“I’m afraid not. In fact, a preeminent publisher informed me that no one would want to read it.”
“He was wrong,” a gruff, deep voice proclaimed.
Ana whirled around to find Warburton had entered the room while she’d been lost in Lulu’s paintings.
“You only read the first few chapters,” Ana replied.
“I should like to read the book in its entirety.”
“The only copy is with Norwood & Pennington, stuck in the purgatory of their submissions pile.”
“Then you must retrieve it,” said Lulu. “You have an eager readership awaiting. Perhaps you might find another publisher. And I shall illustrate it for you!”
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 behers. 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.”