Anna Campbell: What a Duke Dares

“I think in his way, he did.” Cam stared at the picture, reverently tracing its lines. All hint of teasing had vanished. He looked like the man who had begged her to stay, vulnerable and passionate and so dear. “You can see it.”

“I can see love, but it’s my love for you,” she whispered, touching the graceful curve of the girl’s naked shoulder. “What do you see?”

For a long time, Cam studied the beautiful woman in the Goya portrait and then the beautiful woman who, praise all the angels, was his wife. As she’d said with her usual perception, the love was clear to see. In both versions of Penelope Rothermere.

Cam hadn’t realized until the painting arrived today that he’d proffered mere gold for something beyond price. A late masterpiece from a transcendent artist. A glimpse at Penelope in those years when she’d been lost to Cam.

He still shuddered to think that if chance had played differently, she might never have worked her way back to him.

“I see a lovely girl,” he said slowly.

She glanced at him. “You’re not shocked? After all, I’m one fur stole away from naked.”

He shrugged. “Only a prurient mind would see sin here.”

In the days when Pen’s escapades had tormented him with jealousy, he’d devoted too much time to imagining the wanton images on this canvas. But despite the amount of perfect white skin displayed against the shadowy background, the woman radiated an innocence that vanquished criticism. If Cam had seen this portrait before he’d married Pen, her virginity wouldn’t have been a surprise.

Pen kept her back to the viewer. Sable draped diagonally from one upper arm to her hips, baring her to the small of her back. She’d drawn her black hair in a rope across her shoulder to reveal the tender nape of her neck.

She turned to stare out of the frame, eyes huge and glowing, lips parted on a breath. The old painter had caught so much of Penelope. Her defiance. Her intelligence. Her sweetness.

And something else.

“Look at the painting.”

With a puzzled frown, she obeyed. “What is it?”

Cam stared unwaveringly at the real Pen, curling his arm around her shoulders. “What do you see?”

Pen took a long time to answer. “I see a woman in love. Isn’t that what you see?”

“Yes.”

“I wasn’t in love with Goya.”

“No, you were in love with me.” He said it without gloating, although her love always made him feel like the luckiest devil alive. “What else?”

He felt her start as she saw it. “The girl in the painting is in love, but she has no hope of happiness.”

“That’s it,” he said on a long hiss of satisfaction that she understood.

The shining eyes of the girl in the portrait were sad. How had Goya captured the truth hidden from Cam until it was almost too late? A mystery of genius, he supposed. But the great Spanish painter had known that Penelope Thorne was young and beautiful and brimming with spirit. And desperately in love with someone who didn’t care.

Cam crossed to the dressing table to retrieve the heavy silver mirror from his mother’s brush set. He returned to Pen’s side. “Look in the mirror.”

For a long time, Pen stared at her reflection. Then she turned unsmiling to Cam. “Now I know what it is to love and be loved.”

“You do.” He paused. “I’ll love you forever.”

Her eyes glistened with tears. “And I have loved you forever.”

He stepped behind her and laced his arms around her thickened waist. He adored this fecund, round version of Penelope. There was something so earthy and sensuous about her. “I’m so happy that you married me.”

The wry smile contrasted with the moisture brightening her eyes. “I’m happy that I married a man who can give me a Goya painting with a mere flick of his fingers.”

He laughed. “I’ll need to come up with something even more spectacular next Christmas.”

“You will at that.” She placed her hands over his where they linked across her belly. “If you hang the portrait, you’ll shock the neighbors.”

“This painting belongs here.” He smiled. “Your bedroom will soon rival the Royal Academy, my love.”

She choked back a laugh. “So we’ll only shock the servants.”

“I suspect by now the servants are past shocking.” While yet to catch their employers in flagrante delicto , the Rothermere staff must be perfectly aware of the duke and duchess’s insatiable passions.

Pen turned to face Cam, twining her arms around his neck. She rose on her toes and kissed him tenderly. “Thank you, my darling. I love my Christmas present.” The emotion that hovered just behind the teasing thickened her voice. “I love the woman I’ve become since you made me your wife. That girl was sad and lonely and unfulfilled, and you’ve given me so much joy.”

“Oh, my darling,” he whispered, too moved to say more. But when he kissed her this time, hunger mixed with tenderness.

Pen pressed against him with another broken laugh. “Oh, dear, Your Grace, we may be due to shock the servants all over again.”

Always a voracious reader, Anna Campbell decided when she was a child that she wanted to be a writer. Once she discovered the wonderful world of romance novels, she knew exactly what she wanted to write. Anna has won numerous awards for her historical romances, including the RT Book Reviews Reviewers’ Choice, the Booksellers’ Best, the Golden Quill (three times), the Heart of Excellence, the Aspen Gold (twice), and the Australian Romance Readers Association’s most popular historical romance (five times). Her books have been nominated three times for Romance Writers of America’s prestigious RITA Award and three times for Romance Writers of Australia’s Romantic Book of the Year.

When she’s not writing passionate, intense stories featuring gorgeous Regency heroes and the women who are their destiny, Anna loves to travel, especially in the United Kingdom, and listen to all kinds of music. She lives near the sea on the east coast of Australia, where she’s losing her battle with an overgrown subtropical garden.

You can learn more at:

AnnaCampbell.info

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