Page 28

“And what is your favorite art piece?” asked Mr. Stalt.

“Oh…” said Penelope, “certainly Danaë by Rembrandt.”

“Why that one?” asked Lady Isabella.

Penelope swallowed hard, feeling the duke’s gaze on her like a warm touch. “Even though she was imprisoned because of something beyond her control, she persevered. I love the inner glow and strength in Danaë and wish every woman in her situation had that.”

She met her husband’s hard gaze, tingles going through her body.

“Perhaps Danaë brought it on herself. Have you ever thought of that?” asked the duke sharply.

“Said every tyrant ever.” Penelope held his gaze defiantly.

“Excuse me, did I hear you speaking of Rembrandt’s Danaë?” said a man in his late thirties as he drew closer to their circle. He had a long face, large, narrowly set eyes, a long, slightly crooked nose, and bold, angled eyebrows.

“Yes, Mr. Turner,” said the Countess of Whitemouth. “The Duchess of Grandhampton was just saying it’s her favorite piece in Chalworth, her new home.”

The floor under Penelope’s feet sank as she stared at the most talented and famous artist in Britain. Her impossible dream would be to learn from him and be his apprentice. His paintings were spectacular.

“Mr. Turner?” whispered Penelope. “The Mr. Turner?”

“If you mean the artist, Duchess, he is,” said her husband with steel in his voice.

“Pleased to make your acquaintance, Your Grace,” Mr. Turner said with a polite nod and a small smile.

Penelope practically felt her husband’s disapproval. Well, of course he would object. He was displeased by her breathing under the same sun as him. She shouldn’t care. She was used to male discontent—twenty-one years with her father had ensured that.

She beamed at the artist. “The pleasure is all mine, sir. I am a big admirer of your work. Your Fishermen at Sea, which I saw at the annual summer exhibition in the Royal Academy… I went there with my mama… I remember staring at that moon aglow, the boat full of men fighting the angry sea, and I couldn’t look away. That was one of the first moments I knew I never wanted to be without a brush in my hands as long as I lived.”

The people around her were silent, and when she saw her husband’s face, quite surprisingly, there was no scowl when he looked at her. His expression was open and relaxed, the walls of anger and hurt down.

That was when she saw what Calliope must see when she looked at her brother.

“I am grateful for your testimonial,” said Mr. Turner. “I do not know that I deserve it, but I’m most grateful. Like you, I do not ever wish to be without a brush in my hand as long as I live. That was so well said.”

“Excuse me,” said her husband without tearing away his eyes from her, “I must have an urgent word with my wife. Duchess, if you please…”

He gestured towards the direction of the exit and followed her. His gaze felt hot and heavy on her back as she made her way between talking, laughing, flirting, gossiping people. She was sure many of them looked at her, the new Duchess of Grandhampton, whispering to each other.

Once they were in the hallway and out of sight of the guests, he grasped her by her elbow, covered by her high glove, and tugged her behind a curtain in the corner, which was blocked by a large plant next to the tall window.

They were plunged into darkness, illuminated only by a strip of moonlight that fell through the window. She breathed heavily as he loomed over her, every inch of his tall, hard body pressed against hers, her own heartbeat thumping loudly in her ears.

“Grandhampton—” she started, not recognizing her own throaty voice.

He didn’t let her say another word. He kissed her, hot and soft and demanding, feasting on her lips like they were a dessert he couldn’t get enough of. His tongue…oh, his wicked, daring tongue glided and probed and entwined with hers.

He tasted like wine and something pungent and delicious, and his own taste that she wanted more and more of. His scent was in her nostrils, his arms around her, gliding over her back, and then moving to her bottom and squeezing it.

The onrush of hot desire that spread through her at that gesture made her legs sag, as weak as pudding.

Then his hand cupped one of her breasts and massaged it. Her flesh tingled, her nipples became as hard as marbles and ached. Pleasure rushed to her sex, which felt swollen and throbbed strangely and deliciously.

When she gave a moan right into his mouth, he groaned back, like a pained animal with as much need as was in her.

He lifted one of her thighs and dragged the edge of her gown and her petticoats up to her hips, his big, warm hand leaving a trail of fire on the flesh of her inner thigh free from her stockings.

Oh, what would he do? What could he mean with his hand—