Page 43 of A Duke's Lustful Portrait
Sebastian breathed a sigh of relief, feeling his whole body relax into the reprieve he had been given. He smiled, too, and genuinely this time. He’d got away with it, though he promised himself he’d be more careful in the future—and he would discover Sinclair’s line of information and put a stop to it.
“Please,” he replied.
Sinclair leant forward and pulled the stopper out of the crystal decanter, the sound ringing like a bell through the room. As he poured the drinks, he spoke again.
“To be honest, this little lie of yours has made me respect youmore, not less.”
“Oh yes?” Sebastian was surprised at Sinclair’s words, even if it overjoyed him. Far from damaging his plan, it seemed it had put him further into Sinclair’s favour.
“Indeed. A commoner who has wheedled his way into the duke’s life—through luck or action—and managed to swindle an old man out of his fortune and title?” He laughed again.
Despite himself, Sebastian felt a rage rising in him, his cheeks warming with anger. That was not what had happened, and he felt the need to defend the poor late duke. After all, he had cared for Ravenswood greatly, andswindling himhad never been Sebastian’s intention.
“The man became a father to me ultimately, Sinclair. It wasn’t quite as you imagine. I was a mere child when we met. It was not my planned intention toswindlehim, as you put it.”
Sinclair shot him an amused smile. “If you say so. But either way, my boy. You’ve earned my utmost respect.”
Sebastian couldn’t stop himself from smirking, so he raised the brandy glass to his lips to hide it, his eyes on the desk in front of him. He couldn’t quite believe the disaster had turned into something he could use to his benefit. The old man was obviously not as intelligent as Sebastian had first given him credit for. After a moment, he looked back up at the duke.
“In that case, Sinclair, I wonder if I could ask a favour.”
“Anything, my boy,” Sinclair declared, opening his arms up. “After all, that’s how our relationship works. Tit for tat.”
Sebastian paused again. What he was going to ask for was not part of his plan. If anything, it was a distraction. And yet he could not help himself. He needed to see her again, no matter what it took.
“You mentioned previously that some gentlemen like to … how did you put it? Have more sensual portraits painted by the talented Lady Arabella.”
Sinclair’s chuckle was low and cruel. “Say no more, Ravenswood. I’ll have a word with my daughter as soon as possible and send word to you about her arrival.”
Chapter 21
“What are you doing, Arabella?”
She jumped at the sound of her father’s furious voice behind her, and she closed her eyes, feeling herself sag in preparation for what was to come. She should have been more careful about where she set up the easel. Gathering herself, she forced herself to smile and then turned to her father with a bright demeanour that belied the anxiety that thrummed beneath her skin.
“Painting, Father. Practicing my skills, of course. I should have thought you would be happy with that.”
He sneered as he looked at the landscape on the canvas behind her. “Why are you wasting your talent on this nonsense? I’ve told you before; you should keep your painting ability for the society only.”
She giggled. “Oh, Papa! It’s not a limited supply. I won’t run out of talent, I promise. If I don’t practice, however …”
Please let it go, Father. Just this once.
He scowled. “All the same, I’d rather you don’t waste your time on these paintings. I don’t want you spreading yourself too thinly.”
“All right, Father,” she said, disappointment seeping into her. “I’ll stop.”
Or find a better hiding place.
She knew how much he hated it when she painted anything other than what he directed, and she was normally so good at hiding her hobby from him. She had been lax today, painting in the library as the garden was subject to early summer showers. She wondered whether it was simply because he liked to exert his control or whether he genuinely was worried she would use up all her talent.
“Good girl,” he said. He paused, breathing heavily, and she could see he was trying to calm his anger. She waited patiently, as demure as she could make herself. Eventually, he said, “Actually, I am here to talk to you about painting of the better sort.”
“Oh yes? Is there another ball this weekend?”
“Well, yes, there is,” he said with a nod. “We’re reaching the height of the season, Arabella. You know as well as I there will be an event each weekend. But that’s not why I am here. You remember the Duke of Ravenswood?”
How could I forget?
