Page 103 of A Virgin for the Duke of Ash

Indeed, it had felt cathartic to release all her emotions onto the canvas. Red paint bled into the pristine white surface asshe unleashed her anger. Gloomy black blossomed where her despair erupted. Black and white and all the shades of gray tangled with her confusion.

She had painted in streaks and bursts, wielding her brush like a rapier at times as she slashed and pierced at the canvas. Now, as her brush hovered over the blankness before her, she hesitated.

She had used several canvases to paint her emotions, but would there ever be enough space for all her grief?

At times, it threatened to swallow even the whole world, and all she could do was stare blankly for hours on end, brush in hand, wondering how she would ever be able to give it a form so that she might release it from her chest and finally unburden herself.

Like love, grief seemed to expand, taking up all the space in her heart.

Unlike love, however, it had nowhere to go, and so it stayed with her, tormenting her from within.

Perhaps it is not a color or formless like my other emotions.Perhaps grief is all the memories that once shone so brightly in my mind…

It was the chandelier sparkling brightly overhead, the elegant music that played, as Daniel held her in his arms while they twirled on the dance floor. It was that stolen moment in the moonlight when she first tasted his lips. It was in the subtle tiltof the corner of his lips, the gleam in his eyes that she knew all too well…

It was all of these things and more.

She could paint and paint and paint every vivid recollection, and hopefully, the pain would fade in time.

Or at least become tolerable enough for her to go on living with it.

Evie smiled sadly as she used her brush to mix the paint to capture the exact shade of the jacket Daniel had worn when he insisted on dancing with her.

She had been so annoyed with him back then, and how he had scared off all her suitors.

What I would give to have him glowering at me once more!

But it had been a week, and although he had sent Mr. Turner to her, she had not heard from him at all.

Perhaps it was not a wedding gift but apartinggift, after all.

She blinked back the tears as she swirled the paint-drenched brush across the canvas, bringing to life all the heartache and misery she felt.

She painted the darkness in his hair, and her fingers longed to run through it once more. She painted the broadness of his shoulders and the comfort and security she once felt in his arms. She painted the slight smirk and felt her breath hitch in her throat at the sight.

She painted him as she saw him that night at the ball—incredibly handsome, stoic, domineering, and protective beyond measure.

She was so absorbed in her art that when she heard the sound of grass crunching underfoot, she did not even bother to turn around.

“Just put the tea in the gazebo, Jane,” she murmured distractedly. “I shall have it once I am finished.”

Instead of her maid voicing her acknowledgment, however, it was a familiar, heart-wrenching, low voice that drifted to her ears.

“Your art is magnificent.”

Evie stiffened, her brush hovering in midair as her heart clenched painfully in her chest. The tears she had been holding back slid down her cheeks.

No.She shook her head.This is all just my imagination. He cannot possibly be here.

How many times had she dreamed of him coming to her?

For the first few days, she had lain in bed, hoping that the next time Jane entered her rooms, it would be to tell her that he had finally come for her. She had spenthoursin the parlor waiting for the butler to announce that he had come for her.

In the end, it was never him.

Why did her mind play such cruel tricks on her this time?

“Turn around, Duchess,” he called out to her in that achingly hoarse voice that tormented her even in her waking hours. “Turn around so I can properly tell you how dreadfully sorry I am and what a bastard your husband has been to hurt you so.”

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