Page 16 of Married to a Wicked Duke
She hurried towards the door and disappeared. Frederick stayed staring at the doorway until long after she had vanished.
* * *
Veronica made her way out of the drawing-room, her sketchbook and pencils clutched to her chest. She was excited at the opportunity to escape into the garden for a time and lose herself in her drawings. And more than a little relieved that the Duke had agreed to their working separately.
Of course, he did. Why would he not? He likes nothing more than to be alone…
But Veronica couldn’t silence the thoughts that nudged at the back of her mind. There was no denying that, on some level, she and the Duke had connected during their time in the library yesterday.
Was it possible that the Duke enjoyed her company? And, perhaps even more surprising, was it possible that she actually enjoyed his?
No. Not possible at all.
Veronica shook her head at herself. She was being foolish. And she was not going to waste this sought-after time in the garden thinking about the surly Duke of Brownwood.
When she reached the entrance hall, she stopped walking, eyes drawn to the three large landscapes hung on the wall.
She stepped close to the late Duchess’s painting, examining the finely detailed brush strokes, the unique use of color. It was true, the late Duchess of Brownwood had been exceptionally talented. And yet Veronica had never heard of her art. In fact, she had heard little talk of the late Duchess at all. On the few occasions that she had been mentioned by one of the guests at the gathering, the conversation had always been quickly diverted in another direction.
Veronica could not help but wonder about it. Was there some scandal there that people were now reluctant to speak of, out of respect for the Duke and his dead mother? Could there be any connection between the Duchess of Brownwood's death, and her son’s morose demeanor?
Veronica shook her head in frustration.Fine job you are doing not thinking about the Duke…
“Veronica dear, what are you doing out here?”
She spun around at the sound of her grandmother’s voice. The Dowager Marchioness was making her way down the staircase with the dog tucked under her arm. “I thought you were supposed to be painting. With the Duke. Have you forgotten about the competition?”
Veronica laughed. “No, Grandmother, of course not.” Forgetting about the competition seemed like a distinct impossibility, given it was all anyone at the party was talking about. “But we have decided to work separately. His Grace will complete the portrait and then I shall complete the landscape in the background when he is finished.”
The Dowager Marchioness narrowed her eyes, looking extremely unimpressed. “I see. Well, in that case, go upstairs and rouse your father, will you? And find him something to do that does not involve his brandy bottle.”
Veronica nodded obediently. “Yes, Grandmother. Of course.”
Her heart sank as she made her way upstairs. She had so been looking forward to having a little time alone in the garden. But she knew she had not been as attentive to her father these past few days as she ought to have been. A pang of guilt struck her. Her mind had been so full of the Duke that she had neglected her own family. Since when was she that kind of person?
She knocked on the door to her father’s bedchamber. “Papa? Are you awake?”
She heard a grunt in response. She opened the door and stepped inside.
“I’m sleeping,” the Earl mumbled.
“No, you’re not. You have done enough sleeping.” Veronica made her way to his bed and perched on the edge. She put a soft hand on her father’s shoulder and shook gently.
Mark Caster opened one eye sleepily. It was bloodshot and underlined in shadow. Veronica could smell the faint hint of liquor on his breath. He closed his eyes again quickly.
“Come on, Father,” Veronica said, a little more sternly. “You cannot stay in here all day.” She pulled back the bedclothes, ignoring his grunt of protest. “I am going to the garden to draw,” she told him. “Perhaps you would like to join me? We could sit by ourselves and enjoy the peace and quiet. You need not need talk to anyone. You could just have a cup of tea and take in the lovely surroundings. What do you think?”
The Earl sighed heavily but opened his eyes. He reached out a hand to cup Veronica’s cheek. “My sunshine,” he said, his voice gravelly with sleep. “I don’t deserve a daughter as lovely as you.”
Veronica felt her throat tighten. “Nonsense, Papa. Of course, you do.” She met his eye pointedly. “But it is time to get up now. Out of bed and I shall fetch your valet. I will wait downstairs for you and then we can go to the garden.”
Her father nodded and swung his legs out of bed. “My sunshine,” he said again. “What would I do without you?”
* * *
Frederick was not happy with his work. This figure on the canvas was empty, soulless. The kind of portrait he despised with every inch of his being. Still, what else could be expected? After all, this had not been a portrait at all, just a depiction of some indistinct figure he had pulled from his imagination. There was a part of him that did not want Lady Veronica to see it. Did not want her to see his failures.
He heard footsteps sounding towards the drawing-room, and in spite of himself, he felt his heart skip a beat.
