The Prince had kept his word. There was still time to disappear. Still time to sell the painting…if she could purloin it.
“I have come seeking answers, Your Grace.”
The ducal eyebrows lowered. “Have you indeed, my Newgate bird, and here I was thinking it should be quite the reverse.”
Oh.
She tugged her sleeves, noticed his eyes catch upon the stretched black material at her bosom, considered what answers he might seek of her.
“But I see, Your Grace, that I have caught you…unawares.”
Bereft of jacket, with unbuttoned waistcoat and loose cravat, she was aware she should turn, to allow him to dress, but he made no effort to do so, and in any case, Evelyn was a few years beyond maidenly shock.
In fact, he appeared almost relaxed, a mien she had not yet witnessed, as he leaned against his splendid desk, the polished border reflecting his equally splendid backside.
A lifetime ago, she had walked into her father’s studio to encounter a wholly naked Poseidon – a living one – and so a half-dressed gentleman ought to have no effect.
Except it did. More so than that naked well-endowed god who had made her stutter, blush, put hand to eyes and flee.
This golden deity inspired delicious tremors: the way his arm shifted, linen bunched to the elbow, forearm bronzed and strong. How his lips curved around the crystal glass. The manner in which his throat jogged as he savoured the brandy, illuminated by a lantern.
“I must beg your pardon,” he said, “I am indeed not dressed for visitors.”
“Except the Prince?”
A smile seized the duke’s lips. “You know him?”
“Only by reputation and black feather. Everyone fears him.”
A candle sizzled as it gutted, casting one corner of the study to night, and Evelyn sought to remember why she was here, to ask questions and attempt to reclaim her painting. But the intimacy of the room quelled her tongue, the Rubens behind his desk mocking her boldness.
“Well, now you are here, Mrs Swift, come view this painting and tell me your thoughts, if you will.” The duke placed his empty glass upon the desk and grasped the lantern. “You said you knew your art.”
Set in the corner was a stand with a canvas upon it, half-draped in darkness, and she slowly approached. Every nerve stood to attention within her, ears attuned to every sound: the rasp of shirt linen, his footstep, her own heartbeat.
He halted behind her. The lantern was held aloft.
“Oh! How beautiful,” she cried.
A girl stood in a poppy and wheat field, blond curls blowing loose and wild. Her gown was buttercup yellow and appeared to drift away within the golden stalks. A red ribbon was tied beneath her bosom, its silk ends dancing in the wind, as did the poppies on their slender stems.
Gentleness and grace: a painting of a girl at one with nature. Free as the fair wind yet tethered to the fertile land.
The duke’s arm brushed her shoulder as he brought the light near, casting them both within its secluded glow, the outside world forgotten, questions abandoned. She felt his breath on her cheek, heated and fragranced with rich brandy.
“Where did you find it?” she whispered.
“The Prince brought it to me.”
“Did he steal it?”
“No.” The duke sounded amused. “He did not.” Surely if he stood any closer, his lips would graze her skin. “And if you are sensible, you will forget you ever saw the Prince here.” He paused. “You are sensible, are you not?”
Sensible?
Had it been sensible to lie to a duke?
Was it sensible to crave that duke kiss her nape?
