Page 23 of The Duke's Pet

Chapter Six

Jemima ate everythingMrs. Cook had brought. It felt good to have a full belly. She’d had enough of the hollow ache of hunger.

Standing, she eyed the duke as he worked at his easel. He was utterly absorbed in the process of painting the tall thin plant. Feeling brave enough to stay on her feet, and not return to the sofa on her hands and knees, she slowly moved to a table littered with paintings, small jars of water and oil, and brushes. Each painting had small spidery writing beneath it. She didn’t know what any of it said. How could she? But at a guess she thought it was the name of the plant, perhaps where it grew and when it flowered.

He was clearly very skilled, dedicated and talented in his work and she admired picture after picture.

A small jar of pinkish liquid caught her attention; she picked it up and sniffed, recognizing the smell as rose.

An image of her mother hovered in her mind’s eye. She’d loved the rosebush that had grown beside the kitchen window. Each summer she’d pick a few stems for a jug on the table.

She set the jar down, then moved along, admiring another image of a tree in full blossom. A close-up image of the blossom in the bottom right hand corner was in acute details.

I wish I could paint like that.

She’d never even tried to paint, or capture an image, not the way the duke did.

She glanced at him. He was frowning at his painting and scratching his temple with the end of his brush. It was clearly a taxing job, painting, something that required great patience and intelligence.

She’d never be able to do it.

Moving along, she spotted another small jar of liquid. It held a green tint and she wondered what it smelled like. Reaching for it, she bumped her hip on the table, it shuddered, she grasped the jar too quickly and it toppled. The contents spilled onto the painting of the blossom tree, instantly spreading over it and washing the colors together.

“Oh, no,” she gasped.

But it was too late. The duke had seen.

His brow creased and he slammed his paintbrush down on the lip of his easel. “What are you doing?”

He strode up to her.

The anger coming off him was palpable.

Her heart rate galloped to full pace. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to.”

“You were told not to touch.” He set the jar upright, though it was empty now, then held the tree painting aloft. Water dripped from the end onto the floor. “This is ruined. It took me an entire day. What a waste of time.” He screwed it up and flung it into a waste bin. “And that tree is no longer in blossom; it will be a full year before I can replace that piece of documentation.”

“I really am sorry. It was an accident, a mistake.”

“Was it a mistake that you were here, by my desk, touching my things?”

“No, Sir. I don’t think so. But I didn’t—”

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