Page 38 of Destined to be a Duchess
“Never you mind.” He grinned, putting down the foundation of the sketch. “Now be quiet like you promised, and let me get to work …”
Marianne forced a smile and cleared her mind, thinking about all the things that brought her joy. She was unsurprised to find Anthony behind her eyes, among others.
She sat with the thoughts of him for what felt like hours, sometimes recalling memories of her mother, sometimes betraying Anthony’s order and allowing her mind to wander instead: her old shop in London, the direction of her life, the duties that awaited them both on the shore. Her anxiety ebbed and flowed like the water surrounding them …
It was nice to drift on the lake in the still moments, unconnected from everyone but herself. She realized with a start how comfortable Anthony made her feel. She could be alone with him, yet not feel lonely, even when they weren’t talking.
When he bowed his head in concentration, Marianne peered over the hull to watch him draw. His hand worked the pencil with gentle precision, sometimes sweeping over the page and other times scratching in quick bursts. Her anticipation grew with every new hiss of the pencil against the page. She wantedto see how Anthony saw her, her heart racing as Anthony’s pace slowed.
It was maybe half an hour later. He sighed deeply and drew away from the sketchbook, adding a few final details until he seemed done with his work.
Marianne blinked, the world coming back into focus. They had drifted even further away from the party, edging closer to the side of the lake obscured by the central island. The clouds had parted overhead, revealing the sun. She shielded her eyes from the light, squinting as the lake’s surface glittered around them.
“Have you finished?” she asked, peering over the top of his sketchpad.
Anthony gave his work a final inspection. Marianne knew that look. It was the same way she had looked at completed gowns—knowing they were done but still feeling unsatisfied. Anthony snapped the sketchbook shut without a word, and the sound ripped through the air. The duke picked up his sketching supplies and started clearing them away.
“Is that it?” Marianne laughed in disbelief, dropping her hands to her sides. “After all that time, I don’t even get to see the drawing?”
“That was never part of our bargain,” Anthony reminded her, smirking. He tied the strap on his pencil case, cocking his headto the side. “It’s a sketch, Marianne. Not meant for the eyes of others.”
“Oh, so it wasmymistake.” She could hardly believe what she was hearing. “If I had asked for a watercolour instead, we would not have had this problem.”
“Perhaps. It’s a shame we will never know.” Anthony grinned, “For I lacked the necessary supplies.”
Marianne rolled her eyes, not giving up yet. Anthony rose to collect his jacket, and she slipped off a glove in response. She leaned over the side of the boat, dipping her hand into the lake’s cool water, icy against her skin. Just as the duke began dressing himself, she flicked water up at him, catching him off guard.
He stumbled back, almost falling over. Marianne stood up as the boat rocked, not sure whether to laugh or scream. She splayed out her arms, gripping onto the sides of the boat until it stopped moving. Her stomach roiled like the water beneath them. Looking up at Anthony, she burst out laughing.
“That was a highly unladylike and dangerous counterattack,” he said once he had steadied himself, trying to look angry but sounding amused instead. “You’re lucky we didn’t tip the boat and fall in. Do you even know how to swim, Marianne?”
“Not in the slightest,” she replied, flicking a stray drop of water off her skirt. Anthony looked horrified. “Perhaps I should havementioned that before I agreed to join you. You’ll just have to rescue me if I fall in. Surelyyouknow how to swim?”
Anthony didn’t dignify her question with a response. He bent over to retrieve the glove she had discarded, falling into another kneel in front of her. He held his free hand open, and Marianne stared at it, confused.
“If you return to shore dishevelled and half-dressed, they will assume the worst,” he explained, grabbing her naked hand by the wrist.
The feeling of his bare skin against hers set Marianne on fire. She swallowed hard as he thrust her silken glove into her hand, closing her fingers around it. His hand remained clasped around hers for only a second before he stood up, returning to his seat at the stern and repositioning the oars so they could start their journey back.
Marianne stared at the glove in her hand, unsure what Anthony had meant by the gesture. Had he been apologizing for keeping the sketch from her or …?
Or was that some sort of punishment, she wondered, for flicking him with water? Did he know that a touch would render me speechless?
From the victorious look on his face, it seemed like he had.
Chapter 15
Anthony leaned back in his armchair, his sketchpad open on his knee. He studied the sketch of Marianne on the boat, surprised by the accuracy of the drawing despite the circumstances under which he had drawn it. He liked her in the sketch. She looked much happier than when he had denied her request to see it.
It was too dangerous to agree,he thought, sweeping his thumb over the bottom of her gown to blend the shading more.The thoughts and feelings of every artist bleed into their work. Who knows what this sketch might have revealed to Marianne about my shameful thoughts of her?
And, he supposed, a part of him worried that she just wouldn’t like it. He couldn’t bear the thought of Marianne thinking poorly of his work. He had been judged by artists and art connoisseurs all across the Continent, and he had accepted their colourful critiques with grace. But Marianne was different. She made him feel vulnerable.
The sketch, he decided,will be mine to admire alone.
Footsteps sounded behind him, and Anthony snapped the sketchpad shut. He leaned forward in his seat and cleared his throat. Warren appeared at the library entrance. A servant’s shadow loomed in the doorway, carrying the marquess’ hunting rifles in a long leather bag.
“I thought I would find you here,” Warren said, glancing around the library. “You’re just like your father. Drawn to books like a homing pigeon.”
