“Of course,” she said, but she was so far across the room from him now that he wasn’t sure whether she was mocking him or agreeing with him.
He began to cross the room toward her, indescribably drawn to her.
She was stopped in front of a Peter Paul Rubens.
“What do you think?” he asked, coming to stand next to her shoulder to shoulder as she stared at it.
“It’s… thought-provoking,” she said, her eyes glinting as she turned her head at an angle to better study it. Jonathan tried to see it through her eyes, but he was having a difficult time looking away from her. She was a picture of beauty in and of herself. So vibrant, so stunning, so full of life.
She wore her every thought on her face, and he wished he could find such an open honesty in himself.
“In what way?” he asked.
“You can tell the love depicted between the pair of them,” she said, tilting her head, becoming lost in the painting. “There is honeysuckle — meaning love and lightness.”
He swallowed, thinking of her own scent.
“He seems to be protecting her, guarding her, while the painting is so neat and orderly, as though their life is as well,” she continued.
“It is a self-portrait, of the artist and his wife,” Jonathan said softly. “You are a critic, Miss Donahue.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” she shook her head as her cheeks turned pink. “I could never criticize someone so masterful.”
“That’s not what I meant,” he said gently, not wanting to insult her. “I only meant that you see things others don’t see, have a way of looking at the painting with an eye for detail, for emotion that most others would miss.”
“Thank you.” She dipped her head. “How do you come by all of these paintings?”
“Most of them through auction,” he said as they continued on walking around the room, skirting the few chairs that dotted it. “Usually when some other bastard — excuse me — has lost his fortune and needs to sell them or when his estate has been forfeited to pay his debts.”
“That’s sad.”
“It is,” he agreed, “But it usually was due to a choice he made. To try to win his fortune at the gambling tables as opposed to hard work.”
She turned to him, her eyes wide and serious. “Do you never gamble?”
“I do not.”
She smiled then as she studied him. “No,” she said, although she nodded as if in agreement. “You most certainly do not strike me as the gambling type.”
“Meaning?”
“You see to be a man who enjoys certainty. Gambling is anything but.”
“And you, Miss Donahue?”
“Oh, I don’t have much opportunity to gamble. If I did… well, I suppose it would just be for a bit of fun.”
“Fair enough,” he said as they nearly completed their tour of the room.
“And just how did a man like you come to be so interested in art?” she asked, facing him with her head tilted to the side, a few thick black curls dangling from her temple. In most women, it would have been a deliberate style, but Jonathan had the feeling that for her, this was just how they fell, so naturally seductive, as was the rest of her.
“When I first became duke, I was a young man. Far too young. My father had not yet taught me all that I required. It was a heavy burden of responsibility.” Jonathan stopped for a moment, having no idea why he was telling her all of this, but it seemed that once the words had started to flow, he couldn’t hold them back. “I did my best, but I trusted the wrong people. There was a… family friend. I thought we had an understanding, in more ways than one.” He wasn’t quite ready to share that particular story. “Anyway, I was taken advantage of. From that day on, I vowed to make my own way in the world. The last thing I ever thought I would find some relief in was art, but I found myself visiting this room, filled with many of my grandmother’s paintings. She also loved to paint herself. Being here brought me a strange sense of peace and joy I couldn’t find anywhere else. So I kept collecting. Until we have this today.”
Miss Donahue was staring at him as though he had grown a second head.
“What?” he asked gruffly, and she shook her head slightly in wonderment.
“I don’t think I have ever heard you utter so many words at one point in time.”
He laughed ruefully at that. “You are likely right.”
“You should laugh more,” she said, her eyes darkening as she smiled at him.
“Why?”
“Why not? Your entire face lights up,” she said. “Do you not feel that same light in here when you do?”
She pointed to his chest, her finger nearly touching the front of his jacket.
“I suppose I feel something like that,” he said slowly, not wanting to give her too much of himself.
She began to drop her finger, but before he could even think about what he was doing, he reached out and caught her gloveless hand in his.
She stilled, staring at their clasped hands in front of them.
“Miss Donahue,” he said, his voice soft and low, but before he could continue, she reached up her other hand between them, holding it in the air to stop him.
“Calli.”
“Pardon me?”
“Calli,” she said, lifting her eyes to look up at him imploringly. “My name is Calli. You can use it… if you’d like.”
“Calli,” he repeated her, enjoying the roll of her name on his lips.
“Short for Calliope,” she said, her eyes still on the wall of his chest in front of her.
“It suits you.”
“Better than Miss Donahue?” she asked, a sad, rueful smile on her lips that he didn’t quite understand.
“In moments like this, when it is just the two of us… it feels much more appropriate.”
He bent his head closer to her, naturally inhaling the scent of honeysuckle that radiated from her. She was flowers and spring, light and love, everything that was missing in his life, everything that he didn’t need — nor want.
Yet here she was.
“Your Grace…”
“Jonathan. If I am to call you Calli, I suppose you may call me by my given name as well. When the children are not about.”
“Jonathan,” she said, looking up at him with warm eyes, and Jonathan had to admit that he had never heard his name upon lips so sweet before. “It is a lovely name.”
This dance had been going on long enough. Before he could think any further on what he was doing or whether or not it was a good idea by any means, he leaned in and took those lips that were just begging for his kiss.
Calli stiffened for a moment in his embrace, as though she was in shock, but after a moment she relaxed into him, her lips moving under his, answering his every inquiry with a reply that told him she was equally as curious yet also as hesitant as he was.
But to hell with those questions, Jonathan thought before he let all thoughts flee, continuing his exploration.
She unclasped her hand from his, only to twine it with her own around the back of his neck, pulling him down closer, answering him with all of the enthusiasm he knew she would possess deep within her. He hesitantly reached out, clasping his hands around her waist. He was most certainly not a timid man, especially with women, but there was still that question as to whether or not he should be doing this with the woman he had hired as his governess.
But it seemed it was too late to back down now.
His fingers wandered of their own accord to wrap around her voluptuous hips, the ones he had been watching every time she walked out of a room. He deepened the kiss, slanting his mouth over hers until she opened to him, allowing his tongue inside to meet hers.
As much as she appeared the sultry vixen, it seemed that her sexiness was innate rather than practiced, for he could sense her innocence, which only fueled his desire for her. She was not, however, a woman who would ever back down, as evidenced by the way she met his strokes and tangled her tongue with his in a manne
r he would very much like to continue beyond the meeting of their mouths.
The thought was nearly enough to pull him from her embrace, until she pushed her ample breasts against him, and he was nearly a man lost. He broke from her, nipping her earlobe, kissing her neck, finding the pulse in her throat. How much he longed to continue the exploration, to push down the bodice of her gown, to throw her back against one of the plush velvet chairs in the corner of the room, to see what she looked like without all of the layers of her cheap clothing between them.
But he didn’t. He couldn’t. As much as every part of him was aching to do so.
It took every ounce of control he had worked on through his life — and he had built up quite a storage — to slowly pull himself back, away from the siren who seemed to break through his every defense and try to engrain herself deep within him. He placed one final kiss on the top of her head as though she were a child before he stepped back, turning around away from her, so that he didn’t have to see her rosy cheeks nor her mussed hair nor her swollen lips — from his kisses.
“Jonathan?” she said softly from behind him as he ran a hand through his hair. “Are you all right?”
He barked out a laugh. He had never been better — had never felt more alive nor emboldened.
And yet he had also never been so completely out of control. This was madness.
“I apologize, Miss Donahue,” he said, hearing the formality in his words, knowing how harsh and cruel they must sound to her. “I shouldn’t have done that.”
He heard her approach before he felt her hand tentatively touch his shoulder and he had to work not to flinch.
“Please, call me Calli,” she said. “And never apologize for something like that. It was glorious.”
She stepped around him, her feet hardly making a sound as she padded toward the door.
She turned and fixed her wide, direct gaze upon him.
“Thank you, Jonathan. For everything.”
And at that, she was gone, slipping out into the corridor and leaving him in utter chaos.
Chapter 12
As soon as she was out of view from the door, Calli broke into a run, her hand against her lips, where she could still feel and taste Jonathan upon them.
Oh, God.
He had tasted wealthy. Like brandy and coffee and wonderfully like the duke he was.
Whereas she… she was stealing from him. He had literally found her breaking into his room of treasures, which he had then gone on to share with her.
She didn’t deserve his trust, nor his kiss, nor his affection, nor his employ.
Arriving at her room, she threw herself on the bed, her head in her hands as she lay there, contemplating this mess she had found herself in.
When she had agreed to this, her role was supposed to have been to take a quick sketch of a painting. She was then to return home, where she would finish it and then allow Arie and Xander to do the rest.
Instead, here she was, wrapped up in this duke, in this family, unable to see her way out.
Knowing that there was little chance she would find sleep anytime soon, she locked the door before unrolling the canvas, which just fit across the expanse of floor that was not covered by any other furniture.
Calli arranged the paints in front of her before mixing them the color of the ocean that swept across the original canvas. It was so layered, the water moving in such great swirls of waves, that she knew it would be a challenge, but one she was up for. Her only concern now was how observant Jonathan would be over the painting. He seemed to have more knowledge on the subject than she had originally presumed. He was not a man who collected paintings for their value nor their prestige.
He didn’t even showcase his most amazing pieces, but instead kept them hidden away from the world in a place for himself. It was a shame, and yet Calli could understand it.
She could only pray that the painting he housed in his study was one that he had become so used to seeing that he didn’t even look at it anymore.
And when she left? Well, she would be nothing more than a memory for him. Hopefully a memory he looked back on with some fondness, if she did her job well and he never discovered her true intentions.
For if he ever did?
Well, she didn’t even want to fathom it.
* * *
“Do you think she’s dead?” Matthew’s voice drifted into Calli’s dreams.
Poke.
“I don’t think so. Maybe she knocked her head.” Mary. They were both here.
“On what?”
“How would I know?”
“If that was true, how did she get into her bed?” Matthew sounded indignant.
“Maybe she crawled.”
“But wouldn’t the light have woken her up?”
“I suppose…” Mary’s confidence was waning.
“That’s why I think she’s dead.”
Calli cracked her eyes open to see two matching, curious faces peering down at her.
“Oh, look, she’s alive.” Calli nearly laughed at how disappointed Matthew sounded.
“Thank goodness. I don’t want Uncle to have to find a new governess.” At least Mary was relieved.
“What time is it?” Calli groaned as she sat up straight in the bed, even as she brought a hand to her eyes to block the annoyingly bright sun that radiated through her south-facing window.
“I’m not sure, but we’ve already had breakfast.”
“You have? How?”
“The maid left a tray.”
“Why didn’t she wake me?”
The children looked at one another and shrugged.
Calli sighed as she swung her legs over the side of the bed, hitting one of the containers of paint as she did. She had mixed them at home, knowing what colors she might need, and had then asked Xander to bring additional hues. She reminded herself to ask Xander to mix the final thin glazes for her when she returned to London. She tried to nudge the container under her bed with her toe, hoping the children wouldn’t notice.
“What’s that?” Mary asked, crouching, and Calli stood quickly, trying to distract her.
“What’s what?”
“Whatever you just pushed under the bed.”
“Nothing. Just a snack from last night.”
“What were you eating?”
“I can’t remember.”
Why were children so relentlessly inquisitive? She couldn’t understand how they didn’t get through to their uncle. Their questions should be enough to wear anyone down.
Mary was faster than she, quickly reaching down and pulling the paint out from under her bed.
“Is this paint?”
“Ah… yes.”
“Why do you have paint?”
“I enjoy painting,” Calli said, deciding on the truth.
“Can we paint with you?”
Calli inhaled slowly, considering how much supply she had with her and how much the children might use. But one look at Mary’s hopeful face told her she didn’t have much choice.
“Of course. After I have my tea?”
They nodded and agreed to give her a few minutes to get dressed and prepare herself before joining them. After painting long into the night, Calli had only slept for a couple of hours. She couldn’t keep this up or she was going to lose more than sleep — perhaps her sanity.
Tonight she would forgo painting for rest, she promised herself. But, until then, she had a long day to get through.
* * *
Jonathan pulled on his gloves as he began crossing the green to the stables, where he would find General and then go explore the lands he had been told about.
He didn’t realize he was going to be waylaid.
“Uncle! Where are you going?”
He turned to find Mary and Matthew running up toward him.
“Children,” he said stiffly with a nod. “Where is Miss Donahue?”
“She’s sleeping,” Mary said.
“Again,” Matthew added.
“What do you mean, she’s sleeping? It’s noon.” He looked around for the woman.
“She was reading to us under the big oak tree and then she fell asleep. We had to wake her up this morning, too.”
Jonathan placed one hand on a hip as he rubbed the other hand over his forehead. Calli had been awake with him quite late last night, but she still should have found time for sleep.
“Show me where she is,” he said with a resigned sigh.
“Why don’t we come with you, instead?”
He gave them a look that told them he was not prepared for an argument.
“Fine,” Mary said, kicking the toe of her boot into the ground before leading him across the grassy field toward the trees in the distance.
His smile began to form when he first spotted her, and only served to grow the closer they came.
For there, sprawled on a blanket under the large oak tree as comfortably as could be, was Calli. Fast asleep.
The three of them crouched down next to her, Matthew poking her in the side.
“She was like this when we woke her up this morning,” he said, his words just above a whisper. “Barely moving. We thought she was dead.”
She did look quite peaceful in her repose. She always carried an air of joy about her, but in sleep her tranquility was almost envious. Jonathan had the feeling that he never slept that soundly, instead always tossing and turning as he thought of all that was required of him the coming day.
“Should we let her sleep?” Mary asked, turning her head to look up at him, and Jonathan noted how much the girl looked like his sister. It was nearly disconcerting.
“I cannot leave you alone.”
“We could come with you.”
“I have to ride a fair distance.”
“We know how to ride,” Matthew said, pulling himself up to his full height, which was not actually that tall.
“Yes, but can you ride as fast as General?” Jonathan asked, lifting a brow, to which Matthew hung his head.
“No,” he said ruefully. “No one can ride as fast as General, and I’m afraid I’m not tall enough to fit upon him.” He looked up at Jonathan, hope in his eyes. “I could ride with you.”
The Art of Stealing a Duke’s Heart: Thieves of Desire Book 1 Page 9