Page 36 of All Duke and Bothered

“Ah,” said Miss de Luca, chuckling. “A pleasant one, I hope.”

Penelope’s throat contracted. “Oh, very. So very. For whatever purpose you’re here, you’re so welcome.”

“I was asked here to teach you, Duchess,” said Miss de Luca.

And while Penelope worked on finding her breath and trying to keep herself on the firm ground, her husband gestured to her in the direction of the doors, and they went. Being taught by a real artist was a dream, always far away and unattainable.

And now, it was right there, and only for her.

Penelope followed them to a room she’d never been in before. There was an easel with a canvas standing in the middle and more canvases leaned against one wall. Watercolor and oil paints lay on the table, as well as brushes, palettes, cloths, aprons, graphite pencils, and paper. The curtains were pushed all the way to the sides to let in as much light as possible. The walls, unlike any other room in the house, were painted in a neutral, light beige, giving an impression of even more light and air in the room.

Against one of the walls, there was a table with a white cloth on which sat a large bowl full of apples, grapes, and peaches.

As Miss de Luca and her footman proceeded into the room to set up her easel and her tools, Penelope stood at the doors, unable to move.

“This is for you,” said the duke, standing by her side and looking at the room. “Your own studio.”

She looked up at him; the stern profile she’d hated from their first dance looked soft and dear now. She fell in love with him a little then, despite all that had happened, despite knowing that he was hiding something from her.

But before she could reply, Miss de Luca turned to her. “If only every woman was lucky enough to have such a supportive husband…”

Penelope walked into the room and went to stand by Miss de Luca’s side, her eyes still on her husband, who leisurely came into the room. “I suppose I am lucky. The deeper I look, the more I like what I see.”

Miss de Luca smiled. “In that case, how about we capture the wondrous man in question?” she said so everyone in the room heard her. “Would you sit for your wife, Your Grace?”

The look on the duke’s face was precious. All relaxation and quiet satisfaction evaporated. He looked positively horrified.

“No,” he said, stepping back. “Forgive me, no.”

Miss de Luca marched towards him and passed her arm through his. “But sì. Yes. Your wife would love to paint you, wouldn’t you, Duchess?”

Penelope’s heart trembled in her chest. She had drawn his face over the past few days over and over in her sketchbook. It was her attempt to understand him, to grasp him. To uncover his secrets.

But even more—to understand her own fascination with him. The fascination she shouldn’t be feeling if she had any hope of protecting her heart from him.

But she had torn each portrait out and burned it. Even worse than being fascinated by him would be him finding her work and knowing she couldn’t stop thinking about him.

And now, studying his gorgeous features under the guidance of a master, maybe she would come to understand why he had such power over her—how she could hate him and yet keep him in her thoughts.

“I would, actually, Your Grace,” Penelope said. “I would like that very much.”

The duke’s jaws tightened, and his Adam’s apple bobbed. “No. I assure you, this bowl of fruit is much more captivating—”

Miss de Luca laughed and pushed him towards the wall. “My dear sir,” she said. “I assure you, there is no sentence in the English language that is more false than that.” She released Preston and pushed the table towards the corner. “You are the most captivating subject in this room. Except for your duchess.” She winked at Penelope.

“Please,” Penelope said and smiled at him, and then she said something she hadn’t even considered saying before. “Please, Preston.”

For a moment, he looked like he had been slashed by a saber or burned on a stake. Creases appeared on his forehead between his eyebrows, and there was a haunted, pained look on his face. Then he nodded.

“I will.” And then swallowed hard, and added, “Penelope.”

Her Christian name pronounced by him, with his voice, with that touch of ache was like a brush of a gentle hand against her naked back.

Miss de Luca was practically beaming, glancing between the two of them. “Excellent!” she exclaimed and clapped her hands once. “Now, Your Grace, would you please stand like this?”

She showed him a pose that Penelope saw often in Miss de Luca’s most recent portraits, with his back straight, one arm propped against his waist, the other hanging down his body. One leg straight, the other relaxed and slightly bent.

Miss de Luca stepped back and looked him over. “Beautiful. Please, keep this pose.”