Page 93 of A Scandalous Kind of Duke

Letters from future clients, canceling their appointments. Letters from past clients, expressing their disgust. Some even returned the portraits she had painted of them; apparently, one could catch a nasty case of moral indecency simply by viewing a painting by Juno Bell.

There were kind letters too, from her friends in the countryside, Arabella and Cassandra. They could not be with her, both now in the business of producing babies, but they offered to send carriages, promising her a home, somewhere to rest until it all blew over.

It would not blow over. An aristocrat could weather a scandal. An artist could too, provided that artist was sufficiently charming, talented, and male. But an unmarried woman? Her career in London was finished.

And that was nobody’s fault but her own.

Oh, she could rant about Prescott, or the injustices of society, but she had known the rules and the risks. She had done as she pleased anyway. Why? Because she hadwantedto.

Because she was headstrong and foolish and arrogant enough to think the rules did not apply to her. As if she were someone special.

She was no one special.

Restless, she roamed away from the cabinet, stared out the window at the dismal London day. Well, at least in Italy she would see the sun.

She was still staring out the window when she heard footsteps, slow, steady, somewhere in the next room. She ignored them. Until the glass reflected a movement behind her.

A slender male figure stood in the doorway of her studio.

As Leo had stood in that doorway so many times.

She closed her eyes and hugged herself. It could not be Leo, which meant she was finally going mad, but she didn’t care. She let her senses track the movements. The gentle thud of bootheels on wooden floorboards. The stirring of the air. The warmth of a presence behind her, close enough that she could feel his essence, catch his scent.

His arms slid around her. Enfolded her in their warmth.

She let herself rest against the solidity of his chest. His hands found hers. He entwined their fingers. He rested his head lightly against hers. His hair tickled her temple.

Hot tears escaped her shut eyelids and trickled down her cheeks.

“Hush,” he murmured. “Hush.”

“You’re here.” Her voice came out as a broken whisper. She swallowed, tried again. “You’re here.”

Everything felt right, in color, in harmony, in balance. Leo was with her; the rest of the world could go hang. Nothing else mattered.

Nothing except the fact that he was promised to someone else and she was London’s newest scandal.

Suddenly, she could not bear it. She could not bear his presence, his kindness, his support, his friendship, because he would take them all away when he left her again.

He had rejected her love. Called her inconstant, ended their friendship, got engaged to someone else, brushed her off coolly, and then he had come to her when drunk and dismissed their one hour of true intimacy as a mistake.

She wrenched herself from his arms, swiped at her eyes, and turned to face him.

Oh, but he looked wonderful, a balm to her soul, with his expression soft and caring, his eyes deep with concern.

“You ought not to be here,” she said dully.

“I just heard,” he said. “If I can offer assistance.”

“There is nothing to be done.”

“What do you need?”

She needed him to hold her. Just hold her and hold her and hold her.

Shaking her head, she backed away. Her knees hit the window seat, which halted her retreat. “Perhaps you mean to be kind, but this is too…”

Cruel, she wanted to say.

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