The Duke's Captive

by Adele Ashworth

  Chapter Five

  I spoke to him at last, whispered words of comfort as I tried to soothe his brow. He first called me Ivy, then opened his eyes when he realized a stranger sat beside him. . . .

  Viola stood at the window of her bedroom, pushing the lace curtain aside just enough to watch the Duke of Chatwin descend from his carriage and stride with confidence toward her front door. She couldn’t see him very clearly, as he wore a light overcoat and top hat pulled low over his brow to ward off the lingering mist, but even the sight of his powerful form made her insides flutter with apprehension. Every instinct she possessed warned her about being in his company again, and the fact that she felt that certain strange pull of attraction just by looking at him at a distance made her angry at herself for being so gullible. And maybe being angry was the best thing to keep her on her toes.

  Suddenly, just before he passed out of view below, he paused in his stride and glanced up. She quickly let the curtain drop and stood back, feeling irrationally violated as her pulse began to race, uncertain if he’d noticed her or not. But it didn’t matter. She would play her part and receive him as she would an ordinary client, pretend to be enamored of his good charm while she kept her mind alert for any reason to escape. Just this morning she’d sent her son to stay with her late husband’s sister for at least two weeks, getting him far from the city and the mess she feared to come. If she needed to, she was prepared to take him to the Continent for a while. For as long as necessary.

  Turning, she glanced at her figure in the full-length mirror next to her bed and fluffed her skirts. She’d chosen a vivid yellow day gown with white lace flounces and sleeves in the hope of presenting a sunny disposition on such a dreary day. The fact that it also had a very low neckline and she’d donned her finest corset to lift her bosom in compliment meant nothing more than a desire to appear feminine and sophisticated. Or so she told herself. With her hair plaited and pinned becomingly atop her head, and satisfied that she looked the part of the elegant young widow, she pinched her cheeks, bit her lips lightly, and left her bedroom.

  It took her only a few moments to descend the stairs to the first landing and walk the hallway toward her studio on the east-facing side of her home, a room she’d chosen because of its wall of long windows that captured the morning sun and lightened her workstation, at least on most days. She’d also brightened the area by adding yellow wallpaper adorned with pink rosebuds, and a cream-colored sofa on which she did her sketching before painting. For her son, she’d placed a child-sized chair and table in one corner so he could draw with her when he got bored in the nursery. It was the sunniest room in the house, and on many days, she remained inside it for hours.

  Today, however, she hoped the time spent would be short. She’d instructed Needham to take Chatwin to her studio immediately upon his arrival, and presumably the man already awaited her. As she approached the door, she paused just long enough to draw a deep breath for confidence, then silently entered.

  She spotted him at once as he stood in front of her main easel, staring down at a still-life painting she’d begun a week ago. He wore fine silk dinner clothes in black, with a white silk shirt and an olive, white, and black striped cravat, tied perfectly, highlighting his coloring and accentuating his handsome, chiseled face. Of course he only wore such magnificent clothing at this hour because of his portrait, but the mere sight of him so spectacularly adorned made her falter. She had always been drawn to him as a man, though now the feeling concerned her more not only because he knew it but also because he looked so formidable and strong and powerfully . . . sexual. Like a man whose passionate nature could not be refused. She knew the consequences of such an irresistible desire, and until she left him for a final time, she would do everything in her power to fight it.

  He glanced up to catch her staring at him, and a sly grin spread across his face. Planting a pleasant smile on her lips, she pretended not to notice by acting nonchalant.

  “Good morning, your grace,” she offered with a curtsey.

  “Lady Cheshire,” he replied, standing fully erect to face her as he clasped his hands behind him.

  “Shall we get started?” she asked, walking toward him at a steady pace.

  His gaze smoothly scanned her figure when she approached him, then he turned his attention back to the easel.

  “How much time do you take on a painting like this?”

  She moved closer, lightly holding her hands in front of her. “It depends on how much work I put into it daily. If I’m busy with other things, it could take weeks to finish.”

  “I see.” He studied it for a moment. “What is the point of painting fruit?”

  She laughed outright. “It’s not the fruit that’s so intriguing, your grace, at least not for me. I enjoy vibrant hues and rich color blends, which is why painting floras and fruit are appealing.” She shrugged a shoulder lightly. “And of course fruit and flowers are inoffensive.”

  “Inoffensive?”

  “Still life appeals to almost everybody and can be hung in any room in the house.”

  He looked at her askance. “And may I ask, what kind of artwork can’t be hung in any room?”

  She wavered. The double meaning behind his words nearly took her aback, and for the slightest second she had to wonder if he purposely baited her with knowledge of the more sensual side to her artwork. Then again, she was probably overreacting. He should know nothing about it.

  Seconds later, she replied, “I suppose any artwork can be placed in any room the owner chooses. But what I meant, your grace, is that when a painting is full of various colors, it’s possible to blend them with any decor, in any room. Or most rooms.” She smiled. “Perhaps it’s different for other artists, but I enjoy the boldness of great color in my work.”

  He nodded very slowly. “As you obviously do in your wardrobe.”

  She blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

  One side of his mouth twitched up seductively again, making him look so handsome of a sudden that it nearly took her breath.

  “I only meant that you seem to enjoy bright colors on your person as well,” he explained, voice lowered. “The night of the ball you wore scarlet, yesterday it was vivid blue, today sunny yellow. They’re obviously colors that enhance your appearance and make you stand out in a crowd.”

  It struck her as quite odd that he’d not only remember what she’d worn yesterday but also remembered the color of every gown he’d seen on her. Men, in her experience, didn’t notice such things, or even care. Then again, she had always considered him an extraordinary kind of gentleman, and at this point she could hardly let his comment go without response.

  “How very . . . unusual of you to notice my taste in attire, sir,” she said pleasantly.

  “Not at all,” he countered at once. “It simply occurred to me how difficult mourning must have been for you. I’m sure being confined to black and gray would be rather unappealing for a young widow who prefers bright colors.”

  That seemed like such a staid answer, and yet somewhere deep within she found it suspect.

  “I’m sure you flatter me too much, your grace,” she maintained cautiously, her tone and manner formal. “But I do thank you for your kind words.” Instinctively, she moved away from him and busied herself by pulling the curtains on the east windows aside, one by one, to let in as much light as possible. “I’m assuming you want a formal background, sir?”

  “You’re the artist, madam. I’ll do exactly as you say.”

  She tried not to smile as she returned to the easel, lifted her still-life painting and leaned it against the wall, then picked a large, blank canvas to use for his portrait.

  “If you’ll sit on the stool provided, your grace, I’ll begin.”

  He glanced around to note the wooden stool beside the south-facing window. “Here?”

  “Yes, pl
ease,” she said, placing the canvas on the easel. “The light next to the window is the best we have for now. Hopefully, when we begin the actual painting, the sun will shine and make it brighter in here.”

  “You’re not going to paint now?” he asked as he walked to the tall wooden stool and climbed upon it easily.

  From the small desk beside her, she lifted her sketchbook and needlework basket, filled with sundry craft items and supplies, then carried them both to the sofa about five feet across from him and sat comfortably. “I’m going to sketch your likeness first, then I’ll get to the painting, though it probably won’t be today,” she clarified. “One can only stand, or in your case sit on a stool, for so long.”

  “That’s why you get the comfortable sofa and I’m left with the small wooden stool?” he asked, amused.

  She smiled as she untied her needlework basket and began to rummage through various types of paintbrushes and different-sized charcoal pencils until she found one to her liking. “I usually stand or sit on a stool when I paint, as well, your grace.”

  “Ah,” he replied casually, “so we’ll both be uncomfortable.”

  He couldn’t possibly have any idea just how uncomfortable she was at the moment. “Indeed,” she offered, sitting back to regard him, her sketch book in her lap. “Though I’m used to it, and as I get involved in the process, I must admit I hardly notice.”

  “I’m sure that’s true.”

  Another staid and very ordinary comment that, if she pondered it, could contain a world of subtle meanings. Considering their background, she was beginning to find their conversations amusing in their extreme primness, and bordering on the ridiculous. If she hadn’t been so ready to bolt from him, she might have snorted a laugh and told the man to tell her what he really thought.

  She worked quietly for a few minutes, sketching his form into the pose she would use should he approve it. He watched her from a distance, and the most unnerving part was his rapt attention to her. She could positively feel his gaze on her as if he studied each strand of hair, each curve of her body and line of her face. In her experience, most subjects, even the adults, grew bored or distracted after a short time. Some became quite chatty or impatient. The feeling she got from the Duke of Chatwin was that there was nowhere on earth he’d rather be at the moment.

  “You know,” he said, cutting into her thoughts, “the more I look at you, Lady Cheshire, the more I know we’ve met before.”

  Viola had to force herself to remain composed, fighting the urge to look him directly in the eye.

  “I suppose it’s possible,” she replied rather vaguely, sketching furiously as she pretended to concentrate on her work.

  Another few moments drifted by in silence. Then he murmured softly, “I’m sure you realize I enjoy looking at you.”

  Her breath caught in her chest, and she paused almost imperceptibly in her pencil strokes, but she didn’t dare glance up to reveal how his frank comment startled her. And how in heaven’s name did he expect her to respond?

  “I’m sure you flatter me too much, your grace,” she yielded, her voice taut, smile forced.

  He chuckled. “Does mentioning my attraction to you make you uneasy?”

  Oh, my God.

  She sighed, closing her eyes for a second or two before replying, “Perhaps it’s best not to discuss such things, your grace.”

  He didn’t argue her statement, thankfully, though she wished he wouldn’t stare at her quite so intensely. At this point, she decided she’d rather keep their necessary interactions formal and mundane. She didn’t want to know at all what he really thought.

  Moments later, he asked, “Do you hope to marry again, madam?”

  Finally. A subject she could discuss. “I don’t think so, no,” she answered without reservation. “Or at least not soon. My life is very full at the moment, and I’m quite happy.”

  “That sounds like an answer one would give the queen.”

  She did look up then. “I beg your pardon?”

  He shrugged a shoulder, eyes narrowed as he held her gaze. “It sounds as if you’ve rehearsed that response for any formal inquiry on the subject.”

  She licked her lips, hesitating only briefly before she turned her attention back to her sketch. “Actually, your grace, it’s the truth.”

  He waited, then asked, “You didn’t enjoy marriage?”

  She thought about that for a moment, deciding to answer him honestly. “On the contrary, I did enjoy much of it. Although we had little time together before his passing, my husband was very kind and generous.” She smiled again. “And I am proud to have my son, his heir, to dote on.”

  “Well, you either have an excellent nanny, or he’s very well behaved. I’ve yet to hear or see any evidence of a child in your home, Lady Cheshire.”

  Peeking up through her lashes, she decided he offered the comment sincerely. “Actually, he’s not in the city, but visiting my husband’s family in the country.”

  “Ah.” After a short pause, he added, “And you didn’t go with him?”

  She blew across her sketch to rid it of pencil dust. “I’ll join him soon, I’m sure. But for now I have your portrait to paint.”

  “So I’m keeping you from time with your child, am I?”

  She smiled and glanced up. “Don’t feel guilty, your grace. I miss him terribly, of course, but this is my first season out of mourning, and frankly, I think a bit of separation will be good for him. He’s nearly five, and as a baron’s son, he needs to begin learning his place in the family.”

  “My, you are indeed a proud mother,” he replied with amusement.

  She gave him a nod. “As you will be a proud father, I’m certain, when you have your own children, sir.”

  “I suppose that’s true.” Seconds later, he asked, “And what is his name?”

  Warmly, she returned, “John Henry Clifford Cresswald, Lord Cheshire.”

  “Is that what you call him?”

  She stopped sketching and looked up. “Call him?”

  He chuckled again and ran his fingers through his hair. “Dear Lady Cheshire, that was such a long and formal answer I have to wonder if it’s indeed what you call him even when the two of you are alone in the nursery.”

  She pressed her lips together to keep from laughing. “Forgive me, your grace, but as you said, I am a proud mother. In point of fact, I call him John Henry—unless, of course, he’s very naughty, in which case using his full name and title tends to produce a better result in getting him to behave.”

  “I see. You use the inbred tricks of motherhood, I suppose.”

  She did laugh at that. “My dear Lord Chatwin, there are no inbred tricks of motherhood, I assure you. We do only the best we can and hope the love and discipline we provide our precious children give them each a worthy heart to build a solid and respectable future.”

  He shook his head, grinning. “Even that sounds rehearsed.”

  “That’s because it is,” she replied, her tone lowered conspiratorially. “I heard my own mother say it day to day for years, though she never used the word ‘love’; she used ‘example’ instead.” She frowned gently, then added, “I never understood how we could give our children a worthy heart if we didn’t show our love to them first. I should think that’s the best example.”

  The amusement on his handsome face captured her, and for several seconds they gazed at each other silently, with some kind of mutual, intimate connection she couldn’t quite define, or exactly comprehend.

  “You love your son very much,” he stated softly.

  Her heart melted from the mere thought of such a gift. “Beyond measure, your grace. Everything I do in my life is for him and his well-being.”

  For a long, lingering moment he just stared at her candidly. And then very slowly, his eyes narrowed a
nd his smile began to fade, as if she’d said or done something to irritate him.

  Shifting his weight on the stool, he sat up a little straighter. “I suppose you want more children, then?”

  His voice had grown edgier as a sudden coolness prevailed. His change in mood made her remember her place in his life precisely, reminding her to avoid revealing too much about herself. The less he knew of her personal affairs, especially the lengths she would go to protect John Henry, the better.

  Lowering her gaze back to her sketch pad, she said matter-of-factly, “Not necessarily. I would have to marry again first, which for now isn’t something I care to contemplate. And I already have a son and heir to my late husband’s estate.”

  “You don’t want a daughter?”

  Her lips tipped up slightly. “A daughter cannot be guaranteed, your grace. And to be perfectly honest, I loathed carrying.”

  That surprised him. She could sense it in him without even glancing up.

  “How odd to hear a lady say that,” he replied.

  She shrugged, tilting her head to the side a little. “Perhaps for the lady who has no physical ailments during her confinement and delivers with ease.”

  “You had physical problems?”

  His eagerness to discuss something so personal and delicate made her wary, especially in light of the formality of their working acquaintance. Frankly, discussing childbirth with any gentleman assaulted her sensibilities, though after a quick peek at his face, she decided he truly looked curious and didn’t seem at all embarrassed by the subject.

  She sighed. “Yes, I was ill much of the time. He was also delivered with his feet first, after three days of labor, which caused me to nearly die at his birth. I thank God every day that I was in the city and had the expertise of a good doctor at my disposal. Had I been in the country, I suspect we would have both perished, as most children do when born the wrong way.”

  “That’s . . . unfortunate,” he muttered, subdued. “I suppose your husband was beside himself with worry.”

  She shivered within, as she always did at the memory of those dark days. “I’m sure he was,” she agreed, probably too brightly. “In any case, the . . . experience was very difficult for me, and not something I long to repeat.”