Page 76 of The Duchess in His Bed
Up the stairs they went. When they reached the top, however, he pulled her in a direction they’d never before traveled.
“Where are we going?”
“I want to share something with you.”
She almost quipped that he could share it with her right then and there, against the wall, and she’d not find fault with him, but didn’t want their encounters to revolve only around the bedding. “The relaxation room?”
He chuckled low. “Not tonight.”
Another corridor, another set of stairs, then another, narrower with more creaks and moans. He opened a door. “Wait here.”
She stepped into the doorway while he went farther into the room with a solitary window, faint moonlight or streetlamps spilling in to reveal what appeared to be a rather cluttered attic. The hiss of a match strike, the flaring of a flame, the lighting of a lamp, and her suspicions were confirmed, but the clutter, dear God, the clutter was magnificent.
Cautiously she walked to an easel where the canvas revealed the profile of a woman—her but not her—her hair pinned up, her shoulders seemingly bared. Everything about the painting was muted, muted by sorrow, blurred so it was impossible to be certain he had used her as the model and yet it could be no one else. She was surprised no tears rained down the cheek. “The night we went to the cemetery.”
“Yes.”
She glanced over her shoulder at him, not certain she’d ever known him to look so tense, as though he were awaiting her judgment and feared her pronouncement would lead him to the gallows. “You did this?”
A single nod.
Her gaze circled the room. “All of these?”
“Yes.”
She wandered over to the wall where a dozen portraits hung and one, the one nearest to the door, snagged her attention. It revealed only eyes and a heart-shaped chin, again all muted. It could have represented anyone and while it was not revealed, she imaged a mask hiding what had not been painted.
Another portrayed a woman with the look of a warrior about her, holding a cue stick, the portrait beginning with the upper swells of her breasts. “I see you don’t bother with clothing.”
“I never had much luck with that. The lines of the human form come more naturally to me.”
She thought of the paintings in the billiards room, on the walls in other rooms. All sensual, all nudes but muddled in a way that never really gave away the identity of the person. “Do you paint everyone you’ve bedded?”
“I paint those who intrigue me.”
She glanced over her shoulder, meeting and holding his gaze. “Have you bedded all these ladies?”
“Only a couple.”
“Did the others pose for you?”
“I paint from memory.”
Moving farther into the confined area she realized he’d lied about clothing being a challenge for him, because there was a portrait of a boy decked out in finery, a beaver hat and walking stick in hand, an arrogant grin on his darling face. “This is Robin, the lad who helped out at the bookshop.”
“He lived with Gillie before moving in with Finn. She won’t admit it, but I think she misses him. I thought to give that to her.”
He had a good heart, a caring heart that caused her own to tighten painfully in her chest. A time would come when he would create portraits of his own children. “You’re quite talented.”
She wandered back over to him, pressed her palm against his cheek. “Will you be hanging me in one of the salons downstairs?”
“No. They’re only for me. But I wanted you to know about them. I don’t know why, but it seemed important somehow. Perhaps because in the past few days you’ve been forced to bare your secrets and soul to me. It seemed only fair that I bare some of my soul to you.”
“How much simpler all this would be if you weren’t so complicated.” Rising up on her toes, she claimed his mouth as though it was her right to do so, although at the moment she readily believed it was. With their bodies, they’d made their vows, sealed their fates when they’d come together the night before.
Was it only last night that she’d decided she wanted him regardless of his decision, that she wanted no conditions, no terms when it came to their relationship? She wouldn’t have gone to another. She wanted him, only Aiden, as long as he’d have her.
His arms closing securely around her, followed by his low groan, heightened her own pleasure, and she moaned in response.
