Victoria settled deeper into the park bench and tipped her face up toward the sun. The April rays weren’t particularly strong, but the bright light brought her memories of last night—not this morning—into focus.
After an unladylike sprint home, she had scolded Arthur to within an inch of his life. Much as she loved him, he just might be the ruination of her. Then she’d spent an inordinate amount of time replaying that final minute in the duke’s entry hall.
When he’d displayed his full ducal glory.
He had black hair. Black hair atop his head, black hair scattered over his chest, and black hair angling down to his stomach and beyond. She hadn’t, of course, noted the color of his eyes. Other parts of him had been too prominently in her line of vision.
And when she could not stop contemplating that salacious image, she’d gathered up her supplies and headed here, to Hyde Park. The fresh air and sunshine had finally cleared her head.
Victoria balanced her sketchbook on her lap and put pencil to paper. With quick strokes she recreated scenes from the rout the night before. With much of her time spent observing at events like that, she often returned home and began drawing people she’d watched dancing or conversing. Sketching soothed her mind and gave her something to do—if Louisa hadn’t overwhelmed her with chores. Because she’d been up and about early in order to retrieve Arthur, she’d avoided the still slumbering Louisa today.
She put the finishing touches on one couple and tucked the drawing into the back of the book, along with dozens of others. The sketches served no purpose other than that she loved to draw people. They were meant for her and her alone. Not that Louisa or Mr. Browne or anyone else was clamoring to see them. He wasn’t interested in anything Victoria did and Louisa only cared about bullying Victoria.
She withdrew a fresh piece of paper and stared at the blank whiteness, trying to decide which of the frozen tableaus in her memory she should bring to life next. As her pencil began to move, she was dismayed to see the duke’s face begin to emerge. But once begun, she couldn’t seem to stop. The strong cords of his neck appeared and led to the formation of his banyan-covered shoulders. His bare chest, with that sprinkle of dark hair and well-formed muscles, came next, her strokes fast and furious. She added his arms, at an angle to his body as his hands rested on his hips. She faltered then, embarrassed to even think about drawing the rest of him.
Victoria wrenched her gaze away from the paper and surveyed the park. The leaves on the trees were tiny specks of green, barely ruffled by the gentle breeze. At this hour of the morning there weren’t many people out and about. A few governesses with small charges, men of the merchant class hurrying through on important business, a couple of servants, perhaps meeting clandestinely. Any other time, she might be tempted to draw one of them. Instead, the half-finished portrait of His Grace beckoned.
With a furtive glance around to make certain no one was near and a thick swallow, Victoria lowered her pencil. The illicit half of the duke flowed from the lead even as her cheeks heated. However, she didn’t stop working until every last toe on his bare feet was accounted for.
With a sharp breath in, she stared at her creation. She’d never know how accurate it was and truthfully, there was some vague shadowing in his... nether regions. But still, it was the most explicit sketch she had ever drawn. A spark of warmth blossomed in her lower stomach and her breasts tingled.
She had to destroy this. What had she been thinking?
Victoria raised her head, suddenly ashamed that she’d taken such liberties with a man she didn’t know. A duke, no less. He’d probably see her transported for it. If he ever found out. Which he wouldn’t.
She snatched the paper up just as a sudden gust of wind tore down the path. She pinched her fingers as tightly as possible and clutched the portrait to her chest. The sketchbook teetered off her lap and a number of the other loose-leaf sketches were lifted by the breeze and skittered down the path.
Drat it all. Fortunately, the duke was safely plastered against her bosom and there he would remain, no matter what. Victoria jumped up to retrieve as many pictures as she could with one hand.
“Here, miss, let me help.” A man hurried over and began picking up the sketches with all due speed.
“Oh...” She couldn’t think of any words. The only thought in her brain was to keep the imprudent picture hidden.
With a lithe nimbleness, the stranger scooped up every last one, even the runaway that had landed smack against a tree twenty feet away. As the man walked back, his gaze dropped to the pile of sketches he carried. He stopped and stared. For one unimaginable moment, Victoria feared she’d somehow let the duke go and the man now ogled His Grace’s nudity.
But no. The duke was still clutched to her breast, which really didn’t bear too much thought. So, what was the man looking at so intently?
“I say,” he broached as he resumed his approach, “is this Lady Maplethorp
e and Mr. Thomas Pemberton?” He flipped the paper around so Victoria could see it.
She knew without looking at it that it was. Well, it was nice to know her talent allowed such a quick identification of the principals. She nodded, still unsure her mouth could form words.
He stopped a respectable distance away and shuffled through the rest of her sketches. She should tell him to stop. He had no right to paw through her private drawings. Not that any of them, save the dear duke, were in any way lewd.
He looked up at her again. “These are quite well done.”
“Th-thank you.” There. The power of speech was returning.
“Your rendering of these individuals is remarkably accurate. Were you witness to these events or do you make them up?”
“I...” Victoria inhaled slowly, gathering herself together. “I do not know what you mean, sir.”
He plucked out one sheet, the original one of Lady Maplethorpe and Mr. Pemberton. “I mean, did you see these two people together?”
Alarm ripped through Victoria. Who was this man? Why did he want to know?
“I’m afraid I should be going. If you would kindly return my sketches?”