Page 16 of A Duke's Lustful Portrait
“Tell me, dear girl, how are you? Really?”
Arabella sighed. How was she? Her mind had been so full of the duke for the last fortnight that she couldn’t even begin to think about how she was.
“I am well enough, thank you, Grandmother. I am preparing myself well for the season ahead.”
Priscilla frowned from over her spoon, a bowl piled with trifle placed in front of her. “It’s not healthy, you spending so much time with that sordid group of your father’s,” she said, pursing her lips. “I do wish you would side with me when I try to persuade him to let you attend anormalball. You know I can do little to protect you, but when I do try, you could support me.”
“I know, Grandmother,” Arabella replied, her heart torn in two by how sad Priscilla seemed. “But I can’t bear it when the two of you fight. Besides, missing one more ball won’t make much difference, will it?”
“But it will,” her grandmother cried, leaning over her trifle as if to prove her point. “Arabella dear, if we do not find you a husband soon, I fear it will be too late, and then your entire life will be lost to that man I am ashamed to call a son.”
Arabella looked down at her bowl, filled with sadness. She knew her grandmother was right, and she hated her father for what he was doing to her. And yet, he was her father, and she loved him all the same for that fact.
“This is not the life I wanted for you, Arabella,” Priscilla continued. “Seeing you a mere pawn in your father’s game is such a waste. Imagine how happy you could be with a husband and children of your own. You have such potential, Arabella.”
“I know,” she replied softly. “I know all that, and I agree with you. But thereistime, and it would be better to appease Father, at least for the time being. You know what he’s like when he’s angry.”
And I dearly wish to see the duke.
“Yes,” Priscilla said darkly. “I know first-hand what he is like, and so do many others. I suspect your father has many enemies. Did you know he even has a sword hidden in his study?”
“He does?” Arabella looked at her in surprise. She knew her father used his power for ill, but she couldn’t imagine him fighting himself.
“Weapons hidden all over the house, apparently. I asked him why once, and he told me it was merely a precaution against low-moral men.”
Like him.
“Good Lord! I would never have guessed.”
Priscilla sighed. “Oh, I have thought often of how I can spirit you away from this place into the life you deserve. But I’m frightened for you, dear Arabella. Your father may be a brute, but he provides everything you could possibly need—and perhaps, without his influence, you wouldn’t have the opportunity to attend any balls at all. Surely a few are better than none.”
Arabella could see the indecision in her grandmother’s eyes, something pulling her in different directions. It was as if she were still a young girl, and Priscilla was deciding how best to bring her up. But Arabella was a young lady now, and while she still needed her grandmother, she also needed to look after herself.
“Exactly,” Arabella agreed with a nod. “So perhaps then he is not asking too much when he calls me to paint.”
Priscilla raised her eyes to the ceiling, her chin creased with sadness. “If only there were a way I could find the money to fund the lifestyle you deserve, but you know how tightly your father controls the coffers.”
"I know, Grandmother,” Arabella replied softly, wishing Priscilla would talk of anything else. She knew, of course, how important it was, but she simply couldn’t bear the sorrow of it all. She wanted to protect her grandmother as much as Priscilla wanted to protect her.
I can only blame myself,” she said weakly. “If I had not brought such a man into this world, then—”
“Then you would never have had me,” Arabella said brightly, trying to brighten her grandmother’s mood. Talking about anything would be better than this.
It worked, for Priscilla giggled, her despondency melting away. “And that would have been a tragedy indeed, my dear. You are becoming a very fine young lady.”
Arabella smiled as Priscilla took a huge mouthful of trifle, seemingly relishing the flavors. She was pleased. The old woman was almost withering away, her frame so small that she hunched as she walked, leaning heavily on a stick. Arabella suspected it was thanks to her sadness when it came to Edward.
She knew her grandmother blamed herself for the way he had turned out, but she suspected that her late grandfather, of whom she knew little, had been much the same. It was the male bloodline that was so damaging in their family, not anything Priscilla had done or not done in raising her son.
“Now, tell me dear,” Priscilla said once she had swallowed. “What are you reading at the moment? Have you started that novel I bought you when I was in town last week? I hear Radcliffe is something of a genius when it comes to detailing the romantic heart.”
Arabella winced. She hadn’t started it. The truth was, she had no mind for reading, not when she was so all-consumed by the Duke of Ravenswood. She couldn’t very well tell her grandmother that, though.
“Actually,” she said, feeling herself blush, “I’ve been re-reading William Blake. You know how much I love his work.”
“Ah, a sensory poet for a sensory painter,” Priscilla said with a giggle, though it only served to embarrass Arabella even more.
That was not what she had been thinking, though she supposed now she could see the correlation between that and the sensory thoughts she had been having. Blake fitted remarkably well. His descriptions of touch and taste were as vivid as Arabella’s own daydreams, with the duke at the other end of her fingertips.
