Page 50 of Married to a Wicked Duke
“Indeed they will,” Frederick said firmly. “Perhaps you might also consider finding a way to give back to the world, My Lady. I am sure you will find it a much more meaningful endeavor than seeking to hurt others out of a petty need for self-validation.”
* * *
When they arrived back at Brownwood Manor several hours later, the house was quiet. A lamp flickered in the stairwell, but the rooms above were dark.
“Well,” said Frederick, nodding his thanks to the doorman as he took his coat and gloves, “that was quite an evening.”
Veronica was still buzzing from the events of the evening. She was filled with joy and how well her mural had been received and bursting with anticipation at the thought of teaching her first class in a week’s time. But she had to admit, all that excitement was almost overshadowed by the thrill of hearing her husband put Juliet Carfield in her place.
She smiled at him as they made their way up the staircase together. “Did you really not remember who Lady Juliet was?”
Frederick chuckled. “Of course I remembered who she was. How could I forget someone so vile? But I was not about to let her know that.”
Veronica laughed. “You are very mischievous.”
Frederick grinned. “She deserved it.”
“Yes. She did.” Much to Veronica’s relief, Lady Juliet had been the only one to make mention of her father tonight. And her jab in the Earl’s direction had almost been worth it to see Frederick berate her for it.
Veronica stopped as they reached the top of the stairs, his quarters to the left and hers to the right. She turned to face her husband, looking up to meet his eyes. In the faint lamplight, the sharp line of his jaw was shadowed and dark. A thick strand of hair hung over one eye, and it took all her willpower not to reach out and touch it. “Thank you,” she said. “For standing up for me tonight. It meant more to me than I can express.”
“Of course.” Frederick cleared his throat. “You are my wife—”
“And it is your duty to stand up for me,” Veronica finished.
He swallowed visibly, lowering his eyes for a moment. “Indeed.” He looked back up at her, his eyes meeting hers. He took a tiny step toward her. For a moment, Veronica felt rooted in place. She could feel the warmth of his body. Could feel his breath tickling her nose.
How easy it would be to lean forward and press her lips to his. Her body ached for it. For him. But how could she behave so boldly when she had no idea of how he would react? Perhaps he would return her kiss with the same hunger he had in her bedchamber earlier in the week. Perhaps he would throw her over his shoulder and carry her upstairs to his bedchamber and they would finally become husband and wife in every sense.
But just as likely, he would pull away, and close down. Remind her that this was a marriage in name only.
Except for when he chooses otherwise.
No. Veronica would not do it. Regardless of how good her husband had the ability to make her feel—and regardless of how well he had treated her tonight—she would not put herself through such torment. Allow herself to get too close to Frederick Barnes and he would break her heart.
She took a step back, pulling her eyes from his magnetic gaze. “Good night, Frederick. I shall see you in the morning.”
* * *
Veronica waited nervously as the children filed into the classroom. How was it possible, she wondered distantly, that such tiny humans could fill her with such overwhelming anxiety?
That morning, she had woken before dawn, reciting her first lesson in her head, reading and re-reading through the notes she had made until the words swam before her eyes. She had barely forced down a cup of tea at breakfast, so violently had her stomach been rolling. Amidst all her excitement at the thought of teaching art, she had failed to consider just how nerve-wracking such a thing could be.
“Goodness, my dear,”the Dowager Duchess had commented at breakfast, as Veronica has chased her eggs around her plate without eating,“you look like someone who is on the way to the executioner, not to teach a classroom full of children.”
And Veronica had to admit that right now, these noisy, chaotic children were eliciting much the same level of fear in her as a hangman with the noose in hand.
She counted ten — no, fifteen; twenty? — boys and girls, ranging in age from around five to ten. They wore colorless smocks and breeches, but their drab clothing belied their energy and enthusiasm. They were all giggling and chatting together, clearly long-time friends from the orphanage. Many of them had clustered around the mural and were tracing over the flowers with grimy fingers. Two boys were chasing each other around the desks.
“Please take your seats, everyone,” Veronica said, her voice coming out far softer than she had intended. She could barely hear herself over the clamor of the children. She tried again, louder. “Take your seats and be quiet at once!”
Twenty pairs of eyes widened and turned to her. Clearly stunned at her sudden outburst—marginally less than Veronica herself was—the children obediently scurried to their desks. Veronica allowed herself a smile. “Very good. Thank you, children.”
She made her way to the pile of supplies Frederick had loaded her classroom with. There were enough sketchbooks, pencils and paints to see these children through their lifetime—and their children’s children as well. With her arms loaded, she made her way around the classroom, setting pencils and paper on each desk. The children began to murmur excitedly, opening the boxes of pencils and peering inside curiously. Veronica was quite certain most of them had never even seen colored pencils before—let alone used them. Their excitement began to whittle away her nerves.
“Art is a wonderful way to record the world around you,” she began. “I hope you will all love it just as much as I do.” She smiled down at the children. “Some of you might grow up to be painters for a living, maybe making portraits for people so they can always remember their loved ones. But for most of you, making art will just be a way of expressing yourself. It can help you make sense of the world around you, especially when things seem strange or scary. It can help you remember times when you felt so happy you never want to lose those memories. And when you are feeling sad, it can be a way of making things hurt a little bit less.” Unbidden, Veronica found herself thinking of her husband.
A little boy in the front row reached his hand to the sky. “Did you paint all them flowers on the wall, miss?”
