Chapter 12

Chapter Twelve

" W hat should I paint?" Beatrice asked herself as she set up her easel near the window, allowing the soft, natural light to illuminate her canvas.

She handpicked her brushes and arranged her palette, her fingers deftly mixing colors. The familiar scent of oils and the smooth texture of the canvas beneath her hands brought her a sense of calm, images and shades already flashing through her mind as she stared out the window at the sea.

She longed to paint the stunning coastline in front of her, but she knew it was too risky. Someone might recognize the landscape, and her secret identity as Eric Westback could be exposed. She needed a subject that resonated deeply with her yet was far enough from her current surroundings.

A memory surfaced, bringing with it a wave of nostalgia. Her family had visited Cornwall when her father was still alive. Those were happier times before Patrick's violent actions had cast a shadow over their lives. The rugged cliffs and wild, untamed beauty of the Cornish coast had always stayed with her.

Beatrice dipped her brush into the paint and sketched the outline of the cliffs, the strokes coming naturally as she recalled the vivid details of that visit. The crashing waves, the vibrant hues of the sea, and the windswept grass all came to life under her brush. She lost herself in the process, the act of painting providing an escape from the complexities of her current situation.

Several hours later, she stepped back from the canvas, assessing her progress. The rough idea of the painting was beginning to take shape, the familiar rhythm of her brushstrokes providing a sense of accomplishment. However, as she looked down, she realized she was covered in paint. Her hands were stained with vibrant hues, and several splatters of various colors covered her dress.

Her mind raced. If she went out into the corridor, all the servants would see her. Even if she claimed she was a hobby painter, someone might grow curious and discover her secret. She needed to keep everything under wraps.

Poking her head out the door, making sure her paint-covered arms and dress stayed hidden, she scanned the corridor.

Spotting a maid passing by, she cleared her throat softly to get her attention. "Excuse me, could you come here for a moment?"

The maid turned, her eyes widening slightly at the sight of the Duchess peeking through the partially open door. She hurried over, curiosity evident on her face. "Yes, Your Grace?"

"Could you fetch the housekeeper for me, please?" Beatrice asked, her voice low and urgent.

The maid nodded quickly. "Of course, Your Grace. Right away."

She hurried off down the corridor, the sound of her footsteps echoing off the stone walls.

Beatrice closed the door behind her and leaned against it, a smile tugging at her lips despite the situation. She glanced at her paint-covered hands and let out a soft laugh. This was certainly not how she had imagined spending her first few weeks as a duchess.

A few moments later, Mrs. Whitfield arrived, her expression one of mild confusion. Beatrice let her in quickly, shutting the door behind them.

The housekeeper's eyebrows shot up when she saw the stains on the Duchess' arms and dress. Her eyes widened further as she took in the sight of the canvas and art supplies spread across the room.

"Your Grace, I thought you were resting," she began.

Beatrice smiled sheepishly. "I was… busy, but I need your help with something. I must ask you not to tell anyone about this hobby of mine."

The housekeeper looked puzzled. "Why would you want to hide such a harmless activity?"

"Please, Mrs. Whitfield," Beatrice implored. "Just go along with it and keep it from the Duke. It's important to me."

Mrs. Whitfield hesitated, clearly reluctant. "I don't feel comfortable going behind His Grace's back, Your Grace. If he ever finds out…"

"He won't," Beatrice reassured her. "And if he does, nothing will happen to you. I promise."

The housekeeper paused, still uncertain, but finally nodded. "Very well, Your Grace. I will keep your secret."

Beatrice moved as if to hug her but stopped short, realizing she was covered in paint. She laughed awkwardly. "Thank you, Mrs. Whitfield. I don't want to get paint all over you."

Mrs. Whitfield chuckled though she maintained her professional demeanor. "What do you need, Your Grace?"

"I need a washbasin and an apron, so I don't ruin any more gowns," Beatrice explained. "And I'll order some plain dresses that I can put on while I'm in this room. In the meantime, I'll wear some of my old dresses."

Mrs. Whitfield nodded. "I'll help with everything. I'll fetch a fresh change of clothes and warm water with soap so you can clean up."

Beatrice's relief was palpable. "Thank you, Mrs. Whitfield. I appreciate your help more than you know."

The housekeeper gave a small, reassuring smile before leaving the room.

While she waited, Beatrice moved to the window, gazing out at the breathtaking landscape. The rolling hills and distant sea provided a serene backdrop, but her attention was quickly drawn to the gardens below. There, Kenneth rode his horse with effortless grace. His riding garb was more casual at home, and his shirt was more open than usual, revealing a glimpse of his muscular chest.

She watched him with admiration, unable to look away. The way his thighs looked strong and powerful in his riding breeches sent a shiver through her. He dismounted with fluidity, the muscles in his arms flexing as he did so.

Beatrice bit her lip, feeling a heat rise to her cheeks as she recalled the memory of his touch, the way his hands had felt on her skin, the intensity of his gaze.

Kenneth stretched, his movements languid and unguarded, as his horse rested under the shade of a tree. Beatrice's breath hitched as she took in the sight of him, every sinew and muscle perfectly defined. Her heart raced, and a deep desire stirred within her, overwhelming her senses.

For a moment, she allowed herself to be carried away by the fantasy, her thoughts consumed by the man who had so unexpectedly become her husband. The yearning in her chest was almost painful, a reminder of the complicated emotions she felt towards him.

However, she quickly composed herself as a knock sounded at the door, signaling Mrs. Whitfield's return.

Beatrice stepped away from the window, smoothing down her paint-stained dress and trying to calm her racing heart.

Mrs. Whitfield entered with a fresh change of clothes and a washbasin filled with warm water. "Here you are, Your Grace. Let's get you cleaned up."

"Thank you, Mrs. Whitfield," Beatrice replied, welcoming the distraction and the housekeeper's support.

With a last glance out the window, where Kenneth was now leading his horse back to the stables, Beatrice took a deep breath, determined to focus on her art and her duties as Duchess, even as the memory of his touch lingered in her mind.

Later that evening, Kenneth made his way to his study after spending the day riding the fence lines of the estate with his steward. His muscles ached from the long hours of riding, but his mind was sharp, focused on the work that awaited him.

As he turned a corner, he nearly collided with Beatrice, who was dressed beautifully for dinner.

"Oh. Apologies, Duke," he heard her mutter under her breath, her eyes avoiding his.

As he took her in, he noticed that the neckline of her dress plunged just enough to be tantalizing, drawing his gaze to the delicate curve of her collarbone and the swell of her bosom. The gown hugged her curves in all the right places, accentuating her figure in a way that made his breath hitch.

Kenneth's eyes lingered on her longer than he intended, and it wasn't until she spoke again that he realized he had been staring.

"Do you need anything, Duke?" Beatrice's voice held a teasing lilt, her eyes sparkling with mischief.

Beside her, Mrs. Whitfield stood quietly, her hands folded neatly in front of her, trying to make herself invisible.

Kenneth cleared his throat, tearing his eyes away from his wife's enticing form. "No," he told her, his voice rougher than he intended, and then turned to Mrs. Whitfield. "Please have dinner brought to my study."

Mrs. Whitfield nodded, clearly sensing the charged atmosphere. "Of course, Your Grace." She hurried away, leaving him alone with the Duchess.

Beatrice's lips curled into a playful smile. "Just dinner, Duke? Nothing else to tempt your appetite?"

Kenneth felt a surge of heat at her words. "I believe I'll manage," he said, his voice low.

She stepped closer, holding his gaze. "Are you sure? For a man as busy as you, one would think you'd need more than just dinner to be satisfied."

Kenneth's heart raced, and he struggled to maintain his composure. "I appreciate your offer, but I wouldn't want to delay your dinner."

Beatrice's eyes flickered with amusement. "Very well, Duke. I wouldn't want to keep you from your… work."

As she began to walk away, Kenneth couldn't resist one last innuendo. "Enjoy your meal, Duchess. I hope it is as… fulfilling as mine will be."

Beatrice glanced over her shoulder at him, her smile widening. "I'm sure it will be, Duke."

Kenneth watched her go, the sway of her hips tantalizing him even more. The hunger he felt for her was consuming, an ache that had nothing to do with food. He clenched his fists, trying to rein in his desire, knowing that the night ahead would be a struggle to keep his thoughts focused on anything other than his wife.

He turned on his heel and made his way to his study, trying to push aside the image of Beatrice in that stunning dress. His desire for her was a constant, gnawing presence, one that he found increasingly difficult to ignore.

Reaching his study, he closed the door behind him and leaned against it for a moment, taking a deep breath. The work he needed to do seemed far less pressing now, overshadowed by the memory of his wife's beauty. He forced himself to focus, knowing that he couldn't afford to be distracted by his desires.

Still, as he settled at his desk, the image of Beatrice in the low-cut gown lingered in his mind, a tantalizing reminder of the woman he had married. He could feel the heat rising within him, his frustration growing with each passing moment. She had teased him, tempted him with her words and her presence, and now, all he could think about was her.

A slow, determined smile curled his lips.

If she wanted to play this game, he would be more than happy to oblige. She needed to understand that tempting him came with consequences.

He would teach her a lesson about playing with fire.