She took a deep breath, afraid of the reaction to her request but helpless not to ask. “May I come closer, Your Grace? I need to see your hands better.”
He lifted an eyebrow. “Can you not see them from where you are?” It was a legitimate question she supposed. He was sitting by the window and so was framed by the light. However, in his position, he was framed by the light which cast his hands in shadow.
She explained this to him and he offered to turn.
“No need, Your Grace. Just allow me to come closer and I will be able to paint your hands.”
His eyes shifted to his mother and her father, engrossed in conversation on the bench. Clearly they were not listening. “All right then.”
She smiled, taking hold of her easel and carrying it closer, setting it up just in front of the Duke. That piqued the interest of their chaperones and her father got to his feet to see what she was up to.
“I just need to see the detail, for his hands.” She told him.
“Ah.” Americus nodded and went back to sit down. Louisa heard him reassure the Dowager that everything was still proceeding as planned. Louisa took up a stool and sat down, so she was closer to the Duke.
He sat with both hands resting on the arms of the chair. His right hand was slightly curled inward, holding onto the knob at the end of the armchair. His left hand lay flat and on closer inspection, she inferred that it was because of the stiffness of the middle finger. She could see that some of the scar tissue had formed a webbing between the third and fourth fingers. She traced the shape of his hand lovingly even as he jerked as if he wanted to hide it. She looked up into his eyes and smiled.
“Are you all right?”
He stared at her and didn’t say anything.
She reached out with her charcoal and traced the air just above his hand. “I suppose when you see this, your thoughts go to…unsightly? Disfigured?” she lifted her lashes to peer at him closely and he did not have to say a word for her to know that she was correct.
“Would you like to know what I see?” she asked, lowering her own hand slightly so that their fingers were so close she could feel the warmth from his skin against her own. Her lashes swept down again as she returned her gaze to his hand.
“What do you see?” he asked in a low voice.
“I see…beauty.”
He snorted in disbelief.
She blinked at him, holding his gaze. “You don’t believe me.” It was not a question.
She moved her hand to the side, dropping the charcoal on the small table beside his armchair and then her hand returned to hover just above his. Her voice was low, musing, audible only to him. “Look at my hands, do you see the little finger? How it’s slightly crooked? My grandmother was the same. Every time my eye falls on it, and sees that little curvature where it’s meant to be straight, I think of her. I think of this little quirk she gave me so that she would be gone but not forgotten.”
“I hardly got these scars from my ancestors. Hell, if I had followed in the footsteps of my ancestors, I never would have been on any ship.”
“Yes, your hands, your scars, tell a different story…” she caught his eye and they regarded each other solemnly for a moment containing an eternity. “It’s no less compelling for that. Perhaps, it’s even more captivating because it’s an original story. It’s no throwback to the past. It’s a testament to your decision to live. So many of us go through our days by rote; unthinking, unmindful of anything that does not affect us directly, heedless of the rest of the world…but you. You took life by the horns and grappled with it. And you have the marks to prove it.”
He smiled.
Louisa could not help but gasp.
When the Duke of Munboro smiled, his face was converted into something else entirely. His eyes deepened and brightened, the dimples in his cheeks shone, and his mouth relaxed, somehow looking plumper.
It was magnetic.
“You certainly have a way with words, young lady.”
Louisa’s bottom lip trembled and her body leaned toward him of its own accord. She struggled for coherency. “Th-thank you. Perhaps I should consider poetry in the event that we cannot live off my painting.”
The Duke frowned. “Is it bad then? With your father? Is there anything that we can do?”
Louisa’s face fell. “I do not know. He does not tell me much,” she tried to smile but couldn’t disguise the wet shine of her eyes. “He likes to be strong for me, you see.”
The Duke gave her a sympathetic smile. “Don’t they all?”
“Everything going all right over there?” her father called and Louisa startled, realizing just how close her face was to the Duke’s.
“Everything is fine,” she called, straightening up.
Chapter 12
Getting Acquainted
The Duke watched her lean away from him, her aquamarine eyes clouding with embarrassment as her full cheeks showed their colors. It really was a pretty picture and he didn’t feel he could be faulted for admiring it.
She resumed her sketching of his hand and he ceased to feel self-conscious about it. He was surprised that one so young had so much insight, and the maturity that people far older than she had failed to achieve. He wanted to know more; find out what made her the way that she was.
She was not only beautiful on the outside, but the inside too. He knew it would be courting disaster though. After all, nothing further could come of it. They could not be friends – for whomever had heard of men and women being particular friends? They could not be lovers – he would not disrespect her by asking her to be his mistress. And for sure, the ton would be up in arms if he deemed to marry her. He was a Duke and the only son of a renowned member of the peerage. The least that was expected of him was that he would make a good match.
He could not marry an artist commoner without risk of getting the cut direct; or worse, having it directed at his mother. He would risk much for himself, but his mother was already fragile. She needed him to protect her – not to expose her to more ridicule.
They were courting ridicule as it was. All it took would be one servant with a loose tongue and their precariously-built house of cards would come tumbling down. That was why he had stipulated that nobody be allowed into the conservatory while the girl was painting. It was a stipulation both his mother and steward thought prudent.
His eyes shifted to Miss Notley’s father. He smiled sunnily as he and the Dowager discussed a matter that was clearly of great interest to them both judging from the effervescence they both exuded. He did not seem to be in pain or suffering a whole lot from whatever ailed him. But his hands were carefully folded in his lap and he stooped where he sat – Jeremy suspected it was not his usual posture. He seemed the kind of man to sit and walk straight-backed and proud. He could not see Mr. Notley’s eyes, but he remembered the lines of stress he had noted on their last encounter.
As his daughter said, he liked to keep his problems to himself.
Jeremy pondered on what he could do to assist them. He had been away from Munboro for five years; and even before that, he had worked hard to remove himself from network of connections his position and lineage apparently entitled him to.
The result was that he did not know who might be a good physician that might help with Mr. Notley’s case. His eyes shifted to Miss Notley.
In any case, they would not accept the help from a virtual stranger like me.
He sighed and she looked up from her work, lifting an eyebrow as if to ask if anything was the matter. He gave her a small smile and her eyes dropped to his lips, hooding her gaze from his view. Something heavy was present there nevertheless, something hot and urgent that he could feel in his bones. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, trying to look away from her, and finding that he could not.
“Is everything all right Your Grace?” her voice was low and quiet. He felt it like a caress on his skin and could not quite suppress the shiver that went through him. She lifted her eyes and stared, her hand
poised over the paper as if she was waiting for something.
The silence between them was pregnant with unsaid things. Then she shuddered and lowered her shaking hand to the page. For a moment she simply sat frozen before resuming her drawing.
We are in a bit of trouble here.
The thought did not fill him with as much trepidation as it should have. Instead, he was excited. The world felt brighter, more full of possibility. His scars did not seem debilitating anymore, the background throb he felt constantly from his back was absent. He felt…renewed.
This is so bizarre.
Gilbert paced outside the door, digging his fob out of his pocket to check the time.
They have overstayed. Why?
Had something gone horribly wrong or was she not able to do the job as well as she claimed? He dreaded what he would find behind the door but still he lifted his knuckle and knocked.
“Come.” The Dowager’s voice drifted out into the corridor and he thanked the heavens that she did not sound either annoyed or deranged. He opened the door and peered in, trying to mask his surprise when he saw the Dowager seated cozily with his brother on the bench while his niece worked on the canvas, sitting mere inches from the Duke. It was with great difficulty that he prevented his eyebrow from rising.
“Forgive me, Your Graces…but His Grace will be late for his next appointment if he does not leave soon.”
The Duke looked up in surprise, as if it had quite slipped his mind. That was strange because his next appointment was with his particular friend, the Earl of Shearcaster. They were taking a personal interest in the organization of the town fair. A most unusual thing for a duke to do. Gilbert was quite astounded that Munboro had managed to forget.
“You’re right Mr. Notley. Miss Notley you will have to forgive me…” the Duke said and Gilbert had to work very, very hard to keep his eyebrows from reaching his hairline.
He’s apologizing to her?
“No, of course Your Grace.” She immediately put down her brush and began to clear up her work space. The Duke reluctantly got to his feet.
“Please, don’t hurry on my account. Stay…and finish up what you can. I shall have something sent from the kitchens for your repast before you leave.”
The girl at least had manners for she curtsied prettily and murmured something suitable. The Duke bowed to her once again, seemed to hesitate before he resolutely walked toward the door. He nodded to his mother and Americus as he passed them and then strode out of the door without so much as a look at Gilbert.
It was all Gilbert could do not to pout like a princess.
Americus sat on his bed in his night clothes, pondering the strange turn his life had taken. He looked down at his hands and sighed. He could not stop them from shaking, but Mrs. Marni’s herbs and potions had given him considerable relief from the pain. He suspected however, that he would never be able to hold a paintbrush in his hand for a considerable length of time.
He felt his spirits plummet at the thought and took a sip of Mrs. Marni’s lavender and valerian tea. She assured him that it would help when he was feeling the loss of his abilities. It did leave him calmer although it did not shield him from the grief.
He suspected that nothing could do that.
He took another sip and his mind turned to Louisa, his brow furrowing. She and the Duke had seemed to get on unerringly well and he was torn as to whether that was a good thing or not.
She seems fascinated with him. Should I have a talk with her?
He felt inadequate to the task of keeping her safe from her own feelings. It did not matter a jot what the Duke thought of her, what he saw in her eyes, and what he felt she was experiencing, was impossible. Life being what it was, he decided that it was time he found Louisa a suitor. One who would keep her safe and distract her from pursuing more dangerous loves.
He took a sip of his tea and nodded his head. Tomorrow he would write to his good friend, Severus Jones who worked as a barrister in the neighboring town. Americus had heard that he was looking for a wife. He did not know why he had not thought of Severus before. He would make Louisa the perfect husband.
And then she will be safe.
Jeremy walked home, exhausted but happy at how he had spent his day. He could not remember the last time he had felt this exhausted or this satisfied with a day’s work.
The fair was important to the town of Munboro. Visitors came from nearby towns and spent their money. Vendors could make a year’s rent from selling their wares. Farmers came in from surrounding farms to exchange their produce for other goods or money. The duchy also made a tidy profit but that was not the most important thing.
There was a new acrobat troupe that Jeremy had encountered on his way home for his father’s funeral. He had already written to them, to see if they would perform. If things went as planned, this would be the biggest fair the town of Munboro had ever seen.
His mind turned to Miss Notley and her father. He wondered if they would display their paintings at the fair. He suspected that Miss Notley had quite a few secreted away. He was curious to see them. Perhaps he could persuade her to show them…under his patronage of course. He expected that quite a few members of the ton might come down – Shearcaster had all but assured him that would be the case – if only to see the new curiosity that was a resurrected duke.
He did not know what had started the rumor of his demise but it seemed to be taken as fact by quite a number of people. If it were not for his mother, he suspected that he might have been accused of being an imposter and ran out of town. With his mother the way she was…he would not be surprised if someone surmised that he had done something to her.
Still…
It was good for business and he was determined to make hay while this particular sun shone. It was, after all, part of his responsibility to ensure that his constituents were thriving.
His mind went back to one particular constituent. Her hands to be exact. He looked down at his own broad, blunt digits, comparing them to her comparatively tiny ones. She could fit her whole hand in his callused palm. Yet, he had no doubt of the strength in those hands. They could hold him steady, anchor him to this new reality in a way that nothing else he had encountered could.
What does that mean for us?
He was a practical sort; didn’t require much from life apart from real work to do, a purpose to his life and a space to lie down and rest now and then. He did not navigate the ups and downs of ton life with ease. His mother used to be able to do that, before his father’s death apparently broke her. Now they would just have to muddle through the best that they could.
He came to a stop, catching sight of a door that was different from any other on the street. For one thing, there was a red dragon painted on it, in fiery colors. Golds and reds mixed liberally with purples and blues. The dragon’s eye gleamed a tantalizing silver, gazing at the door knob with its mouth open as if it meant to set on fire anyone who tried to open the door. The craftsmanship looked familiar and Jeremy crossed the road to have a closer look.
His hand reached out and he traced the outline of the dragon, noting the finer details woven into its body, from the scales of its skin to the talons of its feet that seemed to grip the door jamb as if hanging on to it for purchase.
It really was rather magnificent.
He peered down at the side of the door, where a little plaque announced that this was indeed the home of noted Artiste and Painter, Americus Notley.
Jeremy smiled at the plaque, reaching out to affectionately trace the name. He looked up at the door, wondering if he should knock. What would be his purpose in doing so? He had no business calling upon these people as if he had a right to their company above and beyond what they afforded him when painting his portrait. It would be the most inappropriate invasion of privacy.
Still, Jeremy hesitated, debating with himself.
It was like a compulsion; this need to be within the vicinity of Louisa Notley. He knew he should fight it. Pursuing t
his could only end in tragedy for all parties involved – including himself.
So he did not understand why he was not walking away.
“Excuse me, sir. May I help you?” an old lady, bent over nearly double was hobbling over to him from next door. He almost rushed to help her, but suspected she would not be impressed with his chivalry.
“I…am acquainted with the residents of this house and was just debating whether it is too late to knock and pay my respects.
She looked up at the rapidly darkening sky. “I expect it is.” She said very certainly. It had been some time since Jeremy had been dismissed so summarily. He bit his lip so as not to allow the smile to widen on his face.
Tempting the Ruined Duke: A Steamy Historical Regency Romance Novel Page 10