Gregory’s mouth moved several times. “Uh…”
Had he been trying to scandalize her?
“That is what struck me, Gregory.” Daria lifted her gaze to the painting overhead. “If that is the manner of art you pref—”
“It is,” he blustered.
“Then I believe you’d have one of those wicked pieces commissioned and not a Nicolas Poussin.”
Chapter 20
Irony lived strong.
He’d accepted he’d eventually have to get on with the finding-a-bride business, and getting an heir and a spare upon her—hardly fair to let all the responsibility of living to one chap, as had been the case for Argyll.
She’d have sought a generous allowance.
All the largest, finest cut diamonds, sapphires, rubies, and emeralds.
But here, his breathtaking bride, who trembled from merely the hint of his kiss upon her bared skin, knew—and wanted to speak about—a Nicolas Poussin work.
Swallowing a sigh, Argyll kissed the top of her spine. “My wife has a love of art?”
“No.”
He waited.
Alas, that was all she intended to say—no.
If it weren’t for the raging erection tucked between the crease of her buttocks, his silk robe a mockery of a barrier, he’d laugh.
Argyll angled her in his arms, sweeping her around to face him. “But you know this one, do you, little raven?”
Daria nodded and then laid her head against his chest.
He stroked her back, and a smile tugged. Leave it to him to have acquired the one piece of art his wife recognized.
All right. The only way to return to doing with and to his bride, the only thing he wanted this night, was to have it all out.
“I happened to be visiting Lord Devonshire at Chatsworth when I stumbled upon it, by chance.”
“By chance?”
“I erroneously arrived early for an event Devonshire was the host of.” Argyll neatly left out the event was one of theBachelor Duke’s orgies. “In an attempt to occupy myself, I took in Devonshire’s vast collections.”
The long-ago day still remained clear as yesterday.
Or he’d attempted to. The minute visitors caught glimpse of Argyll making his way through Chatsworth, those lovers of art forgot quite what they did and flocked to him. Why gaze upon two-thousand-year-old Roman busts when one had a living duke in their midst? He’d found the furthest recesses and came upon a young father and his daughter, both in black, certainly mourning her mother. The man’s hand rested upon one of the young girl’s shoulder.
They’d been the sole people in the whole of Chatsworth House actually absorbed in one of the creations.
He’d hung in the shadows, transfixed by some rarer form of art than Devonshire’s damned collection combined. And by a relationship not centered on power, lust, evil, or greed just…the quiet company of one another.
They’d never registered him watching.
When the gentleman started to speak, Argyll slipped off.
Argyll registered the soft, comfortable silence. And he found it not unwelcome. Pleasant even.
