Page 19 of A Scarred Wallflower for the Duke
The Duke folded his arms. His look said it all; that he had not acted alone. Georgina turned away from him.
Perhaps I truly am as depraved as he is. Perhaps he has already destroyed me.
The Duke nodded toward the pavilion. “I see your sister there. Lord Renshaw too. Perhaps I will go and tell them they have been found.”
ChapterEleven
After an interminable dinner with his mother— “Did you have a wonderful afternoon, Vincent? Isn’t Miss Lydia just divine? I know she will make a perfect wife for you”—Vincent escaped to the sanctuary of the smoking room. He poured himself a glass of brandy and settled into a chair in the corner, pencil and paper in hand. He brought the glass to his lips, staring thoughtfully down at the blank page.
After a moment, he began to draw.
He had loved to sketch ever since he was a child and always had something of a talent for it. Sometimes he would draw still life, or plants or trees, sometimes animals. But it was people he enjoyed drawing the most. There was something pleasurable about capturing one’s spirit within their portrait. Seeing the image of them come alive on the page.
Tonight, he was sketching the bouquet of flowers that sat on the side table in the far corner of the room. It was not what he really wanted to draw, of course. What he really wanted was to commit Georgina Wyatt’s image to the page in front of him.
I could do such a fine job of it.Capture every unique line of that face that was already etched into his memory.
Since returning from the park, he had thought of little else but Georgina.
What is it about her that has captured my attention so?It was not just her unusual appearance. It was the way she spoke with such openness, without her words passing through the dour filter prescribed by theton. It was the way she spoke her mind; the way she was not afraid to put him in his place.
Although sometimes her actions speak louder than her words…
In the back of his mind was the knowledge that once again, he had gone too far. He should not have touched her. Should not have spoken to her in such a way. And he definitely should not have kissed her. But Vincent had always had difficulty controlling himself around beautiful women.
And Georgina Wyatt, in her own unique way, was undeniably beautiful.
The thought of their kiss brought a smile to his face. Though Georgina had tried to pretend otherwise, he knew she had enjoyed it as much as he had. How willingly her lips had parted against his; how eager she had been to let her body sink against him. At the thought of her weight pressed against him, Vincent felt a tug of arousal. He gulped down a mouthful of brandy and closed his eyes, allowing himself to enjoy the sensation.
How much more interesting life would be if it were Georgina his mother was pushing him to marry, rather than her sister. He would look forward to their sparring matches over breakfast each morning, he would look forward to the surprises each day would bring. Lying with his wife would be a source of great pleasure, rather than a duty for the sole purpose of securing an heir. If history were to repeat itself, Vincent did not have many more years of life left. At least if he were married to Georgina, they would be years he would look forward to living.
To think all those years ago, I told Mother that the only thing I cared about in a wife was that she was obedient. And yet, if Georgina were my wife, I know she would be anything but.
Why did the thought of that bring him such an inexplicable thrill?
It did not matter. Such a thing was an impossibility. He knew that all too well. Even if thetonwere able to look beyond Georgina’s unusual appearance, she was well past marrying age. Whichever way he tried to look at it, Vincent knew it was Lydia who had all the makings of a duchess.
He sighed heavily. Beautiful, fresh-faced Lydia. How dull she seemed in comparison to her sister.
How can I marry Lydia Wyatt when I find myself craving Georgina?
He heard the unmistakable clip of his mother’s footsteps coming down the hallway. She tapped lightly on the door.
“Vincent? May I come in, dear?”
“Yes, Mother. Of course.”
The Dowager Duchess was still wearing the same broad smile that had been plastered on her face since dinner. She had been positively beaming since he had told her about his day at the park. The abridged version, of course. She looked down at his pencil and paper. There was little on the page beyond a few meager outlines. Georgina Wyatt had hijacked his thoughts before he could turn the scribbles into anything vaguely resembling a bouquet of flowers.
“You are drawing?” she asked.
“Attempting to. I am afraid my thoughts are elsewhere tonight. I am finding it hard to concentrate.”
His mother clasped her hands together and grinned. “Would this have anything to do with a certain young lady from Thomson House, by any chance?”
“It may…” His mother’s grin broadened, and Vincent felt a pang of regret for misleading her.
“Wonderful,” said the Dowager Duchess. “In that case, I am sure you will be pleased to hear what I have to say. I have arranged for us both to have tea at Thomson House tomorrow afternoon. It sounds as though matters are progressing well between you and Miss Lydia. Perhaps you might take her some flowers. Make your intentions toward her clear.”
