Chapter 17 #2
She drew him as he had looked in the sweet shop that day, sitting like some untamed king on a too-delicate chair, a half-bitten macaron suspended between his fingers.
His coat was unbuttoned just enough to suggest rebellion, his cravat slightly loose, his posture as relaxed as his grin was dangerous.
And yet there had been something boyish in the way he’d inspected the treats on display, something almost soft in the way he’d licked sugar from his thumb.
Her hand moved quickly. With confidence. The lines formed fast, alive, breathing. She added subtle color to the macaron, a hint of warmth to his cheek. A glint of green in his eyes.
When she finally leaned back to look at it, her pulse had quickened.
It was her fastest work.
And maybe her finest.
The realization made her blush.
What am I thinking? she scolded herself. You want to be the macaron now?
She wanted to laugh at herself, but the feeling inside her was too tangled to name.
She took up her pen and selected her best stationery.
You said I should let my imagination run free. Well, it seems my inspiration is not so far from reach.
I hope you’ll appreciate the subject I chose.
-E.
She folded the note and placed it with the sketch inside a large envelope. Her hands trembled slightly as she sealed it, not because she was unsure of what she was doing, but because she was more certain than she liked to admit.
Then she rang the bell.
When the footman appeared, she gave clear instructions. “Please have this delivered to the house of the Duke of Redmoor. Discreetly.”
He bowed. “Of course, my lady.”
As soon as the door closed, Elizabeth sat down, her cheeks still warm. She had no idea how Alasdair would respond. She didn’t even know if it was wise to send it.
But she knew this: she wanted him to see it.
To see her.
And in this moment, that was all that mattered.
Late afternoon had wrapped the study in amber light, and for once, Seth wasn’t trying to escape into the streets, or into the arms of someone waiting in shadows. Instead, he sat lounging in a wingback chair, brandy glass in hand, watching Alasdair with narrowed eyes.
“What’s with you?” he finally asked, swirling the amber liquid. “You sit. Then you stand. You pace. Then you sit again. You’ve done it four times now, by my count.”
“I’m not pacin’,” Alasdair muttered, though he didn’t sound convinced. “Do ye see me pacin’?”
“I see a man unraveling and trying very hard not to admit it.”
Before Alasdair could retort, a quiet knock interrupted the moment. Both men turned to the door in sync, as though bracing for an explosion rather than an errand.
A servant entered, walking with practiced discretion. “For you, Your Grace,” he said, holding out a slim, large envelope.
Alasdair’s brow furrowed. “Thank you, Andrew,” he murmured, taking it with one hand while the other unconsciously clenched into a fist.
He didn’t open it immediately. He turned it over first, noticing the fine cream paper and the feminine, careful scrawl of the address. The wax seal, too, was delicate, pressed with precision. His thumb hovered over it for a moment before breaking it open.
Seth leaned back, watching like a hawk sensing something juicy. “That’s quite the grand delivery. What is it this time? Another letter from the Widow of Ellis? You do remember she sent you her garter last spring?”
Alasdair ignored him. His breath caught as he pulled out what lay inside.
A folded note and beneath it, a sketch.
His heart gave a violent thud.
The paper rustled softly as he unfolded the drawing. It was him. Him.
Drawn with such vivid detail it was like looking into a mirror, but also warmer, softer, touched by something more intimate. He was seated, head tilted slightly, a macaron paused between his fingers near his mouth. His expression was unguarded. Relaxed.
Even…fond.
Seth stood up with an audible exhale, walking over to peer over his shoulder.
“Good Lord,” he whispered, stunned. “Lady Elizabeth drew you?”
Alasdair didn’t answer. He couldn’t. His voice had gone somewhere unreachable.
Seth chuckled, but there was awe in it. “Eating sweets, no less. Well, if the ton thought you a brute, they’ll now see you as positively scandalous. The Duke of Redmoor caught mid-bite. Smiling like a man in love.”
“It’s not for public eyes,” Alasdair said, his voice low and reverent, almost a growl.
He touched the edge of the paper like it might burn him.
Seth whistled. “She’s bloody good. That’s not a hobby, my friend, that’s a gift.”
Alasdair ran a hand through his hair and leaned back, his gaze locked on the sketch like it might vanish if he blinked.
“Aye, it is… me. But seen through her eyes. She made me—” He stopped, jaw working.
“She made you human?” Seth offered gently.
Alasdair didn’t reply.
“You’re smiling,” Seth added with a smirk, reclaiming his brandy. “That’s dangerous, Sandy boy. Very dangerous. The last time you smiled like that was… well, never, now that I think on it.”
Alasdair folded the sketch with utmost care and tucked it back into the envelope as though it were the most precious thing in the room.
“This wee piece of art is mine. Mind that.”
Seth saluted with his glass. “Of course. But don’t think you can hide from it forever. You’ve already started collecting pieces of her. And now she’s given you one of yourself. That’s no small thing.”
Alasdair said nothing, but his jaw clenched, and not in defiance this time. He held the envelope like a promise.
Outside, the sun dipped lower, casting long shadows through the window. In the quiet that followed, even the ticking of the clock seemed to pause.
And somewhere in the depths of Redmoor House, a Scottish duke sat still at last.