Chapter Eleven #3
Ana couldn’t allow herself to dream about her beloved book—the fantastical tale that had taken her five years to write—being bound in leather with Lulu’s gorgeous illustrations to bring her words to life.
It wasn’t going to happen. If she were to be published, it would be the Clovercote novel.
She’d be expanding upon Lady Claridge’s legacy.
“It’s a lovely idea, Lulu. I don’t believe it will ever come to pass but I shall forever think of the book with your illustrated plates as embellishment.”
“Perhaps it’s a dream that might come true.” Lulu squeezed her hand. “Don’t give up hope, Ana. Oh—I must go and speak to Lord Thistlethwaite. He’s promised to purchase one of my portraits.” She danced off, leaving Ana alone with Warburton.
“I appreciate your stalwart defense of my novel, Your Grace, but I’m pouring my efforts into the Clovercote novel. Mr. Norwood is a professional with years of experience and if that’s the book he wants, then that’s the book he’ll get.”
“But the fantastical novel is the one your heart demanded you write.”
She touched his arm lightly. “What a phrase. Perhaps there’s poetry in your soul after all, my Duke.”
My Duke. The phrase, tossed so lightly, struck him forcefully. Yes. He wanted that, wanted to be hers. He shook off the forbidden thought.
“I can’t claim the line as my own. You wrote it in a letter to your father. You said that your heart demanded you write this tale.”
“So I did! And you remembered it? You must have thoroughly absorbed my correspondence to Papa.”
“He meant a great deal to me. And your letters meant even more to him.”
She accepted the thought with a nod and continued walking along the line of paintings, deep in a reverent contemplation. She stopped at a woodland scene and peered at the background. “Goodness, Lulu has left little to the imagination in this one.”
He joined her beside the painting, careful to maintain an appropriate distance.
They were, after all, alone together in a dimly lit room.
On first glance it appeared to be an innocent scene: a woodland, a small cottage with smoke curling from its chimney, a field dotted with wildflowers.
On closer inspection, one could make out a satyr and a wood nymph frolicking in the wildflowers.
The nymph wearing naught but the covering of her long, wavy golden hair.
“Er, perhaps we should move to the next painting,” Dex said, a bit desperately.
“It’s only a study of the human form and of the ways of pleasure. I find it illuminating.”
She stared at the sensual scene. He stared at her. He couldn’t help it. Was there a change in her breathing? Were her cheeks flushing, ever so slightly?
Art, it appeared, was a dangerous setting for them. Her passionate nature was engaged, igniting and engaging his own.
“It’s time we left.” He turned from the painting abruptly. Miss Crewe, with one last blushing look at the satyr and the nymph, followed reluctantly.
After brief goodbyes made to Thea and Lulu, who were each absorbed in conversation with patrons, Dex handed his ward into the carriage, then followed and closed the door.
It seemed excessively quiet and intimate inside after the noise and activity of the salon. They were alone. Just the two of them.
This had been a mistake, bringing her here with no chaperone, no maid. Too close. She was much too close, sitting across from him, wrapped in a soft green silk cloak, wrapped in dreamy thoughts that painted a gentle smile on her lips.
“You and Patrick had an intimate conversation,” he observed.
“I like him very much. He was telling me about your gentleman’s club—the Thunderbolt Society?”
“The Thunderbolt Club.”
“Might I visit it? I’d very much like to see the interior, so that I might describe the one in my novel more fully and accurately.”
“It’s not an appropriate place for debutantes.”
“You’re very good at saying no to my requests.”
“I have your best interests at heart.” Except when he was picturing her as a naked wood nymph, red hair falling in luscious waves over small, round breasts . . .
“But Patrick said it wasn’t too disreputable, that you held charity events sometimes.”
“Don’t believe him.”
“Perhaps I could accompany you in disguise! No one need know it’s me.
I’ll go disguised as your groom. I’ll tuck my hair up into a cap and wear trousers and I’ll speak with a Cockney accent.
I will observe very quietly. I won’t cause any trouble.
I should like to learn to sit a horse. I’ve never even observed a gentleman’s stallion and yet I’m to describe several such horses for my book. ”
“I have an excellent manual on horse breeding at my house. You may study the drawings.”
“That’s no good. You know I prefer real experiences to secondhand observations. I’ll be your silent shadow.”
He snorted. “I very much doubt you’re capable of being a silent shadow.”
“I will in the name of research for my book.”
“You’re not visiting the Thunderbolt Club disguised as my groom.”
“Not as your groom. Then perhaps . . . as your pretend paramour? I’d wear a lace veil to hide my face. A scandalous red velvet gown. I shall hover by your side, catering to your every whim, perhaps even perching upon your knee? You can pretend to be fascinated by me.”
There would be no pretending. Now he was picturing her in lace and red velvet sitting on his lap. He shifted on the carriage seat, glad of the cover of his coat.
“While the other gentlemen are distracted by their own birds of paradise I shall take a look around, memorizing the description of the interior for my book.”
“Pardon me, but most of the gentlemen at my club are happily married.”
“Has that ever stopped a London lord from philandering?”
“Well . . . yes. It has in the case of my friends. It’s not a philanderer’s club, it’s a horse club.”
“Surely there are unmarried gentlemen?”
“Yes, some members are bachelors with reputations as rakes.”
“I want to meet such a gentleman and observe him at close range. I’m finding it very difficult to draw a portrait of a rake, having never met a proper one. A London rake, specifically, which is a thing I have no personal knowledge of.”
“You’re not to consort with rakes. I used to be one and I know what goes on in a rake’s mind.”
“You used to be a rake?”
Her astonishment rankled. “I was a rake. And a bounder.” Entitled. Arrogant. Unheeding of anything but his own pleasure and position in the world.
“Then I may consult you on the character of Sir Archer Falconer, the villainous rake who contrives to corner Miss Adora and steal a kiss. I must know the flattering ardent things he would say to lure her into abandoning caution . . . and her chaperone.”
“You won’t be observing any villains at close range.” Except for him. And from now on the range would be much farther out. He intended never to be alone with her again.
There were so many things she absolutely wasn’t going to learn from him . . . how to sit a horse, how to flirt with a rake. How to kiss.