Page 39 of Married to the Icy Duke (Duke Wars #3)
“Hands,” he said clearly, and Isaac paused, taken aback.
He still felt breathless and giddy with happiness whenever Tommy said a single word.
Then Tommy waved his tiny, paint-covered palms and pressed them firmly to the canvas.
It left a neat little hand-shaped imprint, one in blue, and one in yellow.
“It looks as though finger-painting is the order of the day,” Charlotte said, laughing. “I think he wants you to join in.”
Isaac hesitated, glancing down at his palms. He imagined thick, gloopy paint dripping from his fingers, possibly staining his cuffs, and getting ingrained into the lines of his hands.
“I must confess, I do not enjoy too much mess,” he murmured. “Why don’t you do it?”
“Because your nephew wants you , Isaac,” Charlotte responded, focused on her painting. “It’s your choice, of course.”
Glancing down at the tray of paints, Isaac drew in a deep breath.
“Just a moment,” he murmured. Stripping off his jacket, he tossed it aside and carefully rolled up his sleeves. Before he could change his mind, he plunged his hands, palm down, into a tray of red and black paint, respectively. Then he lifted them, hastily pressing both hands to the canvas.
Tommy gave a squeal of delight, clapping his hands. Isaac gingerly removed his hands, revealing a rather good imprint of his hands, besides Tommy’s much smaller ones. Glancing up, he found that Charlotte was laughing to herself.
“You are amused,” he stated, lifting an eyebrow.
“I certainly am,” she chuckled. “The infamous Duke of Arkley, hater of mess and untidiness, finger-painting. The look on your face … well, it was clear that you were not enjoying it.”
“I still am not,” Isaac sighed, inspecting his paint-coated palms.
“Well, we will keep this canvas.”
He blinked, surprised. “We’re keeping it?”
She shot him a look. “Of course. This is Tommy’s first proper painting. It has his handprints on it, and yours. This is a very precious work.”
A precious work. Isaac had not thought of that. He nodded, swallowing tightly.
Tommy had resumed painting quite eagerly, but Isaac noticed that the little boy was careful not to smudge or paint over any of the handprints.
“When I was small,” Charlotte murmured, her voice quiet and her gaze still fixed on her own work, “My Papa would keep all of my paintings. Even the not-so-good ones. He used to insist upon displaying them. After he … After he died, they were all taken down. I have no idea what was done with them. Destroyed, I imagine.”
A taut silence followed this speech. Isaac knew the story, of course. For a long time, Society had believed one version of the story, only to have the truth come out not so long ago.
“Was it true?” he murmured, in the silence which followed. “That your mother and her lover schemed to have your father killed?”
She was silent for a long moment, long enough for Isaac to think that she would not respond.
“Yes,” Charlotte whispered at last. “At the time, it was all straightforward. My father challenged that man to a duel, and he was killed. Everybody thought that it was the end of the story. My father’s hotheadedness killed him.
Nobody knew that it was a ruse. A set-up, if you will.
I believed it too, you know. The night before Papa’s duel, I begged him not to go, but he would not listen.
I grew angry at him. And I suppose I got used to my stepfather and my mother’s sudden change in attitude.
Now, however, I feel … I feel foolish beyond words for trusting them. ”
“You shouldn't feel foolish,” Isaac found himself saying.
He could not tear his eyes away from her profile.
Outside, lavender-hued twilight fell over the ground, and the golden-purple light drifted over Charlotte, giving her a sort of glow which took his breath away.
“None of it is your fault. Besides, you cannot be blamed for thinking the best of people. I happen to know that the truth about your father was very well hidden, and your brother had to work very hard to dig it all up. How were you to have known?”
Charlotte bit her lip and finally glanced over at him. When their eyes met, Isaac felt his chest constrict.
Could this be more than plain desire?
No, no, surely not. I cannot let myself consider that prospect, not even for an instant. Because if I have more than a passing affection for her, what will that mean for me? For us ?
And then, quite abruptly, Tommy sat back with a sigh and clapped his paint-splattered hands together.
“He’s finished, I think,” Charlotte said, smiling. “We should take him back to the nursery for a good bath.”
“I think so,” Isaac responded, keeping his voice brisk. His heart still pounded, and he felt almost dizzy, but he was determined to plow through those physical sensations. “Are you ready for a bath, little man?”
Tommy nodded, his eyes suddenly heavy with tiredness. He held out his arms to Isaac, wanting to be picked up, and Isaac felt a prickling of affection deep inside him. He swept up the little boy, not caring about the painted handprints on his shoulders.
“Goodnight, Papa,” Tommy whispered, so quietly that Isaac almost did not hear him. Flinching, he glanced at Charlotte. Her eyes were wide, and he knew at once that she’d heard it, too.
“N-No, Tommy, dearest,” Isaac whispered, cradling the little boy. “I am your Uncle. I am Uncle Isaac.”
Tommy shook his head drowsily.
“Papa,” he mumbled, then began to snore ever so slightly.
Biting his lip and avoiding Charlotte’s stare, Isaac turned and left the room, holding his nephew close.
He thinks I am his Papa. He loves me like a father, Isaac thought, biting back a wide smile. I won’t let him forget his real parents, but this … This means more than I ever thought it would.
I have done it.