Page 36 of Married to a Wicked Duke
He closed his eyes, imagining the feel of her soft curves beneath his hands. He would let himself explore her body, draw sensations from her she had never experienced before. Make her murmur in pleasure as she had done in the library at the country house—a sound that had stayed with him since the moment she had uttered it.
No. You are stronger than this.
Frederick had meant every word he’d said about the nature of their marriage. Allowing himself to fall for Veronica would only lead to him hurting her. Because while he could certainly feel desire for his wife, he knew he did not have the strength to love her. He could never allow himself to get so close to another person. Doing so would destroy him. It would destroy both of them.
Rising from the armchair, Frederick took the lamp from the mantel and carried it to the door. There was little point staring blankly at the canvas for any longer tonight. Inspiration was a fickle thing, and it was painfully obvious it was not going to show itself tonight. He pulled the door to his studio closed behind him and made his way quietly up the stairs.
When he reached the top of the staircase, he saw a soft bloom of light glowing beneath the door of Veronica’s studio. No doubt his wife was squirreled away with her own paints and canvas, working on the pieces that would hang on the wall of the gallery.
Frederick hovered at the top of the staircase, caught in indecision. Half of him screamed to go and knock on her door. The other half firmly forbade it.
No. I can’t.
He was the one who had insisted on them keeping their distance from one another. The one who had insisted they were husband and wife in name only.
But he had also been the one that had invited Veronica to work with him. And if she was hard at work in her studio, developing her paintings for the gallery, then surely this little visit could be classified as a business endeavor.
Frederick shook his head at himself.
Such foolish excuses!Who was he kidding?
He turned toward his own bedchamber, cursing himself inwardly. His empty, silent bedchamber, where he spent so many hours alone, bemoaning the state of the world. Right now, it felt like the last place on earth he wished to go. He stopped walking, caught in hesitation.
And then he turned and strode back down the passage toward Veronica’s studio before he could change his mind.
* * *
The faint knock at the door caught Veronica by surprise. It was long past midnight; she had assumed the rest of the household was asleep. She stood up from the table in the corner of the room, her pencil still in hand.
“Come in,” she called tentatively. The door opened, and there stood her husband. He was still dressed in his dark breeches and simple blue waistcoat, though his shirtsleeves were rolled to his elbows and his shirt was open at the neck, revealing pale curls of hair. Veronica could see tiny splatters of paint on his hands—which right now were clasped at his sides in fists, as though he were angry at himself for finding himself in her doorway.
“Frederick,” she said.
His eyes lingered on her for a moment, and Veronica was suddenly, painfully aware of her state of undress. Inspiration had struck after Sarah had helped prepare her for bed, and she had hurried to the studio in her nightgown, with nothing more than a tatty blue shawl tossed over her shoulders. Her feet were bare, her dark hair hanging in a long plait down her back.
“May I come in?” asked her husband. His voice sounded husky, uncertain.
Veronica nodded. Instinctively, she tugged her shawl tighter around her shoulders.
He is your husband, a voice in the back of her mind whispered to her.There is nothing scandalous about him seeing you in such a state.
But that knowledge did nothing to lessen the thumping of her heart.
“Forgive the intrusion,” he said stiffly. “I saw the light beneath the door.”
Veronica gave him a faint smile. “It is quite all right. You have been working too?”
“Yes.” His clasped his hands, then released them again and folded them across his chest. “I always do my best work late at night.”
“As do I,” said Veronica. “There is something about the quietness after midnight that I find very inspiring.”
“Indeed.” Frederick took several tentative paces towards the table. He glanced down at her sketchbook. “Are you working on your pieces for the gallery?”
Veronica nodded. “Yes.”
“May I see?”
“Of course.”
