Page 35 of All Duke and Bothered

Her nostrils twitched, her upper lip trembled. Oh, she was livid.

“And may I remind you, sir,” she replied, her voice trembling with rage, “that you said you wouldn’t take anything a woman wouldn’t willingly give.”

Indeed. He took one step closer, now standing just two inches away from her beautiful face. “And I meant every word,” he said quietly. “Only, Duchess, you will give me everything I want willingly. More than that, you’ll ask me to take it.”

He brushed his knuckles down her smooth cheek.

“Because I know how to make you shake and tremble with pleasure,” he said. “I already have.”

Her pupils broadened and darkened even more, and he knew she wanted him. Despite her rage, despite the secrets between them, she still wanted him.

“Go to hell,” she said. “Do not dare come to my room. I mean it.”

She stormed past him this time, leaving him staring after her.

15

The duke sent a piece of cold roast beef into his mouth and chewed, his eyes never leaving Penelope’s. She met his gaze head-on, but she wouldn’t let him win. Whatever that meant.

For two days after their argument, she’d been furious with him, because of his deception, because of the secrets he kept from her. Because of his power over her body. He was right, blast it. She wanted more of his touch. Her treacherous body ached and trembled for him, and for the past two nights she’d stared at the door connecting their bedrooms, both anxious and excited for him to barge in, although she’d forbidden it.

Despite the four footmen who stood at attention by the walls to serve their luncheon, all her senses were on alert, with his eyes following her every move. The sun shone brightly through the paned windows of the breakfast room onto a luncheon table that held cold meats, pastries, cheeses, and plates of fruit.

As Penelope touched the glass of red wine, more to soothe herself than out of desire to drink, she noticed there was something playful in the dark depths of Preston’s eyes. What did he have to be so cheerful about when she felt like she was about to burst? It seemed no one in her life had this effect on her usually good-humored disposition but him.

“Do not make any plans today,” he said.

She stilled with the glass of wine halfway to her lips. “Pardon?”

He cleared his throat and chuckled. “That is, do not make any plans today, please. I have invited someone I’d very much like you to meet.”

Penelope nodded. “You intrigue me.”

He tried, and failed, to hide a smile of male satisfaction. “I like to intrigue you.”

Excitement bubbled in her stomach, curiosity making her forget her anger for now.

After luncheon, they went into the sitting room. This was their ninth day of marriage, and it was the first time they’d had a luncheon together and gone into the sitting room together like husband and wife. Just as Penelope took her seat, Porter came in and announced, “Miss Enrica de Luca.”

Penelope jumped to her feet, unable to believe her own ears. With her mouth wide open, she stared at the duke.

“How did you manage to invite the most talented female artist in England?” she blurted out.

Her husband stood up from the sofa to greet their guest with all the grace and confidence of a born aristocrat, while she felt like a child, everything inside her bouncing up and down from excitement.

Enrica de Luca was Penelope’s inspiration. Originally from Italy, Miss de Luca had learned from her father and other masters in Italy before coming to England and setting up her studio here. She wasn’t married; she didn’t depend on a rich and powerful male patron. Her paintings spoke for themselves. Penelope had seen several of her portraits at a spring exhibition last year.

They were simple, yet full of inner light. All of them allowed the viewer a glimpse into the subjects’ souls. They were also open and sensual. It was as though, through their bodies, Miss de Luca revealed her subjects’ true selves. Her work didn’t just portray noble ladies and gentlemen, but also tradesmen, cooks, servants, and even farmers.

Penelope was still trying to catch her breath when Miss de Luca entered. Behind her, a footman carried an easel, a canvas, and a wooden case. She was a beautiful, short woman in her early forties, with big green eyes and dark hair. There was a look of detached amusement on her face, which, Penelope suspected, could be her natural state. Her eyes, sharp and observant, quickly scanned Penelope up and down, then the duke.

Penelope’s breath stopped, her feet sinking. Why had Preston invited her? Why did her footman have the easel and the canvas and the case smudged with paint?

She forced herself to speak. “Miss de Luca, what an honor. Please, come in.”

“Thank you,” Miss de Luca said with a slight Italian accent, which made her sound even more beautiful and elegant. “But would you not like us to proceed to your studio, Your Grace?” she asked, her eyebrows rising. “I thought that was why I was here.”

Penelope swallowed and met her husband’s eyes. The twinkle there suggested he was covertly enjoying her surprise. “You are quite right. Please forgive my wife’s astonishment. You are a surprise for her.”