The Art of Stealing a Duke’s Heart by Ellie St. Clair

Chapter 11

Calli thanked the duke, grateful that the dinner was over, as wondrous as the food had been.

The cook in London was excellent, of course, but Calli had never before experienced a feast as she’d just had. She had caught the duke staring at her after she had stuffed the dessert in her mouth, leaving her a slight bit ashamed over how gluttonous she must have appeared.

Between that and the fact that she clearly had no idea how to properly address such a meal, it was a wonder that he could even look at her, so obviously did adhering to such things appear important to him.

She settled the children into bed, a feat made difficult from their exuberance over the meal with their uncle and the sugar they had imbibed at the end of it.

Finally, mercifully, after insisting on more than one tall tale, they were sleeping, and Calli returned to her room, eager to spread out her canvas and get to work.

Only to find that she couldn’t seem to sit still.

Perhaps she had eaten far too much sugar herself. Perhaps the duke’s questions were nagging at her, unsettling her. Or perhaps she was too curious about just what was held in those secret rooms of his.

She opened her bag and found, at the bottom, the small kit that one of her siblings had packed for her. Only her family would consider a lock picking kit an essential item.

Calli opened the door, finding the corridor blessedly empty. She had no idea how much staff was employed here in the country home, but it seemed quite a small contingent for such a large house. The duke must not spend much time here.

She hurried up the stairs to the third floor, soon finding herself in front of the door. Her heart pounded, knowing she had no business being here, but finding herself overwhelmed with curiosity. It wasn’t as though she was going to do anything with whatever she found, she told herself, even though she could practically hear Arie’s voice in her head as she crouched in front of the door. She just wanted to have a look, to see what other masters could be lurking within.

She had never been the best lock picker. That had been one of Xander’s specialties, which meant she didn’t often have any reason to utilize such a skill. Arie had made them all practice, however, and Calli couldn’t help but let out a small, triumphant, “yes!” of a whisper when she heard the lock click in the mechanism.

She stood and took the doorknob in her hand, but just as she turned it, she was suddenly snatched up from behind.

“Help!” she tried to cry out, even as a hand clamped over her mouth. She attempted to bite down on it, but strong arms held her firm.

“Miss Donahue,” came a low, soft yet steely voice in her ear. “Looking for something?”

The arms loosened just enough to allow her to turn within them, and she found herself face to face with the duke. His expression was, well… slightly murderous.

“Your Grace,” she managed. “How… unlikely to see you here.”

“This is my home,” he said through near-clenched teeth. “I believe I have the right to go where I’d like. As we have discussed before.”

“Of course,” she murmured, even as she wiggled in his embrace in an attempt to back away.

“And what,” he bit out, “might you be doing?”

“I…” she tried to look around him, but he was too close, held her too tight. “I’m sorry, Your Grace,” she near whispered. “I was just curious.”

“I do hope that lock picking is not a skill that you plan on teaching the children.”

“Of course not,” she said, looking down at his chest, unable to meet his eyes anymore. “My sister often locked me out of our bedroom, so I learned as a child how to allow myself entry.”

“I see,” he said, his grip loosening slightly, although his eyes didn’t lose their suspicion. “Well, Miss Donahue, you want to see what’s within? Go ahead.”

He released her so suddenly she nearly fell, and he gestured in front of him. As much as she would have liked to turn around and run for her room, Calli found that she most certainly could not back away now, and she took a hesitant step through the door.

Only to find Aladdin’s cave awaiting.

* * *

Jonathan knewthat he should be irate at finding her here.

Snooping. Spying. Prying.

She had no business being here. In this room. In his home. In his life.

But he couldn’t force her out of this house any more than he could from the imaginings that wouldn’t leave him. As soon as he’d found her, he should have sent her on her way, at least back to bed if not out of this house and his employ completely. And yet, instead, here he was, inviting her into his sanctuary.

“Oh, Your Grace,” she said, a hitch in her voice. “This is… this is…”

He smirked at her loss of words. He hardly showed anyone this room. It hadn’t always been locked. But with the children in residence, he had been worried that they would mistake the long gallery for a place they could run amok, and so had decided that it might be in his best interests to keep it locked.

It seemed there was someone else who found the room captivating.

“How did you come to discover your passion for art?” Jonathan asked quietly, watching the rapture on Miss Donahue’s face as it danced over the paintings that adorned the tall walls from ceiling to floor.

She took a few steps into the room, her hand hovering overtop of one of the sculptures that stood atop a pillar. “May I?” she asked quietly, and at his nod, she ran her hand reverently over the top of the bald man’s head.

Suddenly Jonathan had a sudden wish to be a statue.

“I suppose I first fell in love with the paintings I saw in my brother’s collections, which he acquired for clients,” she said as she began to wander around the room, taking a closer look at the paintings he had collected over the past ten years. “I asked for paints, and soon found myself nearly obsessed with it. I always wanted to be better. One of the only ways I discovered I could do so was to study those who were considered the masters. I was always searching for more, wanting to learn more, discover more. My glimpses of valuable work is fleeting, and I don’t have much access to the masterpieces themselves, but I try to take advantage when I have the opportunity.”

“Well, now you do,” Jonathan said. “You are welcome to visit this room anytime you’d like.”

“Really?” she whirled around, her skirts flying about her so quickly that she nearly knocked over one of the marble pillars and she had to reach out to right it. “Are you sure? You don’t have to. I—”

“Of course I don’t have to,” he said, straightening. “I can do as I please.”

“Of course,” she said, but she was so far across the room from him now that he wasn’t sure whether she was mocking him or agreeing with him.

He began to cross the room toward her, indescribably drawn to her.

She was stopped in front of a Peter Paul Rubens.

“What do you think?” he asked, coming to stand next to her shoulder to shoulder as she stared at it.

“It’s… thought-provoking,” she said, her eyes glinting as she turned her head at an angle to better study it. Jonathan tried to see it through her eyes, but he was having a difficult time looking away from her. She was a picture of beauty in and of herself. So vibrant, so stunning, so full of life.

She wore her every thought on her face, and he wished he could find such an open honesty in himself.

“In what way?” he asked.

“You can tell the love depicted between the pair of them,” she said, tilting her head, becoming lost in the painting. “There is honeysuckle — meaning love and lightness.”

He swallowed, thinking of her own scent.

“He seems to be protecting her, guarding her, while the painting is so neat and orderly, as though their life is as well,” she continued.

“It is a self-portrait, of the artist and his wife,” Jonathan said softly. “You are a critic, Miss Donahue.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” she shook her head as her cheeks turned pink. “I could never criticize someone so masterful.”

“That’s not what I meant,” he said gently, not wanting to insult her. “I only meant that you see things others don’t see, have a way of looking at the painting with an eye for detail, for emotion that most others would miss.”

“Thank you.” She dipped her head. “How do you come by all of these paintings?”

“Most of them through auction,” he said as they continued on walking around the room, skirting the few chairs that dotted it. “Usually when some other bastard — excuse me — has lost his fortune and needs to sell them or when his estate has been forfeited to pay his debts.”

“That’s sad.”

“It is,” he agreed, “But it usually was due to a choice he made. To try to win his fortune at the gambling tables as opposed to hard work.”

She turned to him, her eyes wide and serious. “Do you never gamble?”

“I do not.”

She smiled then as she studied him. “No,” she said, although she nodded as if in agreement. “You most certainly do not strike me as the gambling type.”

“Meaning?”

“You see to be a man who enjoys certainty. Gambling is anything but.”

“And you, Miss Donahue?”

“Oh, I don’t have much opportunity to gamble. If I did… well, I suppose it would just be for a bit of fun.”

“Fair enough,” he said as they nearly completed their tour of the room.

“And just how did a man like you come to be so interested in art?” she asked, facing him with her head tilted to the side, a few thick black curls dangling from her temple. In most women, it would have been a deliberate style, but Jonathan had the feeling that for her, this was just how they fell, so naturally seductive, as was the rest of her.

“When I first became duke, I was a young man. Far too young. My father had not yet taught me all that I required. It was a heavy burden of responsibility.” Jonathan stopped for a moment, having no idea why he was telling her all of this, but it seemed that once the words had started to flow, he couldn’t hold them back. “I did my best, but I trusted the wrong people. There was a… family friend. I thought we had an understanding, in more ways than one.” He wasn’t quite ready to share that particular story. “Anyway, I was taken advantage of. From that day on, I vowed to make my own way in the world. The last thing I ever thought I would find some relief in was art, but I found myself visiting this room, filled with many of my grandmother’s paintings. She also loved to paint herself. Being here brought me a strange sense of peace and joy I couldn’t find anywhere else. So I kept collecting. Until we have this today.”

Miss Donahue was staring at him as though he had grown a second head.

“What?” he asked gruffly, and she shook her head slightly in wonderment.

“I don’t think I have ever heard you utter so many words at one point in time.”

He laughed ruefully at that. “You are likely right.”

“You should laugh more,” she said, her eyes darkening as she smiled at him.

“Why?”

“Why not? Your entire face lights up,” she said. “Do you not feel that same light in here when you do?”

She pointed to his chest, her finger nearly touching the front of his jacket.

“I suppose I feel something like that,” he said slowly, not wanting to give her too much of himself.

She began to drop her finger, but before he could even think about what he was doing, he reached out and caught her gloveless hand in his.

She stilled, staring at their clasped hands in front of them.

“Miss Donahue,” he said, his voice soft and low, but before he could continue, she reached up her other hand between them, holding it in the air to stop him.

“Calli.”

“Pardon me?”

“Calli,” she said, lifting her eyes to look up at him imploringly. “My name is Calli. You can use it… if you’d like.”

“Calli,” he repeated her, enjoying the roll of her name on his lips.

“Short for Calliope,” she said, her eyes still on the wall of his chest in front of her.

“It suits you.”

“Better than Miss Donahue?” she asked, a sad, rueful smile on her lips that he didn’t quite understand.

“In moments like this, when it is just the two of us… it feels much more appropriate.”

He bent his head closer to her, naturally inhaling the scent of honeysuckle that radiated from her. She was flowers and spring, light and love, everything that was missing in his life, everything that he didn’t need — nor want.

Yet here she was.

“Your Grace…”

“Jonathan. If I am to call you Calli, I suppose you may call me by my given name as well. When the children are not about.”

“Jonathan,” she said, looking up at him with warm eyes, and Jonathan had to admit that he had never heard his name upon lips so sweet before. “It is a lovely name.”

This dance had been going on long enough. Before he could think any further on what he was doing or whether or not it was a good idea by any means, he leaned in and took those lips that were just begging for his kiss.

Calli stiffened for a moment in his embrace, as though she was in shock, but after a moment she relaxed into him, her lips moving under his, answering his every inquiry with a reply that told him she was equally as curious yet also as hesitant as he was.

But to hell with those questions, Jonathan thought before he let all thoughts flee, continuing his exploration.

She unclasped her hand from his, only to twine it with her own around the back of his neck, pulling him down closer, answering him with all of the enthusiasm he knew she would possess deep within her. He hesitantly reached out, clasping his hands around her waist. He was most certainly not a timid man, especially with women, but there was still that question as to whether or not he should be doing this with the woman he had hired as his governess.

But it seemed it was too late to back down now.

His fingers wandered of their own accord to wrap around her voluptuous hips, the ones he had been watching every time she walked out of a room. He deepened the kiss, slanting his mouth over hers until she opened to him, allowing his tongue inside to meet hers.

As much as she appeared the sultry vixen, it seemed that her sexiness was innate rather than practiced, for he could sense her innocence, which only fueled his desire for her. She was not, however, a woman who would ever back down, as evidenced by the way she met his strokes and tangled her tongue with his in a manner he would very much like to continue beyond the meeting of their mouths.

The thought was nearly enough to pull him from her embrace, until she pushed her ample breasts against him, and he was nearly a man lost. He broke from her, nipping her earlobe, kissing her neck, finding the pulse in her throat. How much he longed to continue the exploration, to push down the bodice of her gown, to throw her back against one of the plush velvet chairs in the corner of the room, to see what she looked like without all of the layers of her cheap clothing between them.

But he didn’t. He couldn’t. As much as every part of him was aching to do so.

It took every ounce of control he had worked on through his life — and he had built up quite a storage — to slowly pull himself back, away from the siren who seemed to break through his every defense and try to engrain herself deep within him. He placed one final kiss on the top of her head as though she were a child before he stepped back, turning around away from her, so that he didn’t have to see her rosy cheeks nor her mussed hair nor her swollen lips — from his kisses.

“Jonathan?” she said softly from behind him as he ran a hand through his hair. “Are you all right?”

He barked out a laugh. He had never been better — had never felt more alive nor emboldened.

And yet he had also never been so completely out of control. This was madness.

“I apologize, Miss Donahue,” he said, hearing the formality in his words, knowing how harsh and cruel they must sound to her. “I shouldn’t have done that.”

He heard her approach before he felt her hand tentatively touch his shoulder and he had to work not to flinch.

“Please, call me Calli,” she said. “And never apologize for something like that. It was glorious.”

She stepped around him, her feet hardly making a sound as she padded toward the door.

She turned and fixed her wide, direct gaze upon him.

“Thank you, Jonathan. For everything.”

And at that, she was gone, slipping out into the corridor and leaving him in utter chaos.