Page 25 of A Duke's Lustful Portrait
The same answer came to him every time he asked himself that question.Lady Arabella.Her presence—her very existence—made things all the more difficult for Sebastion. He liked her, damn it, and he didn’t want to like her. He wanted touseher, and he wanted to see her father severely punished.
Perhaps that’s what she wants, too.
He shook his head and reached forward to pull the rope of the large brass bell. Before he could make a sound, though, the door opened.
“Ah, Your Grace,” the butler said with a bow. “Six o’clock on the dot. The Duke of Westment very much appreciates punctuality.”
“As do we all,” Sebastian said, feeling his old confidence returning to him. The late Duke of Ravenswood had taught him well.
“Shall I take your hat and cloak, Your Grace?”
“No, no!” Sinclair called the words, his footsteps ringing across the floor as he marched to them. Sebastian’s hand paused midway to his hat. “Keep them, Ravenswood. You’re having your portrait painted, remember? You want to look every inch the dashing gentleman!”
Sebastian grinned and pulled off his hat all the same, handing it to the short, stout butler.
“I’d rather have a relaxed portrait if I’m honest. How does one keep one’s head so straight for so long anyway? The darned thing would only fall off.”
Sinclair laughed, joining them at the entrance. “I do like how quickly you slough off expectations, Ravenswood. Follow me. Arabella is already in the studio, setting herself up.”
As they walked through the house, Sebastian couldn’t help gaping. He’d seen it at the ball, of course, but in the cold light of day, it felt all the more luxurious and decadent. The ceilings were so high that Sebastian felt they were in a church, and the hallways lined with blood-red carpets so thick he wanted to take off his shoes and bury his toes in them.
The walls were lined with oil paintings and watercolours, some clearly in Lady Arabella’s style, others much older than that.
“Your first portrait will hang in the Lord’s Society’s private chambers, of course,” Sinclair said over his shoulder as he moved fluidly through the corridors. “But if you want to have any further portraits done—for a reasonable fee, naturally—then you are free to do what you wish with them.”
Ah, yes, the private chambers. Sebastian had almost forgotten about them, though he was eager to see them for himself. He hated the thought that his likeness would hang there amongst the other members of this sordid society, but he reminded himself that it would not be long before he could take it down again—perhaps take them all down.
Once I’ve removed Sinclair from power.
“Here we are.” Sinclair put his hand on the brass doorknob and turned back to grin at Sebastian. “Are you ready?”
No.He’d never had his portrait painted before, not by anyone, but if Sinclair knew that, he’d ask questions Sebastian couldn’t answer.
“It’s hardly my first time now, is it, Sinclair? Shall we just get on with it?”
Sinclair laughed. “Direct and to the point. A man after my own heart.”
He twisted the handle, and the door swung open.
The breath left Sebastian’s body. The room was exactly as he’d pictured it—a large leather chair upon which to arrange himself, a line of paints and brushes at the ready, the canvas settled on the easel, a fire burning lightly, and the flicker of candlelight. And Lady Arabella.
It was the latter that took his breath away. He had not forgotten how beautiful she was, but he had forgotten the impact it had on him—physically and otherwise. She had her back to him as she prepared herself, but he could already feel that ethereal pull towards her. Her hair was pinned up, revealing the sophisticated curve of her neck, the roundness of her thin shoulders, and the way her back curved slightly beneath her light cotton gown.
And then she turned to face him, and once more, the breath was snatched from his throat. She smiled, sweet and innocent but nervous and unsure all at the same time. Her cheeks were flushed a natural pink, as if they’d been brushed with paint, and her eyes sparkled brightly with youth, hope, and secret love.
“Good evening, Your Grace,” she said, polite and demure. His eyes fell upon her lips and did not move. “Everything is ready for you.”
“Good evening, My Lady.”
When he didn’t move, Sinclair stepped around him and indicated the chair ahead. “Come on, Ravenswood. I thought you said this wasn’t your first time? Anyone would think you were lying to me.” He let out a belly laugh, and Sebastian’s insides squirmed.
He climbed up onto the small platform and arranged himself on the chair, so big it was almost a throne. He fiddled with his cravat to ensure it was in just the right place, and he sat at the edge of the seat, his legs to one side and his chin in the air.
“Is this all right?” he asked.
She nodded mutely, already mapping out his shape on the canvas. Sinclair stood to the side of the room, his eyes jumping between them.
“You’ll find Arabella only requires you to stay in the same position while she lays the foundations of the portrait. She is talented enough to then complete the image just by having you in the room. Isn’t that correct, Arabella?”
