The Art of Stealing a Duke’s Heart: Thieves of Desire Book 1

by St. Clair, Ellie

  No matter.

  The original plan had been to make a quick sketch of the painting during the ball last night. Now, she had much more time, but just as much pressure to work as quickly as she could. One never truly knew how much opportunity she would have.

  She moved one of the chairs over in front of the painting, taking some time to study and appreciate it before she placed her pencil to paper. It truly was a masterpiece, and a niggle of doubt began to tug at her conscience that she would be able to properly re-create such a wonder, and whether or not she actually should.

  She knew her brother Arie would sell the original, although to whom and for what, she had no idea. She never asked just what his intentions were — it wasn’t her place to do so nor did she actually want to know.

  No, her job was to repay her brother for everything he had done for her — providing her a home, family, food in her belly, and work that didn’t require her to sell herself.

  Finally, realizing the hour was growing late, Calli got to work. She began with the center of the painting, the ship as it turned with the storm, the fishermen who tried to regain control, and the one man at peace right in the center of it. She became lost in her work, sketching the masts, the rigging, before moving onto the nuances of the sea below and the sky above. She nibbled at her lip even as her fingers and toes grew cold, as the light of the room dimmed, the candle she had used to guide her way down the only brightness now that the fire in the hearth had been reduced to embers. Even her candle was beginning to flicker, and she looked over, startled to see that it had nearly burned down. That showed her what came of using a tallow candle. Yet she couldn’t bring herself to use one of her employer’s more expensive wax candles for the job she was currently doing, one that would only steal from him.

  “A few measurements, then,” she murmured, standing and muttering to herself as she made small marks and notes on her paper to make sure that she had this right. She wished she could paint with the painting itself in front of her, but that, of course, would be impossible.

  “You have to be good enough, Calli,” she could hear Arie telling her once more. “I know you are — prove it to me.”

  “I will, Arie,” she breathed. “I will.”

  Having completed as much as she possibly could in one night, Calli gathered her sketchbook under her arm and quietly let herself out of the study as she began to sneak back down the corridor. She had to admit that she didn’t overly enjoy such subterfuge, which made her question whether or not she was fully one of her family.

  None of them seemed to be concerned on the ethics of what they did — not even Xander, who was as close to her as any other person could be.

  She was so wrapped up in her thoughts that she wasn’t paying attention to any of the sounds the house revealed to her, and when she turned the corner, she ran right into a very solid figure.

  “Oh, bollocks!” she cried, stumbling backward as her sketchpad fell out of her hand and tumbled to the floor, although she retained her hold on the candle, luckily not allowing the small nub of remaining tallow to light anything on fire.

  “Miss Donahue!” the duke said as he held out a hand to steady her, and she jumped when his warm, strong fingers brushed against her elbow. She wished he wouldn’t call her Miss Donahue. It wasn’t her name, and she realized with some shock she would love to hear her own upon his lips, not the name of another. But of course, he would never know her as Calliope Murphy. For if he did, then he would most certainly be sending her out of his house, her arse to the street.

  “Are you all right?” he asked, his low voice nearly a caress, and she nodded hastily.

  “Just fine. I am so sorry, Your Grace.”

  They crouched at the same time to pick up her sketchbook, and even while wincing as they bumped their heads into one another’s, Calli managed to sneak out a hand and grab her incriminating work before the duke had a chance to see it.

  “I’m sorry again,” she said, biting her lip as she rubbed her forehead. “That was very poorly done of me.”

  “Nothing to be sorry for,” he said, reaching up a hand to brush her curls away from her forehead as he narrowed his eyes to inspect it. “Have I caused any damage?”

  “No,” she said, her eyes fluttering at the softness of his touch upon her skin. What was wrong with her? She was acting like no man had ever come close to her before. “I shall be fine.”

  He ignored her, stepping closer to further satisfy himself.

  “I’ve been told I have a hard head,” he said, one corner of his lips tilting — ever so slightly, but tilting — upward.

  “Was that… was that a joke, Your Grace?” Calli asked, her eyes widening, and at her startled stare, he let out a bark of laughter.

  “I suppose it was. Is that so terrifying a thought?”

  “No, I just never… I thought that… well, I am surprised is all,” she managed, even as she knew she was likely digging herself deeper into trouble.

  “The idea isn’t strange to me,” he said softly, his voice faraway, as though he had forgotten she was even there. “It’s just a bit more… absent than it once was.”

  “Why is that?” she asked, even as she knew she shouldn’t. It wasn’t her place, and he certainly didn’t seem like a man who was going to share any part of himself, most especially not with his governess.

  “Life has a way of making one a bit more cynical. Less trustworthy,” he said, his face closing off, his smile completely vanished, and Calli wished she could take back the question to welcome forth the laughing, smiling man once more. “Speaking of trust, what are you doing wandering around my house in the middle of the night?”

  “Is it?” she squeaked. “The middle of the night, that is? I hadn’t realized. I was…” well, she supposed she had to tell the truth of it now, or her lie would be obvious. “I was sketching.”

  “Sketching.”

  “Yes.”

  “And just what, Miss Donahue, do you sketch?”

  He was too close now, and Calli found her breath flowed quite rapidly even as she wished that he wasn’t the man he was, this intimidating duke who she was currently practically relying on to survive.

  “Everything,” she said, telling the truth. “People, landscapes, objects… I like to sketch a variety of subjects.”

  “I see. And why are you sketching here in the corridor, in the middle of the night?”

  “I was sketching the moon,” she said, hoping that he wouldn’t ask to see her work. “I had a hard time seeing it from my window.” Was that even true? She wondered, trying to determine the direction of the house and just where the moon would be in relation to it.

  He seemed satisfied enough with her answer, however, for he stepped out of the way and allowed her passage by him. “I hope it was worth it, Miss Donahue,” he said. “It can become rather chilly down here at night.”

  “I have realized that now, Your Grace,” she said as she stepped around him, relieved and yet somehow not entirely eager to leave him. When she stared into his face, there was a sense of… loneliness, sadness even, overwhelming him. When she peered closer, however, he seemed to sense her scrutiny and jerked his shoulders back, tossing his head high as though ready to start a battle.

  “Well. If you require anything, please ask Mrs. Blonsky or one of the maids,” he said with a curt nod of his head, back to business once more.

  “Of course,” Calli murmured, even though she had quickly found out that as a governess, she was not respected by the housekeeper nor accepted by the maids. She was between worlds here, just as she was at home.

  She knew she should take his offered passage, continue down the corridor and up the stairs to find her room once more. No proper governess would linger here in the hall with her employer in the middle of the night, staring so intently at him, eager to learn and devour his secrets.

  But then, Calli wasn’t exactly a proper governess. And behind all of his stern words and standoffish gestures, Calli could sense that ther
e was more to this duke than what he wanted everyone to think. And even though she was here for an entirely different purpose, even though she had no cause to spend any time with this man let alone speak to him about anything besides the children, she couldn’t seem to keep herself away from him.

  She shifted her sketchbook out of her hand into the crook of the elbow of the arm that was holding the candle, freeing up the fingers of her other hand, which seemed now to be acting of its own accord. It inched away from her, up, up, toward the duke, who stood impassively, too polite to bat her hand away and yet obviously horrified by the thought that she might touch him.

  Like she would have for any of her siblings or a child, she drew her fingers over his forehead, trying to erase the crease in his brow, the lines of worry that seemed so deeply ingrained they would never leave him.

  She waited for him to flinch, to pull away, but he surprised her when he closed his eyes and leaned into her touch.

  “You carry many burdens, Your Grace,” she said, her words just over a whisper.

  He nodded slightly. “Most men of my status do.”

  “But you allow them to bury themselves deep within you, to cause such torment in your soul.”

  “I do not,” he rebutted, and she smiled slightly at his refusal to allow her to lift the burden of them for even this one moment.

  “You must release them,” she said, trailing her fingers over his temple now, down his cheekbone, until she cupped his tense jaw. “Allow peace to flow instead.”

  Her brother had taught them all many years ago of the ancient practice of sitting silently, allowing their thoughts to rein freely and find peace. Calli had never seen a man more in need of it.

  “I cannot,” he said, his jaw still held stiffly. “For then, who would take them up?”

  “They would still be there waiting for you,” she said, “but everyone needs some solace now and again.”

  His eyes snapped open, finding hers, and he stepped toward her so suddenly that her arm fell at her side.

  “Not everyone has time for running on the green and painting the moon, Miss Donahue,” he said, his voice as harsh now as the planes of his face in the dim light. “Be sure to teach the children that as well.”

  And with that, he broke away, striding down the hall and into his study, returning to his work once again.

  Chapter 6

  The woman was some kind of witch.

  That was the only explanation for the enchantment she had seemed to place over him last night as he had stood there with her cool, soothing fingers upon his face.

  He never let anyone that close. Never.

  Not physically, and certainly not emotionally.

  No, Jonathan was just fine on his own, and he didn’t need any capricious governess trying to absolve him of all of his problems.

  Others had tried to come close to him before, and it had always ended in disaster. He wasn’t about to allow it now.

  Even if, in that one moment, it had felt so good to rest his head against her hand and allow her to soothe him.

  But now, in the light of the next day, he had returned to sanity and the truth of his life. A dangerous life of lies.

  Before business, however, he had promised Davenport to meet him for a morning ride. After mounting his horse, General, Jonathan had led him into a warm-up walk before finishing with a trot as they entered Hyde Park. Jonathan could admit that one of the aspects he did enjoy about being in the country, as far as it took him from all of his business interests, was the freedom of riding. It was the only place where, as his infernal governess put it, he could be free and release those burdens.

  But for now, the park, which should hopefully be nearly empty this early in the morning, would have to do.

  “Davenport,” he greeted his waiting friend, who always looked as free as Jonathan did burdened. “Fine morning.”

  “It most certainly is,” the marquess said. “You left the Sheffields early last night.”

  Jonathan shrugged. “I had other matters to attend to.”

  “You know, if you spent as much time charming young ladies as you did studying your ledger book, you would either be London’s most notorious rake or a happily married man,” Davenport said with a laugh, and Jonathan snorted as he shook his head.

  “I don’t have much care to fall in love, Davenport, you know that.”

  “But your mother expects you to marry. And she will be returning from Bath in the near future.”

  “Yes, and then she can look after those little hellions.”

  “I thought you found a governess.”

  “I have.”

  “Well, then, what does your mother’s return matter?”

  Jonathan sighed. “I was hoping the children would keep her distracted from her intentions to see me wed by the end of this season.”

  “Because she would far prefer that you had a wife who would be responsible for the children.”

  “That is not entirely true.”

  “But partly.”

  “Partly, yes, most assuredly,” Jonathan said with a curt nod. “But for now, our current arrangement will have to do. Finding a wife has proven far too time-consuming.”

  “I don’t know how you do it,” Davenport said, shaking his head.

  “Do what?”

  “Spend so much time with your work, your investments. Where is the joy in that?”

  It was curious that Jonathan and Davenport had become such fast friends, for they viewed life completely differently. Davenport was all about finding the fun that life had to offer, which seemed to work just fine for him. But whenever Jonathan tried to follow suit, he was left unsettled, unsatisfied.

  And then there had been the one time when he had allowed his heart to open. Look where that had gotten him.

  “You’re thinking of her again,” Davenport said, causing Jonathan to swerve his gaze back toward him.

  “Who?”

  “You know who. The person I know you’re thinking of when your face closes off darkly.”

  “I do not think of her.”

  “No?” Davenport said, lifting one of those black brows in the expression that caused women to fall at his feet. “Is she not the reason you now are who you are?”

  Jonathan grunted. “If anything, I should be thankful to her. For she taught me that I need to be careful who I trust, that I need to keep my guard firmly in place. Most people who I meet want something from me. She was no different, and I should have known better.”

  “She turned you into a cynical man,” Davenport said, something close to regret lacing his voice. “Not everyone is out to get you.”

  “Most are. Or out to get something. She wanted my name, my wealth, a man who would never question her for fear he would lose the respect that meant so much. I am only glad I discovered the truth when I did.”

  “For that, I suppose, you can most certainly be grateful,” Davenport said with an audible exhale. “Well, enough chatter for one morning. What do you say we race?”

  “I say it’s about time,” Jonathan said, relief sweeping over him that Davenport had finally left the issue alone.

  “The tree down there,” Davenport said, pointing into the distance. “The one that was cracked in the storm, with the fallen branches. We’ll race there.”

  “Are we wagering?”

  Davenport’s normal smile now widened into a huge grin.

  “Of course. What would you like to wager?”

  “If I win, you never discuss my past again,” Jonathan said, hardness in his voice that caused Davenport to narrow his eyes at him.

  “And if I win?”

  “What do you want?”

  “A night with that lovely creature under your employ?”

  “What are you talking about?” Jonathan asked sharply, his gaze swinging to his friend.

  “The one playing with the children on the green in front of your house yesterday. She caught the eye of many a passerby.”

  Jonathan gritted his teeth.
He knew he should never have allowed such a thing. He should have listened to his instincts.

  “You know I can never agree to that.”

  “Keeping her for yourself?”

  “No!” he barked. “She’s a member of my staff and therefore under my protection. From men such as me — and you.”

  “Most men wouldn’t agree with you.”

  “That is of no consequence.”

  Davenport sighed. “Very well. Five pounds will do.”

  With that, they counted down together before urging their horses on, across the empty field toward the tree in question.

  Jonathan’s heart raced in time with his horse’s hooves. Every gentleman loved to ride, it was true, but for him, riding was part of his very soul, the one time when his spirit soared free, when he felt like he was flying along with his horse. He could never properly explain it to anyone else, and when he had tried to broach the subject before, he had felt the fool, for no one seemed to properly understand the pure joy it brought him. But joy it did bring.

  He became so caught up in floating over the air and the race against Davenport that he barely registered when the empty field was suddenly empty no longer.

  A figure ran out in front of him, so small and slight that he nearly mistook it for an animal due to the speed of his own mount.

  Jonathan cried out to Davenport even as he hauled on General’s reins, as the horse gave a loud whinny of protest when he dug his back feet into the earth. Jonathan just managed to hold on and avoid flying over the horse’s head as the child was suddenly covered from danger by the figure running after him, rolling over top of him and shielding him.

  Even as the dust began to float down from the air surrounding them and settle to the ground, there was no mistaking who was before him.

  His governess, the woman who, apparently, all of London was talking about if Davenport could be believed, was curled into a ball around his nephew.