Page 22 of Healing the Duke's Desires
Alexander had to be polite. After all, it was required of him. But politeness would mean that he would have approached her sooner and greeted her as a real, fearless gentleman ought to, instead of hiding from her, like a schoolboy hiding from his mistress when he had done something wrong, something that deserved not only a scolding but also a punishment.
“It was lovely of you to invite us,” Emily replied slightly awkwardly, her cheeks blushing an even more fervent red. He liked how the red suited her, accentuating the porcelain paleness of her skin even more. He wondered if the concealed parts of her skin were equally pale, if the purple line of veins flowed up her delicate arms and into her decolletage.
Get a grip, man!
He scolded himself angrily inside his mind, but it did little to calm his racing mind, his pounding heart, and the awakening of something he did not even dare admit had awakened after what seemed an eternity of slumber. He ought to be ashamed of himself, behaving the way he did.
“It was actually my aunt who arranged the list,” he said clumsily, then almost bit his tongue when he saw the disappointment on her face. That was not what she wanted to hear. That was also not what he had intended to say, but it was too late now.
“Oh.” That was all she managed to say.
“But we agreed on the final names,” he added hastily, having no idea why this woman made him feel like he was but a mere lad without any knowledge of how the world worked.
This time, she smiled. It was a weak smile, but it was one, nonetheless.
“How did you like the art exhibition?” she inquired courteously, and he appreciated the change of topic, as the conversation was obviously not going in the direction he had hoped for. In all honesty, he had no idea where he wanted it to go. He was in uncharted waters with this woman, and it both thrilled him as well as petrified him.
“It was a bit too… modern for my taste,” he said simply, trying to make sense of his thoughts.
“Too modern?” she wondered, sounding genuinely interested. “How so?”
“I prefer the classics,” he said, finding it comforting to be in familiar, calm waters of art. He had forgotten all about this side of himself, like a locked door whose keyhole someone had dared to peek through and see the hidden light.
“Me, too.” She smiled.
It was a genuine smile this time, one that illuminated her cheeks. Only then did he notice her little dimples, and he was mesmerized by them.
Everything about her was innocent and naïve, wondrous and awe-inspiring, and yet the sensations she awakened inside of him were far from innocent. He reminded himself of propriety once again, a little voice inside of him treacherously wondering what her lips would taste like. Cherries? Strawberries? Honey? He liked all the options.
“There is something about the wisdom and creativity of the old masters,” she continued, gushing, pulling him out of the fruity reverie he had just created for himself. “Not that there is anything wrong with new ideas.”
“Every mind sees the world differently,” he pointed out, getting lost in his own explanation. “And as an artist, it also creates differently. That is, at least, what I believed when I used to paint.”
“You used to paint?” she exclaimed incredulously, eyes wide like sparkling clusters of stars in the darkest of nights.
The moment he said those words, he regretted them. This was not something he had planned on sharing with anyone, especially not with her. He felt like opening up to her in such a manner would only leave him more vulnerable, and that was the last thing he needed. But the words seemed to flow out of his mouth effortlessly. He had not meant to say them, but they were out now. They did not belong to him any longer.
“Used to,” he stressed, trying to diminish their significance, but that was impossible. “Not anymore. Honestly, it feels like an entire lifetime ago now.”
Her eyes lit up with even more interest. “What sort of paintings were they?”
If it were anyone else asking these questions, anyone else in the whole world, he would have shut down this discussion immediately, refusing to answer. But it washer.
“Landscapes, mostly. I found solace in capturing the beauty of nature on canvas. It was a way to express emotions and thoughts that words couldn’t quite convey,” he explained as simply as he could.
“It sounds like painting was very meaningful to you,” she remarked, her gaze locked onto him as if had gained the ability to see beyond the mere surface of his words and right into his very soul. He felt completely bared before her, but at the same time, without the need to hide himself. He could not remember the last time he’d felt like that around anyone.
“It was,” he agreed, his voice almost a whisper. He hadn’t spoken about his painting in years, and the unexpected connection he felt with Emily seemed to be coaxing him to open up. It was not easy to do so, but the desire was there, present.
At that moment, a servant girl placed a tray of tea on the table. Without thinking, both of them reached for the same teacup. As their hands brushed against each other, he felt as if a thunderbolt exploded somewhere inside of him, and the sparkles of electricity were felt in the air itself. They exchanged a brief but meaningful glance, both momentarily lost in the charged atmosphere between them. Their smiles spoke more than words ever could.
“Ah, I… I’m sorry,” he stammered, pulling his hand away from hers as if her skin were made of molten lava and her heat scorched him, leaving an indelible mark. He cleared his throat in an effort to regain composure. “Please, go ahead.”
Emily’s lips curved into a gentle smile. “No need to apologize.” He’d thought that would be the end of this rather awkward situation when she surprised him with her next sentence. “It seems we’re both quite eager for tea.” Her voice was light and melodious, and her smile was even more luminous now than before.
He couldn’t help but chuckle at this effort at a light joke, a hint of embarrassment still lingering in his words. “Yes, it would appear so.”
They both reached for different cups this time, but their eyes were locked over the edges that confined the tea. He was grateful for the few moments of silence, allowing the murmur of other people to drown out his own doubts and suspicions—which were eating him alive, for he was doing the unthinkable, committing a most heinous crime.
