by Virna DePaul
She pointed her paintbrush at him and exclaimed, “There. I saw a tiny, little smile.”
“I assure you, you did not,” he murmured.
“I saw something. What was it? Remembering a best friend?”
“Miss Rose, all you saw was a duke rapidly tiring of pestering, nonsensical, relentless questions. Please conduct yourself properly.”
Her paintbrush paused on the palette as she stared back at him. He saw it—how she wanted to tell him to go to hell, yet couldn’t quite bring herself to do it. Knowing she was keeping as fierce a hold on her more passionate instincts fed his curiosity about her. The urge to have her, mark her, swept through him once more. His fingers clenched to stop his hand from reaching out for her.
Do it, he silently urged. Rail at me. Come up to me and slap me. Unleash me from the restraints of my damn title and let me respond the way I want to respond to you. As a man, not a duke.
Maybe she saw all that inside him, because her eyes widened and she ducked again behind the large canvas. One moment so bold. The other not. What an intriguing woman.
He tried to remember everything he’d heard about her when his mother had selected her to paint his portrait. Graduate of Yale University. Winner of the National Young Artist Award when she was nineteen. Owns her own studio in Boston. Traveled around the world to paint portraits of leaders from every major country. Well-respected, highly regarded, the pinnacle of professionalism—
“Shit.”
Callum watched Miss Rose, the ‘pinnacle of professionalism,’ bend down and swipe at a small drop of blue paint that quickly became a large smear on the white fur.
“Fuck,” she muttered.
“Don’t rub at it, Miss Rose,” Mack said, stepping in. “Dab, dab at it. Oh, leave it, just leave it.”
At Mack’s words, she seemed to travel the road from embarrassed to mortified, and Callum had to fight the urge to order Mack away. To tell Miss Rose to dump as much paint on the rug as she wanted. Because she shouldn’t be painting here, hindered by fear that she’d drop paint on the rug. Maybe the ‘Miss Rose’ he’d been anticipating before he saw her would be suited to paint in such conditions, but this woman…
No, she was nothing like he’d expected, not this wild, untamed thing before him.
She was a temptation, like a glass of the strongest whiskey, simply sitting there; all he had to do was reach out and take it. Take her.
As Mack attended to the mess on Callum’s father’s fine fur, Miss Rose escaped once more behind her canvas. A little while later, he heard her muffled voice from her hiding spot.
“Did you just ask me to describe the most beautiful sunset I’ve ever seen?” he asked.
Her blue eyes emerged over the top of the canvas. They were followed by the freckles dotted across her cheeks and nose, and her pink lips with their deep Cupid’s bow.
“If not a sunset, then how about a sunrise?”
Instantly, Callum’s mind exploded with a vision of Miss Rose, not as she was now, standing in front of the fine mural on the wall of the ballroom, but standing against the backdrop of a sunset he’d witnessed on Holy Island when he was younger.
He wasn’t even supposed to have been there. His father had paid for a private university education so he could be “the best Duke he could be” and he was supposed to be there. But he hadn’t wanted to prepare to be a duke. He’d wanted to drink. He’d wanted to smoke. He’d wanted to fuck.
He’d ditched classes, hit the town, and after a wild night filled with every debauchery imaginable, he’d found himself alone on Holy Island just as the sun was peeking up along the horizon. Maybe it was the lingering effects of the alcohol, but he’d never seen more brilliant colors stretching across such still waters.
Now, Callum wondered if that sunrise could paint Miss Rose’s lips any pinker. He wondered if the first golden rays could compare to the shine of her hair. He wondered if the water glistened even half as much as her eyes seemed to as she eyed him.
“Well?” she asked.
“You want me to tell you?”
“Yes,” she said, hesitantly.
“No.”
Her eyes narrowed and once again, he had to stop the amused smile that threatened to break his stony expression. He thought he saw her grit her teeth before she slowly sank down out of view again. Hearing the swish of her brush against the canvas, Callum glanced over at Mack and mouthed a quick What the fuck?
Mack was a close friend and the only person in the world he’d swear in front of now. He’d served as Callum’s father’s man, too. He was part chauffeur, butler, bodyguard, assistant. Confidant, drinking buddy, therapist. Mack, whose sarcasm was so subtle most found him to be the most terrifying man on the planet, just shrugged.
When Callum looked back at Miss Rose, he found her studying him with that unsettling intensity again. A streak of white paint decorated her chin.
“What do you look for in a lover, Your Grace?” she asked next.
Mack choked and coughed where he leaned against the wall. Callum felt his control slipping, slipping…and then he managed to tether it in.
“Is that pertinent to the portrait, Miss Rose?” he asked calmly.
“It may be,” she responded.
“Very well then. Silence, Miss Rose. I look for silence.”
Miss Rose assessed him with tight lips and then shrugged. “That’s fine,” she said. “I understand if it’s too uncomfortable for you to discuss with a stranger. I wouldn’t want to offend your fine sensibilities.”
Callum couldn’t quite believe it. She was mocking him.
And he absolutely fucking loved it.
She glanced up from the canvas and raised an eyebrow in challenge.
Oh, sweetness. You don’t know what you’re threatening to unleash.
“Why don’t you go first then, Miss Rose?” he said before he could stop himself.
Out of the corner of his eye he caught the surprise on Mack’s face.
“Very well. I like a lover who doesn’t hide anything from me,” she finally said, not looking at Callum, but instead at the canvas. “I like a lover who says things that surprise me, a lover who makes coffee extra strong, a lover who says my name different than anyone else says my name.” Her eyes finally returned to Callum. She held his gaze steadily and boldly and openly. “Your turn.”
Mack stood and said, “It really is quite improper for the Duke to discuss such private matt—”
“I like a lover who likes cuffs,” Callum said.
“Your Grace,” Mack snapped.
Molly grinned. “You enjoy being tied down, Your Grace?”
For the first time, Callum let go of his rigidity and smirked. “Quite the opposite.”
Mack walked toward the door as he muttered, “Did anyone else hear the doorbell ring? I know I certainly heard the doorbell ring. I better attend to that right away. Yes, yes, right away.”
“You might enjoy it,” Miss Rose said, eyes dark. “Being tied up.”
“You wouldn’t want to bind these hands, I assure you.”
He felt a wave of pleasure when he noticed her eyes flicker down to his hands. He wanted to show her exactly what he could do with them, just how wet he could make her, just how much he could make her squirm, just how loud he could make her scream with just his hands.
“I think you’re afraid,” she said, her voice low. “Your lover would be in complete control. You would be vulnerable to her every touch, her every whisper in your ear. I think you’re afraid of giving anyone that control.”
Her words, seductive and smooth as red silk, urged within him the sparks he had been suppressing since his brother Jamie’s accident, since his father’s death, since the title of Duke fell to him.
The sparks felt good. They made him feel alive.
And that was dangerous. She was dangerous.
Callum shook off the spell the American had cast on him and sat up straighter in the chair. “Did you find what you were looking for, Miss Rose?
”
She shook her head, and when she spoke, there was resignation in her tone. “I’m certain you have shown me nothing at all, Your Grace.”
Miss Rose returned to the canvas with a loud sigh that was clearly not tempered for his sake. And so the session continued.
Every time her eyes flickered away from him and down to the canvas, he watched her attentively. Her curls bounced free every time she tried to tuck them away behind her ear. She didn’t seem to care that she coated her blonde strands in paint every time she pushed her hair out of her eyes. He had to restrain yet another smile from tugging up the corners of his lips when he noticed her tongue wiggling in the corner of her mouth as she concentrated. He wondered where she went when her paintbrush touched the canvas, because from what he could tell she was no longer in the ballroom of Floors Castle. He found himself thinking he might like it there, wherever she was.
“Five minutes until the hour is over, Your Grace.” Mack had returned to the ballroom.
Callum blinked and checked his watch to confirm. He couldn’t believe it had been nearly an hour.
“We’re done in five minutes?” Miss Rose asked.
“For today, yes,” Mack answered for him.
Callum watched determination set the American’s jaw. She put her hand on her hip, unaware her brush was going to drip more paint on the fur.
“What is your most cherished childhood memory?” she asked.
“Which of your parents did you inherit those curls from?” was Callum’s only response.
He saw by her expression that he’d clearly taken her by surprise. Unfortunately, his gut twisted when he saw sadness shadow her expression. Inwardly, he cursed. So were one or both of her parent’s dead? He hadn’t meant to hurt her.
She quickly recovered and stubbornly focused on Callum again. “When was the last time you cried from joy?”
Why was she asking him all these questions? What was she searching for?
Could she see in the slight twitch of his jaw that he hadn’t cried, neither from joy nor pain, in years? It wasn’t a luxury he allowed himself anymore. He didn’t deserve to cry, especially not after what had happened with his brother Jamie, when he had so wanted to.
“What do you think about when you paint?” he managed to ask her.
She hesitated, eyes narrowing. “What song do you sing in the shower?” she asked, leaning in closer for his reaction.
Callum leaned in to mirror her. “What dreams do you have over and over again?”
“Was your father proud of you?” Miss Rose asked.
Callum hoped he hadn’t flinched. He needed to throw her off. “Have you ever painted naked?” he asked.
“Do you want to see me paint naked, Your Grace?”
“All right, Miss Rose,” Mack said before Callum could. “That should do it for today.”
She and Callum stared at each other from across the ballroom, each leaning forward, each unblinking, each challenging the other. Then, without another weird question, she grabbed her bag from the floor and marched straight out the door.
Callum wanted to slam his chair behind him, send it crashing against the finely molded wainscoting and run after the woman. He wanted to find her in the abandoned stone hall of the castle and press her against the wall, tugging on one of those wild, blonde curls. He gripped the edge of the chair to keep himself still.
She was forbidden fruit. And though he wondered how juicy she tasted, he would not follow her.
Mack whistled and gathered the art supplies from the center of the room. “Odd little goose, that lass, eh?”
How juicy she must taste though…
“Your Grace?”
“What’s that, Mack?” Callum stood, stretching from sitting so still for so long, tense under the American’s gaze.
“Your mother wants a picture of the portrait so far,” Mack said. “She wanted to be here, but she had her monthly book club. Do you mind?”
Mack held his phone out in front of the canvas.
“Hold on,” Callum said. “I want to see it first.”
He walked around the easel, crossed his arms, and stood next to Mack. He saw a rough outline of his face and neck and shoulders, his beard and hair and ears.
The only feature she’d focused on in colorful detail was his eyes.
They were not the eyes of a statesman. They were not the eyes of a royal. They were not the eyes of a duke.
Callum leaned in closer and tilted his head and tried to pinpoint what it was about them. They were…open. He saw a vulnerability he’d always wanted to hide, a sensitivity he’d always wanted to crush, a happiness he wasn’t even sure he was capable of feeling anymore. There was a lightness to the eyes, a joy held within them.
Staring at those eyes, everything fell into place. He understood why he was so surprised by the way this artist had looked. Why he was so uncomfortable by her decidedly personal questions. Why a renowned portrait painter created something as lively and bright and bold as those eyes.
She wasn’t a world-famous artist. She wasn’t a professional. She wasn’t a renowned portrait painter.
He didn’t know who she was or what she wanted or why she’d painted his eyes the way she had.
But she was not Priscilla Rose.
“Well,” Mack said, slowly, “what do you think?”
“I think I need to find Miss Rose.”
Chapter Three
Molly
As the churning gray sky spit tiny rain droplets down on her, Molly hurried down the dirt road leading from the castle to the small village of Kelso. She pulled her hood tighter over her hair, ducking her head and berating herself as her shoes crunched on the wet gravel.
“So stupid,” she muttered. “You asked him about his lovers. Who does that? You should have left the minute you stepped inside that ballroom. Oh, but instead you stayed and asked him about his fucking lovers. Stupid, so stupid.”
She knew why she’d stayed. And she knew why she’d asked. And asked. And asked. She’d wanted to see his eyes unguarded again. She’d wanted to see the wall torn down, the mask pulled away, the eyes of the Duke replaced with the eyes of the man she’d first seen.
And what a man he appeared to be. Molly had seen the tension in the cords of his neck as he’d strained himself to stay in control. She’d wanted to paint them, to remember them, to touch them. He’d tried to appear cool and calm and collected, and to almost anyone else he would have, but Molly had sensed the restraint he was exerting. His whole body had been like a spring and she had searched and searched for the lever to release it.
She’d failed.
After that first tiny peek past the curtains, the Duke was as stoic and stiff as a brick wall. Every time she’d tried to chip it away, he buckled down. His lips drew tighter together, and his jaw grew tenser, and his fingers gripped the arm of his chair even more firmly.
Really, he’d succeeded more in unraveling her than she had in unraveling him. She hoped he hadn’t seen her attention slip toward his hands when he mentioned what he could do with them in bed. She’d known that’s what he’d wanted and she’d tried to restrain herself, but her will hadn’t been as strong as his, and now she was stuck with the image of his strong, large hands roving over her body.
As she continued down the road, her eyes briefly fluttered closed and she could almost feel his hands on her. Where would he touch her first? Would he lay one of those strong, large hands right above her heart? Would he feel her heart racing through his palm? Would his green eyes betray that he knew how his touch made her heart flutter?
Or would he touch her first on the arm? Her lower back? The small of her waist?
One second she thought he’d devour her, the next, he was so damn controlled. It intrigued her, the way he seemed to fight his baser nature. She couldn’t deny that. She wanted to know him and understand him even as she painted him. She wanted to talk to him and hear him laugh and listen to his stories.
Yet it was clear he wasn’t goin
g to share.
“That’s not the fucking point,” she hissed to herself. “The point is you are not Priscilla Rose. You snuck somewhere you weren’t supposed to and got caught. You need to get the hell out of here before they figure it out.”
Well, this wasn’t the first time her heart had taken over the decision-making process. She’d learned it from her mother, after all. She’d avoided a steady job for as long as she could, choosing instead to do art she cared about. She’d managed to scrimp and save what little money she did have to support herself, and when the time seemed right, she’d used the money her mother had left her and her own meager savings and planned this trip to Europe, because it had been her dream, yes, but also because it had been her mother’s dream for her. No, she wasn’t known for making logical decisions. She jumped without looking.
But a month before she’d left for Europe, things had changed. Her father, who’d barely been functioning after the death of her mother, had lost his job. Suddenly, she didn’t have just herself to support, she had to support her father, too. So she’d interviewed for a job, gotten an offer, set things in motion, and because the plane tickets had been non-refundable anyway, had set out on her European adventure, somehow finding herself painting a duke.
“Miss Rose?”
Squeezing her eyes shut, she clenched her fists and groaned before turning around with a sweet smile. The Duke of Roxburghe sat on top of a large, gray horse that trotted right up to her.
The angry skies seemed to suit him. He looked like a god atop that horse, and in turn the horse responded to every click of his tongue, every press of his heel into its flank, every gentle tug of the rein, eager to do his bidding.
As she had in the ballroom, Molly imagined how well he could command her. Touch yourself there. Turn onto your stomach. Faster. Deeper. Swallow.
“Where are you off to?”
He guided the horse in a wide circle around her, like he was a hawk and she a helpless rabbit.
“Um, walking to the village. To my hotel room.”
“Didn’t you tell us you’d be staying in the castle while you completed my portrait?”
