Page 63 of Married to a Wicked Duke
But then he had pulled her nightgown over her head and carried her to the bed, and Veronica had forgotten what she had even asked him in the first place.
The third time, when she had felt him watching her while she was sitting down in the parlor for a cup of tea, she had sprung to her feet and raced down the passage to catch him. Had glimpsed him tucking his sketchbook inside his jacket, before he feigned surprise at seeing her and spluttered out some rubbish about looking for a lost pencil.
So he is painting a portrait of me.The realization brought a smile to Veronica’s face. Made something swell in her chest. Something about the thought of Frederick creeping around the house to sketch her likeness—and doing a rather dreadful job of hiding it—was impossibly endearing. Perhaps the fact that he would go to such trouble for her meant he was beginning to truly care for her. As she was him.
Veronica knew there was no point in trying to deny it. In spite of her best intentions, she was beginning to grow feelings for her husband. How could she do otherwise when he had been so warm and affectionate of late? And when he came to her bedchamber each night and drew such pleasure from her body?
These feelings were dangerous, yes. But something had been set in motion, and Veronica had no thought of how to stop it.
“Straight to the studio again, Your Grace?” asked Sarah, when Veronica arrived home from visiting her sister later that week. Her nimble fingers began to work at the buttons down the back of her mistress’s fine woolen dress.
“Yes, thank you, Sarah.”
Veronica’s pieces for the gallery were coming together well. Two of the five were completed: a scene incorporating the Cambridge country house, and a close-up depiction of the butterflies in the garden. Tonight, she planned to work on her favorite painting: a scene that focused on the untamed greenery that grew at the back of the Cambridge garden.
The gallery was due to open in a month, and the thought of it filled Veronica with excitement. Frederick had agreed to show George Roland’s paintings, and he, along with the other artists, were delivering new pieces to Brownwood Manor almost daily. Seeing the new pieces arrive, and discussing with Frederick how best to exhibit them was a great thrill. But not as thrilling as the thought of seeing her own work on display.
“Very good, Your Grace,” said Sarah. “I’m looking forward to seeing your paintings, if you don’t mind me saying.” She helped Veronica into the old day dress she often wore for painting. Even when wearing the former Duchess’s painting smock, Veronica was still something of a messy artist, and she lived in constant fear of damaging one of the fine—and ridiculously costly—gowns her husband had had made for her.
Veronica smiled at Sarah in the mirror. “The paintings are nearly done. I shall show you them all once they are finished.”
“Very good, madam. Would you like your dinner brought up to the studio again?”
* * *
Several hours later, Veronica put down her brush and stretched her arms over her head. The night had flown by, as she had stood at the easel, crafting delicate coils of ivy around the thick trunks of the oak trees that stood in the foreground of her painting. A half-touched plate of roast lamb and vegetables sat on the table beside her. Veronica picked up a piece of carrot with her fingers and took a mindless bite, her eyes not leaving the canvas.
The house was quiet now. In her enthusiasm to work on the paintings, Veronica had neglected to close the curtains, and the dark plain of the garden stretched out behind the glass. She made her way over to the window and tugged the curtains closed.
The fact that Frederick had not come to her tonight, as he had begun to do most nights, suggested he too was working on his latest piece.
Veronica was suddenly overcome with a need to see her husband. She slipped off the painting smock and pulled her shawl around her shoulders. She took the lamp from the mantel and stepped out into the dark passage.
The glow of light from under the door of her husband’s studio told her he was indeed hard at work. She knocked softly.
“Frederick. It’s me.”
In response, she heard a flurry of movement, and the legs of the easel squealing against the floorboards. When Veronica opened the door, she saw Frederick turning the easel—and the painting—towards the wall, to keep them out of her sight.
She came towards him with a smile. “Why so secretive?”
He grinned, moving to stand between her and the easel. “Well, if I told you that, it would not be a secret any longer.”
Frederick was wearing nothing but dark blue breeches and an open-necked shirt, his sleeves rolled to his elbows and his hands and forearms speckled with paint. His feet were bare, and his fair hair tousled. At the sight of him, dressed so casually, so lost in his work, Veronica felt a tug of desire.
Grinning, she attempted to dart past him, in hope of catching a glimpse of the easel. Frederick caught her tightly in his arms. “Now, now. Don’t you know it is rude to see an artist’s work before they are ready to show you?” His eyes glinted in the lamplight.
“I let you see my work,” she reminded him coyly. “Besides, I am your partner in this gallery. If this is a piece you are planning to exhibit, it ismostimportant that I see what it is.”
Frederick’s gaze traveled from her eyes to linger on her lips. “Is that so?”
“Yes,” Veronica said with mock seriousness. “That is so.” The look of blatant desire in his eyes caused heat to bloom between her legs. She wanted him, yes, but more than that, she wanted to see that smile on his face again. Wanted to hear that laugh. Wanted a glimpse of that warm-hearted man she knew hid behind her husband’s rigid façade. The man she was beginning to fall in love with.
“Might I remind you,” he said, a smile playing on his lips, “that you have also forbidden me from seeing the paintings you are working on for the gallery?”
Veronica grinned. “Well. That is different.”
“Is it, now?”
