Page 24 of A Wounded Duke's Passion
“It is rather sensual,” she said, turning to face the duke.
She studied his strong jaw and his handsome profile before he tilted his head, glancing at her with such heat that she felt it all the way down to her core. Bridget’s toes curled inside her slippers, and she felt as if her entire body were alive and focused entirely on him. His eyes snapped back to the painting, abruptly, as it if pained him to look away from her. Bridget toreher own gaze away, knowing it would be scandalous to look at him any longer.
“I should thank you,” Bridget said, offering a belated curtsey, “Your Grace, for coming to my aid at the ball.”
“You hardly need thank me for that,” he replied. “Any man of breeding should have aided you. I am only sorry that Lord Thornton behaved as he did.”
“As am I.”
Bridget fixed her eyes on the brushstrokes, her thoughts turning to Rose’s plan once more. Did she dare ask His Grace if he had decided to agree to it?
“Do you have an interest in art?” the Duke of Hamilton asked.
Bridget pressed her lips together, thinking. “I like to look at art, although I am quite poor at creating it. I do not know as much about the subject as I would like either. It is my sister Anna who is the artist in the family. If you come to our townhouse, you will see her work everywhere.”
“I am also a poor artist,” His Grace said. A quick glance revealed that he smiled wryly. “But I once had… well, someone very dear to me once appreciated art very much, and I liked art because she did. I felt such joy seeing her happy.”
Bridget remembered how she had felt when she arrived at the art exhibition and listened to her sister’s excited thought on the paintings. “I understand that, Your Grace. Perhaps my feelings toward art are similar.”
“Interesting.”
Bridget clasped her hands to keep from fidgeting with her gown. She was too aware of how closely His Grace stood to her. The conversation felt so intimate, and she felt—well, not unpleasant, but a little unsettled by their discussion of art occurring before such a sensual piece.
“What do you suppose the purpose of art is?” His Grace asked.
Bridget blinked, taken aback by the question. Her gaze swept over the painting—of the woman’s round breasts and her soft body. What was the purpose of this piece? Her heart hammered against her ribs while she tried to decide how brazen she dared to be.
“I once thought that the purpose of art was to teach us morals.”
“I have heard that proposed purpose before,” His Grace said. “But you said you once thought it. What do you believe now?”
Bridget lowered her eyes, tracing the shape of the man’s muscular thighs. Her face was so hot that she knew she must be blushing madly. She silently hoped His Grace did not notice.
“I think the purpose of art is to cause us to feel,” Bridget said. “It is to make us experience new emotions and make us feel human.”
“A very thoughtful answer.”
Did she imagine that his voice sounded like a purr? Bridget swallowed hard. A dull ache settled between her legs, and although she knew it was best not to think about her body’s reactions to the painting and His Grace, her thoughts refused to turn anywhere else.
“Your Grace!” Rose exclaimed, as she joined them. “There is a piece of art which you simply must see!”
They both turned to look at Rose, whose face was alight with excitement. His Grace cleared his throat. “Excuse me, Lady Bridget.”
Rose grinned. “I will be back in just a moment, Bridget!” she declared. “I want him to persuade Lady Emily to let me purchase a piece! Then we can talk.”
Bridget only smiled.
Chapter 12
Lady Bridget’s smile was so alluring, sweet with just the smallest note of coyness, that Anthony sorely wished there were some graceful way to remain in her company, rather than following the wishes of Lady Rose. He still felt that frisson of excitement from looking at that scandalous painting with her. Although he had tried to maintain his composure, he had found himself sending Lady Bridget fleeting glances, fascinated by the intensity of her green eyes.
He almost wanted the painting for himself to remind himself of their conversation, but he could hardly display such a thing in his townhouse. It would be inappropriate, and Anthony could only imagine the horrified gazes he would receive from the mothers and fathers of Lady Rose’s potential suitors.
“Your Grace?”
He knew that voice but could not place it at first. Anthony turned, Lady Rose’s hand still curled around the crook of his arm. Then, he knew. He inhaled sharply at the sight of the terribly familiar woman, Lady Abigail Hastings. She was tall and stately, her elegant face and blue eyes framed by a froth of shining, brown curls.
“Lady Hastings,” he said.
