Page 8 of A Duke's Lustful Portrait
“Is that so?”
The duke had not yet pulled his eyes away from her, but now his gaze felt different. Perhaps it was the presence of her father, or perhaps it was the way they spoke of her so openly as if she weren’t even there, but she felt naked and on display, and she wanted to squirm away from them. Normally, her father left her alone to paint, but he seemed particularly keen on wooing this man.
Perhaps Father was the one who invited the duke to join.
The thought was not a pleasant one. She was attracted to the man, no doubt, more so than she had ever been to anyone. But he was here, in this place, and the more she knew of him, the keener he seemed to be. That didn’t sit well with her, and it was made all the worse by how friendly he seemed to be with her father.
“Yes. Some of our members even commission her to paint images of a more … private nature, shall we say.”
“Indeed?” He raised his eyebrows, still staring at her. Arabella thanked the gods for her mask, hiding the deep red her cheeks had turned. Her father could always humiliate her with merely a few words.
“New members can receive such paintings as gifts if they are accepted into the Lord’s Society,” Sinclair continued.
“I can only hope I get accepted then,” the duke continued. He licked his lips as he watched her, and Arabella turned her face away, hot and embarrassed and wishing she was anywhere but here.
Chapter 4
Sebastian didn’t know where to look, so he kept his gaze steady on Lady Arabella. He could tell that the more her father spoke, the more uncomfortable she became, yet he couldn’t give himself away. He needed to play the game, convince Sinclair he was on his side if he had any chance of gaining access to society—and, in turn, punish Sinclair for his crimes.
What he hadn’t banked upon was meeting this woman. She was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen, and he had been driven to talk to her despite being warned by numerous people to stay away from her. And he wasn’t lying when he told her he was impressed with her artistic skills—they were better than any he had ever seen before.
If only she had a chance to display her work anywhere but here.
The prospect of having his portrait painted by her—simple or sensual—thrilled him. If nothing else, it would allow him to watch her for longer, to spend time with her without raising suspicion.
“On another note, I was wondering if you and I might have a word in private?” Sinclair said.
Sebastian clenched his teeth, a knot of anxiety tightening in his stomach. This was what he wanted—to get closer to Sinclair—but the thought of being alone in the same room as him set his worries churning in his mind.
“Perhaps we can take a brandy in my study,” Sinclair said as if noticing Sebastian’s hesitancy.
Is this because I’ve been talking to Lady Arabella?
Sebastian let out a small laugh. “Of course! Who could say no to a brandy, after all?”
Sinclair led the way to the study, Sebastian trailing behind him. Neither man said anything as they crossed through the party and into the quiet corridors. A footman had been stationed at the door, and, without being asked, he opened it as they approached.
“I don’t want to be disturbed, Jebson, you understand?”
The footman merely nodded by way of reply, his pristinely white-gloved hand still on the brass doorknob. He closed the door behind them, and they were plunged into silence, the noise and chatter from the ball blocked by the thick walls and oak doors.
Sebastian looked around. This was most definitely the study of a successful man—and of one who liked to impress. The lower half of the walls had been clad in dark mahogany. The top half and even the ceiling were painted a dark green, with only the coving and ceiling rose picked out in a bright white. It gave the room a dark and foreboding feel, but Sebastian had to admit it was an impressive sight.
Sinclair walked over to the drinks’ cabinet, still not having said a word. He silently poured them both a glass of brandy, the glass bowls made of a crystal that sent diamonds of reflection scattering across the floor as he turned and handed Sebastian one. He nodded to the high-backed leather chairs on either side of the hearth, where a low fire flickered in the grate.
“You know, I knew your father rather well when we were young,” he said.
Sebastian stiffened, his breath coming in shallow gulps. So this was about the late duke. Sebastian didn’t really want to talk about him. It was not a part of his life he wished to share—not with Sinclair nor anyone else.
“Did you? I must say he never mentioned you.”
Indeed, all the times they’d spoken of Sinclair and the Lord’s Society, Hector Ravenswood had not once mentioned knowing Sinclair. The old man had been losing his marbles for years, though. Sebastian supposed he had merely forgotten.
Sinclair smiled down at his lap, swirling the amber liquid around his glass. The silence was painful, and Sebastian bit back his desire to fill it with idle chatter. He couldn’t give himself away, nor his intentions.
“He never told you he was a founding member of the society, then?” he asked.
Sebastian’s head shot in Sinclair’s direction. No, the old duke had not told him that, although Sebastian had on occasion wondered how he got all his information.
