Page 27 of A Virgin for the Duke of Thorns

Hours later, he stood back to admire his work—only to suck in a deep breath, his eyes going wide with surprise.

There, painted on the canvas, was Alice—her nubile figure entwined with silken sheets of a bright, fiery red. Her limbs were splayed most invitingly, her lips partly open.

Most of all, her eyes stared out from the canvas and straight into his soul.

What the hell have I done!?

Colin threw the brushes and the palette to the floor in disgust, cursing himself and the distraction he had allowed Alice Barkley to become.

If he was not careful, she was going to consume him—in the same way the madness had consumed his father before him, and Colin had sworn that he would never allow that to happen.

But still, the Alice he had painted stared out to him, and heaven help him, he could not help but reach for her. He knew that she was merely wrought of dyes and pigments and his fevered imaginings even as he gently ran a finger over her painted lips.

It was like Pygmalion falling in love with his own creation—only this time, Colin was well aware of how the painting paled considerably before the real woman.

He cursed himself as he dropped his hand from the painting.

Tomorrow night, he would be presenting her as his betrothed at Lady Salisbury’s ball. Already, the thought of it sent a seductive thrill running down his spine.

Thirty days. I just need to survive the next thirty days.

It was going to be a hell of a month.

CHAPTER 11

This is what you get when you make a deal with the devil—or the Duke of Thorns.

Alice sucked in a deep breath and held in the sigh of pure, undiluted frustration that had been bubbling up her chest as her mother held up yet another dress before her. The Marchioness paused and frowned before casually throwing it back into a maid’s waiting arms. All around them, the entire bedchamber was festooned with all sorts of dresses and gloves and the like.

“Mama, I do not think it would matter overmuch what I wear,” she finally protested as her mother discarded a sky-blue dress. “I do not think the Duke will care what I wear. I would not be marrying him if he cared too much about it…”

With his reputation, he is probably much more concerned with how fast he can get a woman out of her dress, a small voice whispered in the back of her head. A Wolf is a Wolf, no matter how long he has been away from Society.

She had seen the way he looked at her. The thought of his heated stare was enough to… unsettle her.

Alice might be innocent, but she was not stupid. The man’s roguish instincts were still very much intact.

“Yes, yes, yes, I know that His Grace is so enamored with you,” Lady Brandon muttered, pulling back to scrutinize a muted peach gown with a sprinkling of golden beads all over the bodice. She turned to her daughter with a fretful look. “But the ton will not be so forgiving, my dear. When you walk into that ball, all eyes would be on you, scrutinizing you, pointing out every flaw they can find…”

Alice pursed her lips at her mother’s words. The Marchioness was justified in her concern for her daughter. High Society was rarely so tolerant, especially amongst their own. Envy was a difficult malady to treat, and it had gripped the aristocracy for ages. It would have been far easier for everyone to accept had Alice been a rare, ravishing beauty.

Or an heiress of an incontestable lineage. Maybe even a princess.

Unfortunately, this was to be her third Season, and before Colin, she had had no prospects.

Not even a whiff of any.

“I think the green one looked lovely on Alice, Mama,” Phoebe remarked from her place on the sofa, her eyes twinkling as she took in the sight before her. “It brings out the color of her eyes and makes her skin so fair that it glows.”

“Now, you are making me sound like a firefly.” Alice chuckled at her sister, shooting her a grateful smile.

If her mama was to pick out another dress from the wardrobe, she was going to expire from the sheer exhaustion of it all.

Lady Brandon picked up the gown Phoebe had been referring to and held it up before her eldest daughter. A satisfied smile bloomed on her face.

“I think Phoebe is right this time—you shall make for a very beautiful firefly tonight!”

Alice was only grateful that her mother had finally finished selecting a dress. If she was this anxious over a betrothal announcement, she shuddered to think just how much more she would have to suffer through for her engagement ball and—heaven forbid—her wedding. Lady Brandon would have every modiste in London in an uproar over her wedding trousseau, she was certain of it.

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