Tempting the Ruined Duke: A Steamy Historical Regency Romance Novel Page 6

  Thank god.

  He felt as if he had been praying for a solution and now, he had received an answer.

  It was difficult for Louisa to conceal her levels of excitement. Her father was going to let her paint in his stead! It was heady stuff. She had expected that he would look sadly at her and tell her as gently as possible that she was not good enough. Instead, he had said that there was nobody he would trust more to finish his work.

  It was the greatest compliment she had ever received.

  She would make sure to make him proud. The Duke and the Dowager Duchess would have no reason to suspect that her father had not done all the work himself.

  She ran up to the room and snatched up a notepad, determined to practice. She closed her eyes, bringing the Duke’s face to mind. In her mind’s eye, she traced his hairline, his dark hair soft and slightly longer than normal for a gentleman, falling carelessly over his broad forehead. His pale skin making his hair seem even darker.

  She went lower, tracing his emerald eyes, so deep set and fathomless. It was impossible to know what he was thinking at any one time. His eyes blinked at her as if he was trying to tell her something and she frowned, just now remembering the gold flecks she had seen as they danced as if he had a bit of the fay in his family tree. His nose, however, was as imperious as any nobleman’s, ready to turn up at the slightest hint of vulgarity. But the mouth beneath was generous and slightly curved at the edges as if he wished to smile all the time, but had forgotten how. She traced his strong jaw that culminated in a pointed chin the long column of his neck, drawing with her eye.

  Then she remembered something. The scar that ran from beneath his left eye to just above his jaw in a curving slash. His neck was not unblemished either but was marred by mottled skin along his left side as if he had been burned with hot tar.

  The portrayal made a fascinating whole and Louisa was certain she could draw him in her sleep. She pulled her empty notepad toward her and began to trace an image of his face into it. She took her time with every curl and whorl of his hair that she could recall. His eyes stared up at her from the page, asking a question she could not hear. His jaw firm, yet somehow vulnerable, beneath her charcoal.

  “Who are you?” she whispered as she stared in fascination at The Duke of Munboro’s face.

  Chapter 7

  Bait and Switch

  Something was different between Mr. Notley and his daughter. Jeremy could tell as soon as Mr. Miles ushered them into the conservatory. He was already seated in his designated armchair and he saw them exchange glances as they saw him.

  The father took a deep breath and Jeremy wondered if he was about to be reprimanded for dancing with the man’s daughter. Perhaps it was his own guilt making him see things. He was aware that he had pushed things a bit at the Kester’s; perhaps Louisa had not wanted to dance with him. He tried not to frown with worry.

  “Uh, so today we’re going to do things a little differently.” Americus said, “I shall do some preliminary drawing and outlining and then you shall be free to leave while my daughter and I work on the painting.”

  Jeremy looked from one to the other. The father had sweat on his upper lip and the daughter would not meet his eyes. Did they not feel safe with him in the room anymore? He put his hands on the arms of the chair, ready to get to his feet and walk out; cancel the commission at once. But then he thought about the money they were expecting. Perhaps he could pay them and send them on their way.

  “Please Your Grace, respectfully, we simply feel that this way we will all get more work done.” The father said and he looked so anxious that Jeremy relaxed into his seat. If they wanted to paint him, he would not stand in their way.

  “Very well then. Let us begin.”

  Americus actually heaved a sigh of relief and Jeremy knew he’d made the right decision. He sneaked a glance at Louisa but she was scurrying about, setting up the easel to catch the best light and fetching water and laying out the brushes while her father sat on a stool and waited. She really was a very dutiful daughter. Today she was dressed in brown muslin, with a white apron wrapped around her trim waist. She had on sturdy shoes and stockings. Her arms were bare.

  She should have looked plain, blending into the walls. Instead, the brown of her dress neatly matched the few tendrils of brown hair peeking out of her white cap. Her blue eyes gleamed with intelligence, seeming alive to everything that was happening around them. Jeremy’s eyes were glued to her. They raked her figure without his permission, appreciating the grace of her movements as his hands twitched in his lap, with the need to touch.

  Her fingers fluttered like birds as she arranged the brushes according to some order best known to herself and perhaps her father. Next, she came toward Jeremy, her steps slowing for the first time. She cleared her throat, blushing prettily as she looked at him.

  “May I arrange you, Your Grace?” she asked.

  He didn’t know what she meant but nodded anyway. She reached out slowly and pried his hand away from its grip on the chair of the arm. Her skin was soft and supple but she moved his hand with evident strength. Jeremy could not help wondering what else those hands could do. She placed his hand in his lap, crossing it with the other so his right hand was partially covering his left. Giving him a quick glance, she then turned him slightly so he was facing one side more than the other.

  He crossed his legs to hide his body’s reaction to her proximity. Her nod of approval had him raising an eyebrow until he realized that she thought he was helping her arrange him for the portrait. Slowly, she reached up and did something to his cravat, so that it was higher over his neck than before. Then she stepped back, examining him, and nodded. She turned and went back to her father’s side.

  Jeremy thought about what she’d done and realized that each of her ministrations had the effect of minimizing the appearance of his scars. His heart twisted in his chest as he wondered why she had done that. Did she know that he hated the appearance of them and was trying to make him comfortable or did she find them repugnant too?

  His insecurities tried to convince him that it was the latter, but she did not seem to be cruel enough to do that to him, so obviously.

  Would she?

  He did not even notice when Americus began to paint him because he was so preoccupied with wondering why she had done that.

  Why do I even care?

  However much as he tried to dismiss her from his mind, he could not. She was sitting on a bench, to the side of her father, her charcoal running over a page. She would occasionally glance up at him and then back down at her work. If her father asked for something, she would stand up and give it to him – otherwise, she seemed lost in her own world. He wanted to know what she was drawing. The time passed peacefully and before he knew it, Americus was saying he could leave.

  What if I want to stay? He thought to himself but did not say out loud. He knew quite well when he was dismissed.

  He sighed, got to his feet, nodded at them both and left the room. He did have work to do after all.

  Louisa and her father exchanged glances and then looked toward the door.

  “I think he’s gone,” Louisa said.

  Americus nodded. “Yes.” He sat down tiredly in the stool as Louisa surveyed him worriedly. “Shall I get you something hot to drink? If you hold it in your hands, it might help with your fingers.”

  He smiled tiredly. “That would be lovely Louisa, but let me do it. You have a painting to make.”

  “I shall ask Uncle Gilbert to bring you something.”

  Americus nodded. “Very well. But hurry. There is a lot to be done.”

  “Yes, father.”

  Louisa did not have to go far before she ran into her uncle. He was lurking at the end of the corridor about to enter a room to the right. “Louisa, what are you doing wandering the halls?”

  “I was wondering if I could get a hot cup of tea for my father.”

  Uncle Gilbert nodded. “Of course. I shall have Mr. Miles bring i
t to you right away.”

  Louisa inclined her head in thanks. “Please ask him to knock first when he comes. He might startle Father and cause him to make a mistake.”

  Uncle Gilbert narrowed his eyes suspiciously at her but did not deign to comment on her possible falsehood. “I will do so.”

  “Thank you.” Louisa hurried back to the conservatory, eager to get to work. She wanted to show her father what she could do. Prove herself to him. She could not wait to get started.

  Jeremy walked into the manor house late that afternoon, and let his valet relieve him of his shoes at the door. They were quite muddy from hours of walking, inspecting the livestock, and holding conversations with crofters and laborers alike. He found it necessary to understand what they required of him so he could think about the best way to continue providing them with their daily needs. It had been quite an education and he was glad that most of his crofters were honest to the point of rudeness. That way, he did not have to second guess himself.

  Even though the scar on his face and neck were visible, none of the men had asked about them. In fact, they barely seemed to notice. But now that he was back in his house, an awareness of their existence dropped back down on his shoulders like Atlas’ burden.

  He walked slowly toward the conservatory, curious about how the painting was going and if they had already left. He opened the door to find a surprising sight. Louisa sat on the bench, deep in conversation with his mother while her father dosed in the armchair. He stopped short in the doorway in surprise.

  Louisa caught sight of him and got to her feet with a quick curtsy. “Your Grace…we did not expect you back.”

  “I thought I’d come and see how you fare.”

  Louisa glanced at the canvas. “We have made some progress today. The background is almost done as well as your hair, Your Grace.”

  Jeremy laughed, debating on whether he should look now or later. He hesitated, staring at the canvas and then gestured at it with his left hand. “May I?” he asked.

  “Of course, Your Grace.” She said just as her father startled awake. His eyes were red-rimmed and tired looking. He scrambled quickly to his feet, his hands seemingly unable to quite hold him up as he pulled himself out of the armchair.

  “Your Grace…” he mumbled and Jeremy gave a vague nod in his direction. He walked slowly to the canvas, took a deep breath and had a look.

  His eyebrow rose as he looked at the chair in the picture that looked more like a throne. The throne of a mythical fairy king who held court in a garden of delights. The depiction of the plants in the conservatory gave them a curious life as if they knew exactly who he was and had come to pay homage. The sky behind him was azure blue, clear and bright. Looking at it, he could not help squinting as if the sun might appear at any moment and blind him.

  In the chair, nothing was perceptible except his hair. Every whorl and curl seemed to have been captured brushstroke by brushstroke as if whoever painted it had added it follicle by follicle. It was ever-so-lovingly done and Jeremy feared that if the entire thing had this attention to detail, they might take the rest of the year to finish.

  “D-do you not like it?”

  Surprisingly it was the daughter – not the father – who asked the question. He straightened up to look at him. “It is exquisite.”

  The daughter, who stood to his right, gasped and Jeremy flicked a puzzled glance in her direction. Surely she must know how talented her own father was.

  “T-thank you, Your Grace,” Americus hastened to say, taking a step closer to the Duke.

  “Well…” Jeremy was at a slight loss for words, “I look forward to seeing the entire thing when it is complete.” He said with a nod and then turned toward the Dowager. “Mother…?”

  He trailed off, not wanting to ask her outright what she was doing with these people in their hearing. She got to her feet and smiled serenely at him. “Jeremy, how nice of you to join us.”

  The Duke was at a loss as to the appropriate reply to that sentiment. He wanted to gather her to himself and whisk her off to somewhere safe where no one would see how much she was falling apart. But these people had already seen judging by their unsurprised faces. He looked from one to the other and then back to his mother. Coming to a decision he held out his arm to her. “Shall we go for tea then, Mother?”

  She reached out and looped her hand around his. “All right” She said quietly.

  Jeremy turned to Americus and his daughter. “Would you like to join us?” he asked.

  “Oh no, we don’t want to be any trouble,” Americus was shaking his head earnestly.

  “I do assure you, it is no trouble. My mother seems to enjoy your company.”

  There was a small, hesitant silence.

  “Shall we go then?” the Dowager asked impatiently.

  “Yes, of course.”

  And just like that, it was decided that Americus and his daughter would sup with them.

  Louisa didn’t know what to do with herself. Sitting in the conservatory with the Dowager Duchess discussing the play of light on a fig leaf in the morning was quite different than dining with her in what was clearly the family room. The only person who was completely comfortable was the Dowager herself.

  Louisa herself was still giddy from having her painting described as exquisite by the Duke. She had hoped he would like it, but such praise was extravagant even if he did not know who it was he was praising. Her father had a small proud smile on his face which was also heartening.

  She suspected that the Duke had invited them here only in some attempt to speak to them about his mother. She had taken her husband’s death hard – that much was obvious to any sympathetic onlooker. And her son was feeling protective which Louisa found endearing.

  She wanted to assure him that they meant his mother no harm but he had yet to bring it up. Her father and the Duke were discussing some obscure seafaring text about the legend of sirens of all things. With his typical aplomb, Americus asked the Duke if he had ever come across such a thing at sea.

  “Sirens?” the Duke said and forgot himself so much as to smile with amusement, “No I do not believe I have.”

  “And you did not hear of other ships dashed against the rocks in an attempt to get to them?”

  The Duke threw back his head and laughed. “I’m afraid not. I’m sorry to disappoint.”

  Her father looked down, his face a study in thoughtfulness. “I expect that you did not travel to the right shores,” he said.

  Louisa let a giggle escape and the Duke cut his eyes toward her and then away again. He never looked at her for very long. She must seem rather plain to him with her brown frock and serviceable cap.

  “I expect you’re right,” he said, that edge of amusement still in his voice.

  “Young Jeremy went off to the sea and we feared we would never see him again,” the Dowager said sadly.

  Americus put down his cup, regarding her with the utmost gentleness. “That must have been difficult.”

  “It was,” the Dowager sniffed and Louisa dug hastily in her sleeve for her kerchief. She held it out before either of the men could react and the Dowager took it with thanks and blew her nose quite loudly.

  The Duke gave a loud sigh. “Mr. Notley,” he nodded at her father before turning reluctantly toward her, “Miss Notley, you will forgive my mother. She is not well.”

  “Oh, that is quite all right,” Louisa burst out, hastening to reassure him, “We know it has been a hard time for you. I myself never knew my mother because she died in childbed, but I still miss her quite terribly sometimes.”

  “Louisa…” Americus said, “you never told me that.”

  “Yes well…” she shrugged. It wasn’t really something to bring up at dinner, now was it?

  The Dowager put a hand on her knee. “My condolences on your loss,” she said.

  Louisa wanted to reach out and hug her. “Thank you, Your Grace.”

  Americus drained his cup. “Well, I suppose we should be
going. Thank you very much for your hospitality.”

  They all got to their feet, except the Dowager. The Duke looked from Louisa to her father. He seemed to hesitate as if he wanted to say something else, but then sighed instead and smiled. “You’re welcome. I look forward to seeing how the portrait turns out.”

  “I assure you, it will exceed your expectations,” Americus said proudly.

  Louisa closed her eyes and shook her head. If her father wasn’t careful, he would give them away.

  Chapter 8