Page 1 of A Duke's Lustful Portrait
Prologue
“Good Lord, Arabella,” her father said as he held the painting at arm’s length. “I didn’t realize you had such a talent. No wonder your grandmother begged me to come and see it.”
Lady Arabella Sinclair, daughter to the Duke of Westment, grinned. It was rare that he even attended her, let alone complimented her.
“You see,” her grandmother said, beaming at the young lady. “I told you she was good.”
Edward Sinclair returned the painting to the easel and nodded. The old man had long turned gray, his face lined with wrinkles. He looked after himself well, though. He was slim of figure and muscular in strength, and thanks to his army of servants, he kept himself well-groomed.
At ten-and-seven years of age, Arabella still admired him, craving his love and affection. He was, in some ways, cold and cruel, keeping her locked up in the house and very rarely visiting. But she had her grandmother, Priscilla, and she would soon debut in London’s society. Then, she would be free. After all, her father would want her to find a good match, would he not? And she would be in with a good chance, as beautiful as she was.
The man stood back, examining the painting with his chin resting in his hand. He shook his head. “Such an intense study of the human form, Arabella. It’s almost unbelievable that you are such an innocent young lady.”
Arabella let out a snort of amusement. “How could I be anything but, Father? When you keep me locked up in this house?”
“But not for much longer,” her grandmother said, squeezing her shoulders from behind. “Next year, you’ll come out into society like a butterfly finding its wings. Oh, it’s going to be beautiful, Arabella dear.”
Edward merely grunted, shooting his mother a poisoned look. Arabella felt Priscilla shrink away from her, taking a seat at the card table just beyond the easel. The truth was that Arabella was innocentphysically, but even at such a sweet, young age, her mind had begun to wander. She had watched all the servants—from the butler to the stable hands—curious about their bodies and how they moved. From the secrecy of her bedchamber, she had watched from the window as the gardeners had shed their shirts in the summer heat, and she had sketched their form, daydreaming of one day being able to trace such bodies with her fingertips.
It was, of course, merely an artistic curiosity. Or, at least, that’s what she told herself. Even now, at such a tender age, she had allowed herself to imagine what it would be like to be in the arms of a man, and it was these imaginings that had led her to develop such a talent. She loved to paint, a hobby encouraged by her grandmother and driven by her secret passions, and she would paint anything from landscapes to portraits. But her secret, inner desires, and sensual nature expressed on canvas made the paintings so overwhelmingly beautiful.
The duke sat at the table, still seemingly lost in thought.
“Would you like some tea, Father?” Arabella asked, ever eager to please him. Perhaps if she made him happy, he would spend more time in her presence than in the arms of lovers and ladies of the night. He had become lost to her when her mother had died all those years ago.
“Hmm.”
She nodded to the maid, and as she did so, he whirled around to face her so fast that she jumped, startled. His eyes were bright with an idea, and she felt herself tense.
“You know, Arabella, I think you are so talented that perhaps we ought to show off this new skill of yours.”
“Edward,” Priscilla warned, glaring at him. “What are you suggesting?”
He shot her another dark glance, which Arabella ignored. She knew they had something of a tumultuous relationship, her grandmother always urging her to stay away from her father, but she didn’t know why. All she knew was that Priscilla thought him dangerous, and she often blamed herself as his mother.
“Was I talking to you, old woman?” he demanded. Priscilla shrank away once more, attempting to lighten the mood. Arabella spoke with a bright and loud voice.
“Do you think other people would like my art?” she asked. “I think the one of Hampstead Heath is my favourite.”
“No, no,” Edward said, shaking his head. “No one cares much for scenic imagery. No, it’s the ones of the human form I’m most interested in, Arabella.”
“Surely we couldn’t show peoplethose,” she said, feeling the heat in her cheeks as she glanced over at the painting of the gardener she had completed just a few days before.
There was nothing expresslyrisquéabout it, as such. It portrayed a man at work and nothing more. But there was something about how his thick arms glistened in the sunlight, his muscles popped as he worked, and how he looked—dark and brooding. There was something sensual in the image, something indelicate she had captured without even meaning to. It was all the more evident now as she watched her father staring at it, and she felt embarrassed as if he were seeing into her carnal thoughts.
“Perhaps, Arabella,” he said without taking his eyes from the painting, “you’d be intrigued to paint real models? In the flesh? I’m certain I know a few people who would jump at the chance of having such exquisite portraits, and it may allow you to explore the human form a little further.”
Arabella sat back, shocked at her father’s words. Her cheeks flushed an even deeper red, and he laughed as he looked back at her.
Surely he is not suggesting …?
“Goodness, nothing like that! If anything, I’d wager your purity and innocence make you such a wonderful artist. I meant to explore it in painting form only. I’m sure you would like to develop your skill further.”
“But I … I …” Arabella stuttered, still unsure what he was suggesting. “I wouldn’t knowwhatto draw,” she said, hoping he would catch her meaning. He laughed again, the sound cold, though she knew he couldn’t possibly mean it as such.
“Let me worry about that, little one,” he said. He grinned at her, his teeth large in his mouth. “Why don’t you come to this week’s ball with me?”
Priscilla gasped. “You can’t possibly mean that! She has not even debuted yet and—”
