Page 19 of All Duke and Bothered

Penelope didn’t say that she wished she’d spare them the time and just come to stay at this house with her now. It would have made her feel so much braver if she had a friend nearby.

But she couldn’t be so selfish and ask Alex when it was clearly not what she wanted.

And so, when Alex finished her tea, they said their goodbyes. The last words from Alex were, “Please, please do not stop painting. You have a true talent, and I wish to see your paintings hanging in the best establishments and homes in the country.”

And with that, she was gone, and Penelope was left utterly alone in the big, dark house that felt like a tomb.

That night, an insistent knock at Penelope’s bedroom door made her jump. Her hand jerked, leaving a dark green blot over the line of trees she had been painting so carefully with watercolor. Exactly in the wrong place, where she wanted to have the biggest contrast of bright sunlight and the shadows of a pine forest. Drat!

She glanced at the clock. Almost half past nine; Grandhampton must be having his dinner. She knew he must expect her to join him, but she had claimed to be unwell. Spending an entire meal alone in his company was too much to bear.

The knock repeated, louder and even more urgent. Penelope put down her brush, jumped up from the chair and the easel, and turned around, wiping her paint-smudged hands over her gown and immediately regretting it. She’d never have done it had her heart not been slamming so loudly and so quickly. She looked down to see blue streaks on her cream gown. She had a perfectly suitable muslin cloth lying on the gorgeously carved mahogany desk for just this purpose.

The door opened, and he barged in, his nostrils flaring. She stepped back in a silly attempt to cover her painting and supplies, like the few times her father had come to her room like this.

The duke scanned her and the painting supplies, then blinked. “You do paint,” he murmured, his gaze lingering on the painting behind her.

She swallowed. Would he scold her like her papa? Find another reason to judge her? Forbid her from painting and throw everything away?

“Of course I do,” she said, her sweaty hands clutching at the skirt of her dress.

“It’s just your father said…at Almack’s…”

She scoffed. “Indeed. He said I was not an artist and did not do any such nonsense. He has forbidden me to paint for years. He is convinced a woman’s role is only to be a wife and a mother. As, no doubt, are you.”

He scowled at her. “I do not share this old-fashioned opinion. My mama raised us to value a woman’s independent mind, and I sorely disagree with your father.”

Penelope blinked at him. Could he be the same man? How could the man who’d forced her to marry him believe a woman deserved any independence of thought or action?

“So…you don’t mind me painting?” she asked.

“No,” he said, and his gaze returned to her watercolor. “I don’t mind you painting. In fact…I’m not such a great art connoisseur as my brother was, but I can see you have some skill. I only mind about three things, and I told you them yesterday.”

Relief and delight mixed in her chest in one incredible cocktail. Was she even hearing him right? She had assumed he would forbid her everything that brought joy to her, including her art, but it seemed she was mistaken. Not only that, but he’d also just complimented her. And for the one thing that truly mattered to her.

“Right…” she said, somewhat dumbstruck. “Your three rules.”

“My three rules,” he echoed back slowly, his eyes lingering on her as though seeing her for the first time. Then he shook off his thoughtful expression and scowled again. “Mrs. Brown said you’re unwell. It’s the second night that you’re in poor health and can’t have dinner with me. I have come to inquire after you.”

Penelope swallowed hard. This was almost like her dream from last night. On the wall to her right, a dark mahogany door connected her and the duke’s bedrooms—it was much smaller than the grand door to her bedroom through which he’d just come. In her dream, he’d barged in just like this, and she’d gone completely still in her bed, staring at his tall figure, just a shade lighter than the blackness behind him. Then he strode to her slowly, keeping her in the prison of his unyielding gaze. But she couldn’t move. She knew he’d come to take her, even if he’d said he would give her a week. And like the king of shadows, he slid onto the bed next to her and kissed her, his lips gentle and yet firm, his mouth taking hers possessively. He wrapped his arms around her, drawing her to him, every inch of their bodies melded together…

Her treacherous nipples hardened at the memory of the dream, and an odd ache at the bottom of her belly made her skin cover in sweat. She needed to shake off this odd bewitchment, so she walked over the plush rug with intricate red patterns to the large fireplace with stone molding. She stretched her hands to the black grate with burning coals crackling inside, although she was already so hot, she felt like fire itself.

She kept her gaze locked on the shiny black surface of the grate, on the glowing coals visible through the holes. “I’m rather tired.”

The duke’s steps sounded closer, muffled against the carpet. Then he stood next to her. She didn’t need to see him. His presence was like an orb of warmth of its own—she could feel it on her skin. “You do not look tired,” he said. “And I see that you are well enough to paint. Which gives me hope. Join me for supper.”

She turned to him then. Good heavens, they were alone. It was so dangerous to be alone with him. They either argued, or he kissed her…

Whatever she did, she shouldn’t look back at the large four-poster bed with the scarlet hangings and matching bed cover. Especially given her dream. She shouldn’t let herself be drawn to him in that way. She should keep herself together or he would surely consume her.

“Not tonight, I’m afraid,” she said.

His gaze darkened. “I gave you time to get used to me when by law and by right you had to become mine. Having supper together is getting used to each other, but you’re still defying me—”

The thought of spending time with him, even if it was eating in the dining room with several footmen present, made her stomach churn.

“Can you blame me?” she cried. “You’re my jailor!”