Page 15 of The Duke's Pet

The rest of the room was a jumble of tables scattered with paintings, books, brushes, and plants in pots. The walls were the same with shelves and bookcases all bursting with foliage and files. Every inch of spare paneling held a frame containing a painting of a plant.

“Can you purr?”

“I beg your pardon?” She frowned his way.

“Like this.” He stepped close and ran the back of his index finger down her throat. He made a rolling ‘r’ sound.

He smelled of spice and paint, and his eyes were black as night. He was so close she could see the specks of dark stubble over his top lip and on his jawline.

She repeated the noise he’d made.

“Ah, good.” He smiled. “I may ask you to do that from time to time.”

“Yes, Sir.”

He stepped away and reached for a palette that held one single blob of black paint. He scanned the surface of a table, then scooped up a brush with a slim pointy end.

“Do not fear, this is a nontoxic paint created from pastels. It will do you no harm.” He paused, brush aloft. “Keep perfectly still, little kitten.”

Little kitten?

She did as he’d asked, her heart clattering against her ribcage.

He daubed the brush in the paint, then very carefully and very precisely he swiped it over the tip of her nose. Once that was covered in what she guessed was a small circle, he drew lines outward over her cheeks.

“Very good.” He stepped back, and admired his work. “What do you think?” He urged her to turn to the window.

She could see her reflection.

Her eyes widened. He’d blacked out the tip of her nose and drawn whiskers on her cheeks. “You want me to be a kitten?”

He chuckled. “It’s my house, my game.”

“But I...?”

“Ah.” He held his finger to her lips. “Remember, you are mine to do with as I wish. This is what I wish.”

For me to be a kitten?

Emily had said that some patrons had strange requests, odd desires, but Jemima could never have imagined this; she’d bet Emily couldn’t either.

“This way?” He slipped his arm around her waist and urged her to the window.

She faltered, reluctant to yield to him steering her farther from the door, her means of escape. But his force was strong, and he was so tall and adamant.

A desk sat in the window recess and he tugged open a drawer. From it he pulled a slim black leather collar.

“We must speak frankly,” he said, his eyebrows pulling low and his jaw tensing.

She frowned at the collar. What in God’s name did he intend to do with that? Make her wear it?

“I was very specific in my request to Madam of The Rose and Thorns.”

She nodded, trepidation sliding up her spine, then over her scalp and making her ears ring.

“And I trust she has sent me exactly what I asked for.”

“You mean...”

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