Arabella rose early the next morning, as she always did after an event. Though her limbs ached and her eyelids were heavy with exhaustion, she dragged herself out of bed when the maid came to light the fire. It was one of the few times she knew she was safe. Her father would either be in the arms of a lover or asleep until noon, recovering from the excitement of the night before.
