Page 5 of A Duke's Lustful Portrait
Love was something Arabella craved more than anything, though her father and his potential actions frightened her. She guarded her heart closely now, having lost too much in the past, but deep down, hidden in her soul, she wanted love, romance, and most of all, passion. True passion, not like that which she painted.
She could have had it if it weren’t for her father. She was incredibly beautiful—or, at least, that was what she had been told. She certainly got enough attention from gentlemen wherever she went, though she could never decide whether that was thanks to her paintings or herself. Either way, the sensual nature of her paintings earned her a certain reputation.
Her hair was as black as black could be, so at odds with her porcelain white skin and the dusting of pink across her cheeks and her thick, sensuous lips. It was her eyes that drew people, though. Despite the darkness of her hair, they were a bright sky blue that called to men from behind her lashes. She was every man’s lascivious dream, and try as she might to hide it, her innocence and sweetness seemed only to enhance it.
“There’s a good girl,” the duke said, getting to his feet. “There’ll be a new gown in it for you, of course.”
“Of course,” she repeated.
She forced herself to smile up at him before he left the room. Then she turned back to her daydreams. One day, her knightwouldcome, and he would whisk her to the countryside where she could paint landscapes all day—her first true love.
One day.
***
Arabella settled herself behind the canvas and looked across the room. The ball was a masquerade, as was usual for the first of the season, when potential new society members were shown around. She wore a scarlet gown and a golden mask, her dark hair tumbling around her shoulders.
Such freedoms were permitted in the Lord’s Society, and it was one of the few things Arabella liked about it. She enjoyed the sensation of her hair around her neck and not painfully pinned to her head.
She arranged her paints carefully in front of her. She had a method, cold and exacting, so at odds with the heat of the paintings she produced. The guests had begun to arrive, and, despite the masks, Arabella noted a few of the usual attendees.
Nothing ever changes.
She stuck her paintbrush into her mouth, pulling it out slowly between her lips so that the bristles formed a neat tip, and then she dipped it into her first colour.
“I’m not convinced there’s much need for that mask, is there?” her father said with a chuckle next to her. “Everyone knowsyouare the painter, my darling girl, and I couldn’t be prouder.”
Because you profit from every painting I produce, she thought bitterly.
“Yes. The easel is a little difficult to disguise. But I like the mask, and I’d like to keep it on.”
“Whatever you want, Arabella,” Sinclair replied. “You know I’d do anything for you.”
No, you couldn’t possibly risk losing your prized workhorse.
“Of course, Father,” she replied without emotion. She let the brush move across the canvas as if it had a mind of its own.
“You know how these first nights go, don’t you?” he asked. “I believe a number of our members have invited potential new members here tonight—I know I sent one invitation. So there will be quite a few new people around. Be careful, Arabella. You know how uneasy I get when you receive undue attention.”
Arabella almost laughed. Uneasy was one word for it. Possessive and controlling were other words that came to mind.
“I shall be careful, Father.” She stared out across the ballroom, seated in front of the easel, as he hovered over her shoulder, his presence overbearing.
He chuckled. “Not that we need to worrytoomuch. I have warned all members to stay away from you. I don’t think any of them would be willing to face my wrath. You are to remain my chaste girl, for that’s where your talent for such passionate paintings comes from.”
Arabella ignored his last words. She’d heard it all before. He believed that it was her innocence within his world of sin that made her such a talent, not even dreaming that her thoughts were often far from pure.
“Do you have someone to take under your wing, Father?” she asked, looking at the backdrop of the ballroom, examining the colours and shapes. This was her favourite part of her painting, having long ago bored of painting the human form.
“Yes, I think so,” he replied. “I only hope he stands up to the potential I see in him.”
“Does he have a name?” she asked out of mere curiosity.
“Come on, Arabella. You know we don’t discuss that. Certainly not on the first night. Let’s see who gets accepted as members first, shall we? Who knows, if all goes well, you’ll be painting his portrait in a day or two! Now, get started. Perhaps if you finish this one quickly enough, you can start a second.”
Arabella bit back her sarcastic reply as her father stalked across the room. He carried himself with such pomp and arrogance that it made her shudder. His power sometimes seemed all-encompassing, and here, he was in his element. As he strode around the ballroom, he greeted people with a warmth she had rarely seen herself, and the grin on his face showed how proud he was of everything he had accomplished.
She forced herself to look away, knowing she would be too angry to paint if she didn’t. Dipping her brush in the paint, she mixed the colours on her palette to match those on the damask drapes across the windows. She mapped out the shape on the canvas, then looked up again to check where the light and shade fell in the lamplight.
