Chapter 9 #2
“Because if she does, you won’t offer for her?” Muriel asked boldly, dabbing her brush in the pinkish red she’d mixed for the radish. Buxton had said he wasn’t enamored of Lavinia, comparing her to a vase—rather impolite. But he might have changed his mind.
“Weren’t you listening the other day?” He stretched out his legs. “If I must take a wife, I prefer one for whom I have a depth of feeling. I like Lavinia. She’s lovely to look at. But that is the extent of things, I fear.” He shot her a wicked look. “You need not be envious of Lavinia.”
“I’m not,” she bit out, which was entirely untrue. But his words didn’t make her feel a great deal better. There could be someone in London.
I don’t care.
“My father often told me that the best decision he ever made was wedding my mother, though he’d known her only one day.”
“One day?” Muriel looked up from the canvas.
“His Grace said it wasn’t love immediately, but the promise of it.
He knew he would love her madly, given enough time.
And he did, until they both perished in a carriage accident.
Together. Which is fitting, since my parents were rarely apart.
” Grief flashed across his handsome features before the arrogant smirk returned.
“You miss them.” Muriel understood. She still missed her mother, though Nora had tried to be a fitting substitute.
“It isn’t fashionable, but I do. The previous Duke of Buxton, in addition to his wildly inappropriate affection for his wife, also did not believe his children should be raised exclusively by a series of governesses.
Nor did my mother. I spent a great deal of time with both of them. As did my sisters.”
“How lovely.” Buxton would likely follow his parents’ example, which warmed Muriel’s heart.
“I understand.” Her brush ran over the outline of the radish she was using for his nose.
“My mother died when I was quite young. It was only me, Dora—my older sister—and Father for the longest time. Mama was always sickly. Never quite well. We went often to Weymouth so she could take advantage of the salt air.”
“Ah, seabathing.”
“It didn’t help.” Muriel gave a tiny shrug, remembering her poor mother, coughing and frail, dipping her toe into the waves while holding out her arms for her two daughters.
“A few years after her death, Father met Nora, my stepmother. I was glad for Father, because he—loved my mother. So I do understand, Your Grace.”
“Seems we both had an example set for us, Miss Bell.” Buxton stood just as the first drops of rain hit the glass of the greenhouse.
He came around Muriel, standing behind her so that he could study the painting over her shoulder.
Heat, all cedar-scented and vastly male, seeped through the fabric of her dress and into her skin.
A fingertip trailed languidly up her spine, delicately tracing the edge of the buttons at the back. “I should like to collect my reward for chasing off Todson.” His breath teased along the edge of her ear.
Muriel inhaled slowly, trying to calm the fluttering of her pulse. She had missed Buxton. His presence made her comfortable, when few others did, something she hadn’t realized until he’d joined her once more in the greenhouse.
“I’ll have the portrait finished before the end of the house party. A day or two more.” She gripped the brush tighter, glancing outside to the advancing storm. The guests who’d been watching them without pretending to do so had scattered to run to the house.
Buxton’s hand slid back down her spine to rest lightly on her waist. Gently, he turned her until they were facing each other. Reaching up, his forefinger traced along her cheek.
Muriel’s heart might burst. She wanted nothing more than to press her forehead into Buxton’s chest. Have his arms wrap around her.
“You’ve a bit of paint at the end of your nose, Miss Bell.” He tilted her chin up.
Muriel’s heart beat wildly at the soft brush of his lips against her own. A sound left her, one of surrender. The brush fell from her hand, clattering to the floor, splashing her skirts with paint.
“Buxton,” she whispered.
The hand at her waist pulled Muriel closer, until barely an inch existed between them as his mouth claimed hers.
He tasted slightly of the cheroot and…honey.
A hint of tea. Lips warm, moving with sensual promise over her own.
Thoughts fled as he stole the air from her lungs, pushing aside every thought in her head until all Muriel could do was feel.
My goodness, this is…intoxicating.
When Buxton’s tongue flicked against her mouth, Muriel’s lips parted of their own accord with a soft gasp.
The light touch of his tongue against her own sent another shock along her skin, drawing Muriel more fully into him until there was nothing but the sound of the rain. The smell of her paints. And Buxton.
“I should go, Miss Bell,” he whispered against the corner of her mouth. He drew back and looked away. When he turned to her once more, his features were entirely composed, the only sign he’d been affected by their kiss the tiny bit of pink at the ends of his ears.
She blinked and took a step back, uncertain what to say. Or do. Surprised by the passion that had erupted inside her. Muriel had received a few careful pecks before, mostly from Habersham, but this was entirely different. Somewhat frightening.
“Your Grace.” She curtseyed, something she’d never managed to master to Nora’s satisfaction, and kept her gaze firmly fixed on the edge of her skirt where a blob of red paint had fallen.
“Don’t dally on the portrait. As you said, the house party is coming to an end.”
She watched Buxton’s boots as he sauntered out without another word, leaving Muriel panting softly in the quiet greenhouse, her entire body set aflame from merely a kiss.
Straightening, difficult given how wobbly her legs felt, she turned back to the canvas and deliberately mucked up the nose.