Page 7 of A Duke's Lustful Portrait
“Well, now, if you wanted to make me curious, you have succeeded, My Lady. Pray tell, why should I stay away from you?”
Arabella’s eyes darted across the room in search of her father. There was a very good reason he should stay away—Edward Sinclair. She found him in the corner of the room, a glass of brandy in hand, as he spoke animatedly with some of the older members. She recognized their stances, their confidence. Her nerves jangled, blending seamlessly with her desire to lean back, to touch the stranger.
She had done that once. In her first season, she had fallen in love with a member of the society—one George Heath. He had been handsome and kind, and he had loved her, too. He was gone, now though, disappeared from England the day after her father had caught them kissing. Disappeared from the world, she suspected, though she had no evidence. Her father was far too clever. She couldn’t allow the same thing to happen to this mysterious man, even if she didn’t know him.
“I am serious, My Lord,” she said, her tone a notch sharper. “I say this not in jest nor casually. I say it for your own safety as well as mine. I am surprised you have not already been warned away from me by the other members. Most know the consequences of even speaking with the Duke of Westment’s daughter.”
“You’re Edward Sinclair’s daughter?” he asked. He sounded surprised, and she thought she sensed him tensing a little, but it didn’t last long. Her warning only spurred further questions in him. “Have you always painted at your father’s events?”
“Since I was ten-and-seven years, yes,” she replied. “And he does not take kindly to my talking with the members here. I promise you, My Lord, this is not a society you want to get involved with.”
Her gaze tracked her father as he moved across the room, taking a woman in hand and spinning her around the dance floor as the set began. They danced too close, their bodies touching. It would have been scandalous at a normal society ball. It would have been scandalous anywhere but here.
“I rather think I should be the judge of that, don’t you?”
He took a step closer towards her. He was so close now that she could feel the fabric of his clothes brushing against her back. The hairs on the back of her neck stood up, and she swung around, getting to her feet and finally allowing her eyes to fall upon him. She couldn’t bear it any longer and couldn’t allow it to continue.
“If you’ll excuse me, My Lord,” she said.
He did not move, and she could feel the gentle rise and fall of his chest, so very close to her own. She stared into his eyes, so green they were like jewels, glinting in the candlelight from behind his black mask. Her lips fell open, her breath hitching. He reached forward, his fingertips brushing against hers, and she felt a jolt of something rush through her.
“Tell me, then, if you are so certain,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. His warm breath rushed across her cheeks, the scent of cigar smoke and red wine filling her nostrils. “What is so bad about the Lord’s Society? What is it that goes on here?”
“It … it’s not my place to say, My Lord,” she managed though breathlessly.
They were standing close, too close for it to be proper. Her mind raced with panic and worry, and yet, at the same time, she did not back away; she did not move. She was lost in him, in his presence, and as the world fell away around them, she resisted the urge to push herself forward and place her lips on his.
“Then perhaps you’ll tell me this,” he said, staring into her eyes. She wouldn’t have been able to move even if she had wanted to. “What frightens you so much? The others I have spoken to have given every indication that this is a society any man would be thrilled to join. An honour, I believe it has been called.”
“A secret is only an honour if it is a worthwhile one, My Lord. I cannot speak to the behaviour of the members, but I do know this: the Lord’s Society is a debauched and decadent place.”
He leaned back slightly and openly looked her up and down. She shivered again, enjoying the feel of his lascivious gaze on her body despite herself.
“I can’t deny that I rather enjoy a bit of debauchery from time to time,” he said, his eyes returning to her own.
“Then perhaps this is the right place for you after all,” she said, her voice rasping. “Now, if you’ll excuse me. I need to refresh the water for my paints.”
He stepped aside, but not quite far enough. She would still have to brush against his body to pass him. She remained where she was, at once wanting and not wanting. It was a good thing she did, for at that very same moment, the set ended, and they heard heavy footsteps approaching, the heels clicking against the marble floor. The stranger stepped back so subtly that no one but Arabella would have noticed.
“I see you’ve met my daughter,” Edward Sinclair said, slapping a hand playfully on the man’s shoulder.
Arabella stared at the man, her heart racing, but he seemed the picture of calm. He smiled at her.
“Indeed I have,” he said. “I am a great lover of art, Sinclair, and I must say, she is brilliantly talented. I was admiring her work just as you came upon us.”
His eyes hadn’t moved from Arabella’s, and she couldn’t pull hers away from his. But to her surprise, her father hadn’t seemed to notice. He laughed.
“You are an astute man, Your Grace,” Sinclair said. He grinned broadly at her daughter. Some may have seen it as pride, but it made her feel like a piece of meat. “Arabella, let me introduce you to the Dark Duke.”
The Dark Duke?She had heard that name before, bandied around in normal society, caught in snatches of overheard conversation and snippets of gossip. He was new to London and quite mysterious, or so she’d heard.
She wracked her mind, trying to remember if she had ever heard his name spoken.Ravenswood, that’s it.He was certainly as dark as a raven, and if he had even an ounce of a raven’s intelligence and wisdom, he would leave tonight and never return.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Your Grace,” she said, offering him a chaste curtsy.
“And it’s a pleasure to see your work, My Lady,” he responded, dipping his head towards her. “It is an honour to see the process as well. An excellent idea, Sinclair. She makes a wonderful addition to your ball.”
“That she does,” Sinclair agreed. “You know, she does more than just paintings of the balls. She paints portraits of all our members as well. And they are equally exceptional.”
