Page 37 of Married to a Wicked Duke
Frederick closed the distance between them and peered over her shoulder at the sketches she had been making. She could smell his rosewater scent, mixed with the faint hint of oil paints and a musky, masculine aroma. His nearness made something inexplicable coil inside her belly. His shoulder brushed against hers, and she felt her nipples harden beneath her thin nightgown. She tugged her shawl tighter around her shoulders to cover herself.
Frederick tapped a long, paint-speckled finger against the page. “This tree. I recognize it from our country house in Cambridge.”
Veronica smiled. “Yes. I did a lot of sketching while I was there. At least, as much as I could between, well… other events.” She felt her cheeks color, but her husband gave her a faint, knowing smile. “The garden at the country house is so wild and beautiful, it seemed like a fitting subject for my collection for the gallery,” she told him. “I have been considering how best to combine the sketches I made into larger images.”
Frederick nodded, his eyes dark and serious. “That is a wonderful idea. My mother loved the garden, just as you do. And I am sure your depiction of the place will do it justice.” He nodded toward the pencil she had discarded on the table. “May I watch you work?”
Veronica’s heart skipped a beat. It was a rare occasion that she allowed people to watch her while she was drawing or painting. Usually, she felt almost painfully self-conscious when she worked, as though the onlookers were criticizing every brushstroke or pencil line. The logical part of her mind knew this was foolishness, of course, but it was difficult to silence the self-deprecating thoughts. But the day of the Dowager Duchess’s painting competition, she had allowed Frederick to watch her paint, and she had to admit there had been something immensely calming about it. Something steadying, as though she was sharing her passion with someone who truly understood it. Someone who was not criticizing or judging her work, but rather appreciating it on a deeper level, just as she did.
Tonight felt different.
Tonight, it was long past midnight, and the dark passages of the manor were still and silent around them. Tonight, she was dressed in nothing but her nightclothes, with her senses beginning to awaken to him. Tonight, he was her husband.
And her body was already aching for his.
But nothing would ever happen between them, she reminded herself.
A wife in name only.
Frederick had made that perfectly clear. Besides, he was her husband, the Duke. The man who had given her the chance to display her work in an art gallery—an opportunity of a lifetime. If he wished to watch her work, who was she to protest?
She swallowed heavily. “Of course.” She picked up her pencil and sketchbook, and remained standing as she began to draw. She often sketched standing up when she was jittery with inspiration—or jittery with inexplicable nerves, as she was now. Her pencil darted across the page like lightning, fired by the bundle of nervousness inside her.
She could not bring herself to look at Frederick, who was leaning against the table, but she could feel his closeness; could feel the warmth of his body. His silent presence seemed to suck all the air from the room. He watched silently as she filled the page with soft gray lines. The pencil scratched noisily across the page, Veronica’s heart beating so loudly in her ears she was sure her husband could hear it.
When his hand came to rest of the back of her neck, Veronica heard herself gasp softly. She turned toward her husband, her eyes meeting his in question.
“Keep drawing,” he said huskily. His fingers moved almost imperceptibly, pushing her plait aside and tracing light circles over the warm skin on her neck.
Obediently, Veronica kept her pencil moving. She outlined the leaves of the enormous oak tree, each line becoming more careless and abandoned. Nothing she created from tonight from here on in would be useable—of that she was certain. But she kept drawing anyway.
Frederick’s finger traced a slow line around the collar of her nightgown, from the back of her neck, across her collarbone, pausing just inches above her breasts.
Veronica felt her back arch, heat beginning to pulse between her legs. She felt herself pressing her body backward, seeking her husband’s. He remained steady and unmoving, allowing her to push herself against him. She turned her head almost on instinct, craving his kiss. He could sense her desperation for him, surely. But Veronica did not care. There was barely any room in her head for anything other than the desire he was stoking inside her. And there was certainly no room for drawing.
Frederick turned his head away, out of her reach. He stood behind her, letting one broad hand slide down to press against her hip bone. Veronica heard herself murmur. Felt wetness beginning to gather between her thighs. She closed her eyes, drinking in the unfamiliar sensation, hearing her breath quicken and grow louder.
“Keep working,” Frederick whispered, his lips close to her ear. His breath against her skin sent a violent pulse of desire through her entire body.
Veronica continued to drag the pencil mindlessly across the page. She had little thought of what she was even drawing now; all she could focus on was the way her husband was making her feel. That heat building in her belly. That blaze between her legs.
Somewhere distant, she knew they were breaking their own rules.A wife in name only. But Veronica could not bring herself to think too deeply on it right now.
Frederick’s hand snaked beneath her arm and found the swell of her breast. He traced light circles around her peaked nipple, drawing more faint murmurs from her lips. When he pinched gently, through the thin fabric of her nightgown, Veronica heard herself cry out. She gripped her sketchbook hard to avoid dropping it.
She turned her head again, desperate for Frederick’s lips, but again he again shifted away, preventing her access. He pulled her firmly against his body, and Veronica could feel his hardness straining against her backside.
The feel of it made her gasp.Am I really doing that to him?
He had told her he desired her, yes, but feeling such visceral proof of it was dizzying. Her legs wavered beneath her and she felt herself leaning back against him to prevent herself from falling.
Frederick reached down and gathered her nightgown in his fist, then slid one hand beneath the flimsy white fabric. His warm hand traced a slow path up the inside of her knee and up her inner thigh. Veronica closed her eyes, moaning softly.
“Please,” she heard herself whisper. She was not even certain what it was she was begging for. She only knew she was desperate for her husband’s touch. Needed it in ways she was only just beginning to make sense of.
Impossibly slowly, his hand slid higher. The moment he found the slickness between her legs, Veronica cried out, her pencil and sketchbook falling to the floor. She felt herself pushing her hips back against his body, craving more friction, her palms pressing against the table to keep herself from falling.
Frederick moved a finger in slow circles, drawing sensations from Veronica that she could barely fathom. She heard herself crying out; could hear her moans getting louder but felt powerless to control them. She felt the pressure building up in a way that was simultaneously blissful and almost painful in its intensity. Felt herself careening towards something she could not quite make out.
