The Art of Catching a Duke by Bronwyn Scott

Author:Bronwyn Scott
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Harlequin
Published: 2023-03-03T13:13:05+00:00

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Gwen had the studio ready for the work of the afternoon—that work being Dev’s visit. She toyed with the new pencils, their flat tips awaiting the sharp refinement of her penknife beside the fresh pad of sketching paper, acutely aware that the thrill of anticipation running through her now at the prospect of the upcoming appointment had less to do with the new art supplies than it had to do with her client himself. A very disturbing thought indeed, and one worthy of reflection given the events of two nights ago.

She reached for the penknife and began to sharpen the pencils. Usually, the excitement she attached to the beginning of a project was attributed to new supplies—a pristine page, the crisp, sharp tip of an unused pencil, both of which represented the endless possibilities always present at the start before she second-guessed the line of a nose or the tilt of a head. ‘La petite lune de miel...‘the little honeymoon,’ Christophe had laughingly called it, that point in a painting where perfection whispered its promise before the war between paper, paint and artist began.

The penknife in her hand slowed its motion. She could almost hear Christophe’s voice as if he were in the room. ‘Painting is like a marriage,’ he would say, a twinkle in his eyes. ‘Sometimes a beautiful dance, sometimes a heated fight.’ Then, he would give a shrug of his shoulder. ‘Like you and me, my darling.’ He would draw her to him and painting would be forgotten for a while.

They did indeed have their fights. They’d fought over her art—she didn’t like his interference, his bossiness about how she ought to portray a subject; they fought over money and how to spend it. He was far less frugal than she was, having been raised in a wealthier household where he hadn’t had to economise; they’d quarrelled over the home in Florence, a place she felt stretched their budget too far in the early days when they were newly wed and not yet established there. But it had all worked out in the end.

She set down the penknife and wiped at a tear. Those fights, which had seemed so important in the moment, seemed a waste of time, ridiculous and petty even given what she knew now. In hindsight, knowing the shortness of their days together, she would not have begrudged him a single suggestion about her art, a single new waistcoat, or an expensive present bought spontaneously. Gwen fingered the delicate links of the gold necklace at her throat, a beautifully wrought piece Christophe had bought her for no reason except that he loved her.

‘A beautiful woman should have beautiful things,’ he’d said.

He’d seen it in a jeweller’s window on the Ponte Vecchio one evening on his way home from Santo Spirito where he’d just won a commission for a new mural.

Gwen pushed the memory away, but gently so, as she reached for another pencil to sharpen. She knew why these memories were surfacing. They were her defences, her best defences, against the recklessness of loving.

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