Page 27 of Married to the Icy Duke (Duke Wars #3)

Besides, the tragically bare room was rather pretty with all of the light streaming in, and dust motes dancing in the air.

By tomorrow, Perling and his vengeful fleet of housemaids would have descended upon the room, dusting and sweeping and mopping the place to within an inch of its life, until not a speck of dust remained. Now was her chance, then.

She began to paint the base layer, fighting to keep her thoughts cool and even. She would not think of Isaac, and the way he’d looked at her in his study. She would not think of his lips on hers, or his warm palm sliding down her side.

She flinched and left a brownish streak of paint across the canvas. She stared at the streak in annoyance.

The door creaked open, making her jump. Charlotte turned, quite expecting to see Perling or perhaps Sybella there.

Instead, she saw that it was Tommy.

Charlotte smiled. “Why, you little adventurer! You have escaped from poor Mary again, haven’t you?”

Tommy smiled shyly and nodded.

“Well, come over here, then. You can stay with me while I finish my work, and then we shall take you to the nursery. Would you like that?”

Charlotte held her breath, hoping for a whispered yes . Instead, Tommy only nodded happily. It would have to do. He came scampering over and stood beside Charlotte, leaning against her.

“I am not painting anything very exciting,” Charlotte explained, “but painting is a skill, like anything else. And that means, my dear, that you have to practice . Should you like to practice painting?”

She received an enthusiastic nod in response.

“Well, then, I shall teach you. You have to know all sorts of things about colors and light and the way different brushstrokes make things look differently. For example, if I move my brush like this, it looks as though the color is rippling, doesn’t it?

You might use that to paint the surface of some water.

But I can make a smooth, bold sweep of the brush to indicate something firmer, like the side of a cupboard or some such. Tell me, Tommy, which color is this?”

She glanced at him expectantly, and Tommy stared straight back. He did not speak, and Charlotte resisted the urge to press him. He could speak, that was true, and there was nothing wrong with his comprehension. So, it followed that he would speak when he was ready.

She continued painting and talking, half to herself and half to Tommy.

The picture began to take shape, roughly.

It was a person, a contrast to the room she’d painted before, but Charlotte was not entirely sure which person.

As always, she was led by her brush, and the painting seemed to paint itself.

She talked to him about the way the light changed the look of things, about how a certain color, when used in the correct way, could make something look like an entirely different color altogether. Whenever she glanced down at Tommy, he was standing very still, entirely absorbed, eyes wide.

He glanced up at her painting and beamed.

“Uncle!”

Charlotte beamed at him, reaching over to ruffle his hair.

“What a clever little boy you are!”

She glanced back at the canvas and blushed. The figure on the canvas was half-finished, with hours of work yet to go, but yes, it was undeniably Isaac’s figure. There was the glossy black hair, the eyepatch, that steely blue eye beside it.

Oh dear. What compelled me to paint that wretch?

Forcing herself to turn away from the canvas, Charlotte peered down at Tommy’s work.

On impulse, she dipped her brush in a rich, forest-green color and wrote Tommy’s name in sweeping script across the bottom of the canvas.

“Do you see that?” she whispered. “That’s your name. Can you say your name, Tommy?”

The little boy leaned forward, eyes bright, and pursed up his mouth.

He’s going to say his name, Charlotte thought, biting back a smile. I really am making progress. I can do this, can’t I? I can care for Tommy and not let his ridiculous, brooding uncle bother me at all. I can do it.

And then, quite abruptly, Tommy leaned too far forward and knocked the tin of paints off the table.

Time seemed to slow down. Charlotte grabbed for the tin and missed, only succeeding in knocking it against the table.

Paint splashed everywhere. There were reds, greens, yellows, a vibrant white and a pitch black, blues of all hues and everything in between.

The paint spilled out over the bare floorboards and splattered up the hem of Charlotte’s dress.

Gasping, she felt the clammy paint soak through to her skin.

It had gone all over her hands and wrists, and she could feel damp spots on her face, too.

Her half-finished picture was splattered with color now, too. Ruined, of course. She was almost laughing at the mess until she looked at her partner in crime.

Tommy backed away, his eyes wide, and pressed his hands over his mouth. He stared at the mess with large eyes and then glanced up at Charlotte, his lower lip quivering. He sucked in a hitching breath, opened his mouth, and managed one word.

“S-Sorry.”

Charlotte felt her heart drop into her stomach. She hurried over to him and dropped to her knees, cupping his face in her hands.

“My sweet boy, it was an accident! It was only an accident! Oh, you mustn’t look at me like that. I’m not angry at you. I’m not, I promise. It was a silly accident which could have happened to anybody.”

Tommy pushed out his lower lip, not convinced, and silently pointed to the paint striping her hands and arms, splattered across her dress.

“This will wash out, I’m sure of it,” Charlotte said firmly.

“And even if it doesn’t, I have a lot of dresses, haven’t I?

Don’t be so upset, my dear. Like I said, I am not angry.

Here, let me give you a hug. Oh, no, wait, I had better not, or you’ll get paint all over your nice clothes, and then Mary would be angry at us both, wouldn't she?”

She gave a small, conspiratorial smile and was relieved to see an answering smile creep over Isaac’s face. He giggled, a little uncertainly, and Charlotte beamed back at him.

“Well, shall we take you up to the nursery, before poor Mary starts to panic?”

He nodded, and Charlotte got to her feet and took his hand.

“And after that,” she told him, “I shall need a good, long, hot bath. I shall ask Perling to draw one for me at once, I think.”

Tommy giggled again.