Seeing her predecessor, Rose realized that what upset her so much was not merely the idea that Dorian had another woman in the house, but that he had installed her in these very rooms – the rooms of the Duchess of Ravenhill. Duchess Juliana would never have stood for that, she was sure. Nor would Duchess Rose!
Her earlier boldness infusing her blood once more, Rose took the handle of the door and turned it, ready to step inside and confront her husband’s mistress, whomever she might be.
It was unlocked and swung open easily to allow the furious young woman into the room. What Rose saw inside almost made her drop her candle…
Chapter Thirteen
Dorian Voss stood, paintbrush in hand, at an easel set up on the far side of the room, wearing an untidy and paint-smeared shirt, open deep at the neck to reveal a sprinkling of dark hair on his chest. The chamber around him was a blaze of candelabras and mirrors to light his canvas.
“Rose!” he exclaimed, laying down a palette and looking at her in consternation. “What are you doing here?”
“Oh!” Rose yelped, all her awful suspicions drained away in an instant, along with her courage, leaving her feeling foolish and alone, only a naive intruder in the Duke of Ravenhill’s private painting studio. “I thought…I thought….”
Her cheeks were burning with embarrassment, very much not wanting to admit what she had thought at all.
“What did you think?” Dorian asked, coming over to take the candle from her unsteady hand and place it on a table. “Is something wrong? Are you ill?”
“Why did you run away as soon as we got back?” Rose blurted out, posing questions which she felt were natural and blameless, even if he did not choose to answer them. “I worried that you were offended. Was it something to do with me? Or my family? Or your family?”
“Dear Rose,” the duke said, with one of his infuriatingly charming smiles. “A woman as sweet as you could never offend. Go to bed now and we shall eat breakfast together in the morning and talk as much as you wish.”
He took her hand, kissed it politely, as though they were at a ball, then patted it and released it. While his mouth was smiling, Dorian’s dark eyes were absent. Part of him was not in the room with Rose, she sensed. This charm was only a deflection, a game.
Well, Rose did not want to play that game and was not to be so easily dismissed tonight. She followed him when he returned to his easel and looked at his canvas. The painting was not yet well formed, but she thought it was a night scene and he had been blocking in a moonlit sky and some trees.
Despite its early stage of development, and lack of central focus, there was already a restlessness to the images being conjured. It was as though something was already lurking in the darkness he had painted, waiting for its chance to emerge.
“Where is that?” she breathed. “What are you painting?”
“A place that exists only in my imagination,” Dorian answered, his jaw tight.
“It seems so dark and wild,” Rose remarked, reaching out a hand as though she would touch the wet paint.
When the duke caught hold of Rose’s fingers this time, it felt different, and he did not immediately let go. It was an instinctive gesture on both sides rather than a planned one and something almost tangible flowed between them, just as it had done in the library.
“You must go to bed, Rose,” he said gruffly, dropping her hand and looking at the picture. “You must go now.”
Rose did not want to go. She did not want to leave Dorian, sensing that in some way, despite his words, he also wished her to stay. But how should she refuse his direct request?
“I can’t go to bed,” she faltered, playing for time. “Mabel is gone to bed and I find I cannot unhook my dress.”
Dorian blinked, then took Rose by the shoulders and spun her around. All too familiar with female garments, his fingers worked deftly on the fastenings, the light brushing of his fingertips and warm breath on her hair thrilling her. Too soon for Rose’s liking, she was released and spun again in the direction of the door.
“There,” he said quietly. “You can manage the rest. Goodnight, Rose.”
Back at his easel, the Duke of Ravenhill took up the paintbrush again and returned to the canvas, seeming to quickly forget Rose was even there. The room was all fire and shadow amid the blaze of candles and mirrors, and the duke’s sculpted face was an inscrutable work of art in itself.
“What do you even want from me, Dorian?!” Rose suddenly threw at him with a loud sob. “I’m meant to be your wife and these are meant to be my rooms. You cannot keep pushing me away. I don’t want to go.”
“Rose, you cannot stay here any longer,” the duke said, his voice now obviously strained. “You must listen to me.”
Rose closed her eyes, feeling embarrassed and silly. She had made a fool of herself tonight from start to finish. No wonder Dorian was losing patience. When she opened her eyes, however, she did not see impatience, nor anger.
The duke’s gaze was dark, hungry and much present in the room this time. There was no doubt that he saw Rose and that she had his complete attention. Putting down both paintbrush and palette, he came to stand in front of her again so that Rose could smell both oil paint and the mingled cologne and heat of his skin through the half open shirt.
“Listen to me, Rose. I’m trying to send you from this room, not because I don’t want you, but because I do. I want you. Very, very much.”
He took a deep breath, his final words having caught in his throat in a soft growl that made Rose’s stomach contract with excitement.
