had he discovered her true identity and purpose, dead. Decapitated most likely, and ripped limb from limb.
A ragged breath escaped and she rolled back her shoulders. She wouldn’t think of her task now. This was a precious interlude in her existence and even though she’d lost the wager, perhaps the duke would still extend her the courtesy of respect. Certainly, he didn’t expect her to remain naked and reduced to wrapping bed sheets about herself, a horrific scenario she had envisioned after he’d stormed from the room earlier.
Neither had he demanded she remain in this room. Why shouldn’t she leave? She wanted to see where he had taken her. And so she pulled open the heavy oak door and left her prison.
His home was splendid. She could think of no other word to describe the richness of the décor and the elegance of the antique furnishings that perfectly suited the Elizabethan residence. But this was no fashionable townhouse. Unease wove through her mind at the implication. How far from London had he taken her? How long before Thanatos found her?
The grand staircase curved to the ground floor and she lightly trailed her fingers over the gleaming timber of the banister. Glittering chandeliers cascaded from the exquisitely painted ceilings and numerous portraits of long-dead ancestors adorned the walls. At the foot, she paused, her glance snagging on a full-length frame along the hall, the subject of whom she couldn’t quite make out.
Slowly she walked toward it, glancing at the stern gentlemen and unsmiling ladies who peered down at her from within their ornate frames, as if displeased by her presence in their ancestral home.
And then she froze. The life-size portrait of the young woman was so unlike any of the others she had passed, it was as though the sun had suddenly risen on a dark horizon, splintering the ever-present threat of death and shadows and filling the world with laughter and light.
A soundless laugh puffed between her lips at her folly. It was just a painting. But what a painting. The beautiful woman, with hair the color of gold, that rippled in an invisible breeze, and eyes as blue as the warmest ocean, radiated joy and her enchanting smile captivated.
She leaned against a cream Corinthian column, and her pale-blue gown clung to her curves in silken seduction. A chill shivered through Morana’s soul as the details clicked into place.
This woman’s gown was fashioned along the most exquisite of Grecian lines. A breathtaking recreation of a couture that had faded more than two thousand years ago. She looked so alive, so vibrant, so in love.
The food Morana had eaten that afternoon churned as distaste plowed through her. Was this the duke’s bride? How could she be anyone else? There were no similarities in features to suggest she was his sister, and her place of honor here where none could miss her pointed to only one thing.
She was the current Duchess of Havenshire.
Morana took a deep breath, exhaled slowly. Had she truly imagined the duke to be unmarried? Men of his class thought nothing of being unfaithful to their wives. And she knew he was proud, knew he was arrogant. He was the perfect example of a man of his time.
The knowledge sickened her. Where had he sequestered this golden vision while he entertained her at his ancestral estate?
Silence echoed. She scrutinized the portrait, unwillingly admiring the elegant tilt of jaw and expressive hands.
And then she saw the artist’s signature. Ice drilled through her heart and she leaned forward, unable to believe the evidence of her eyes but it was there, no mistake.
Van Dyck.
The portrait had been painted more than one hundred and eighty years ago. So why was this heavenly creature, dressed as a Greek goddess, displayed in the midst of her Georgian descendants? Why wasn’t she with her seventeenth-century Stuart contemporaries?
“Good evening, Morana.”
The duke’s dark whiskey voice penetrated her thoughts and she spun
A ragged breath escaped and she rolled back her shoulders. She wouldn’t think of her task now. This was a precious interlude in her existence and even though she’d lost the wager, perhaps the duke would still extend her the courtesy of respect. Certainly, he didn’t expect her to remain naked and reduced to wrapping bed sheets about herself, a horrific scenario she had envisioned after he’d stormed from the room earlier.
Neither had he demanded she remain in this room. Why shouldn’t she leave? She wanted to see where he had taken her. And so she pulled open the heavy oak door and left her prison.
His home was splendid. She could think of no other word to describe the richness of the décor and the elegance of the antique furnishings that perfectly suited the Elizabethan residence. But this was no fashionable townhouse. Unease wove through her mind at the implication. How far from London had he taken her? How long before Thanatos found her?
The grand staircase curved to the ground floor and she lightly trailed her fingers over the gleaming timber of the banister. Glittering chandeliers cascaded from the exquisitely painted ceilings and numerous portraits of long-dead ancestors adorned the walls. At the foot, she paused, her glance snagging on a full-length frame along the hall, the subject of whom she couldn’t quite make out.
Slowly she walked toward it, glancing at the stern gentlemen and unsmiling ladies who peered down at her from within their ornate frames, as if displeased by her presence in their ancestral home.
And then she froze. The life-size portrait of the young woman was so unlike any of the others she had passed, it was as though the sun had suddenly risen on a dark horizon, splintering the ever-present threat of death and shadows and filling the world with laughter and light.
A soundless laugh puffed between her lips at her folly. It was just a painting. But what a painting. The beautiful woman, with hair the color of gold, that rippled in an invisible breeze, and eyes as blue as the warmest ocean, radiated joy and her enchanting smile captivated.
She leaned against a cream Corinthian column, and her pale-blue gown clung to her curves in silken seduction. A chill shivered through Morana’s soul as the details clicked into place.
This woman’s gown was fashioned along the most exquisite of Grecian lines. A breathtaking recreation of a couture that had faded more than two thousand years ago. She looked so alive, so vibrant, so in love.
The food Morana had eaten that afternoon churned as distaste plowed through her. Was this the duke’s bride? How could she be anyone else? There were no similarities in features to suggest she was his sister, and her place of honor here where none could miss her pointed to only one thing.
She was the current Duchess of Havenshire.
Morana took a deep breath, exhaled slowly. Had she truly imagined the duke to be unmarried? Men of his class thought nothing of being unfaithful to their wives. And she knew he was proud, knew he was arrogant. He was the perfect example of a man of his time.
The knowledge sickened her. Where had he sequestered this golden vision while he entertained her at his ancestral estate?
Silence echoed. She scrutinized the portrait, unwillingly admiring the elegant tilt of jaw and expressive hands.
And then she saw the artist’s signature. Ice drilled through her heart and she leaned forward, unable to believe the evidence of her eyes but it was there, no mistake.
Van Dyck.
The portrait had been painted more than one hundred and eighty years ago. So why was this heavenly creature, dressed as a Greek goddess, displayed in the midst of her Georgian descendants? Why wasn’t she with her seventeenth-century Stuart contemporaries?
“Good evening, Morana.”
The duke’s dark whiskey voice penetrated her thoughts and she spun
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