A Duke’s Lustful Portrait (Preview)

Prologue

“Good Lord, Arabella,” her father said as he held the painting at arm’s length. “I didn’t realize you had such a talent. No wonder your grandmother begged me to come and see it.”

Lady Arabella Sinclair, daughter to the Duke of Westment, grinned. It was rare that he even attended her, let alone complimented her. 

“You see,” her grandmother said, beaming at the young lady. “I told you she was good.”

Edward Sinclair returned the painting to the easel and nodded. The old man had long turned gray, his face lined with wrinkles. He looked after himself well, though. He was slim of figure and muscular in strength, and thanks to his army of servants, he kept himself well-groomed. 

At ten-and-seven years of age, Arabella still admired him, craving his love and affection. He was, in some ways, cold and cruel, keeping her locked up in the house and very rarely visiting. But she had her grandmother, Priscilla, and she would soon debut in London’s society. Then, she would be free. After all, her father would want her to find a good match, would he not? And she would be in with a good chance, as beautiful as she was. 

The man stood back, examining the painting with his chin resting in his hand. He shook his head. “Such an intense study of the human form, Arabella. It’s almost unbelievable that you are such an innocent young lady.”

Arabella let out a snort of amusement. “How could I be anything but, Father? When you keep me locked up in this house?”

“But not for much longer,” her grandmother said, squeezing her shoulders from behind. “Next year, you’ll come out into society like a butterfly finding its wings. Oh, it’s going to be beautiful, Arabella dear.”

Edward merely grunted, shooting his mother a poisoned look. Arabella felt Priscilla shrink away from her, taking a seat at the card table just beyond the easel. The truth was that Arabella was innocent physically, but even at such a sweet, young age, her mind had begun to wander. She had watched all the servants—from the butler to the stable hands—curious about their bodies and how they moved. From the secrecy of her bedchamber, she had watched from the window as the gardeners had shed their shirts in the summer heat, and she had sketched their form, daydreaming of one day being able to trace such bodies with her fingertips. 

It was, of course, merely an artistic curiosity. Or, at least, that’s what she told herself. Even now, at such a tender age, she had allowed herself to imagine what it would be like to be in the arms of a man, and it was these imaginings that had led her to develop such a talent. She loved to paint, a hobby encouraged by her grandmother and driven by her secret passions, and she would paint anything from landscapes to portraits. But her secret, inner desires, and sensual nature expressed on canvas made the paintings so overwhelmingly beautiful. 

The duke sat at the table, still seemingly lost in thought. 

“Would you like some tea, Father?” Arabella asked, ever eager to please him. Perhaps if she made him happy, he would spend more time in her presence than in the arms of lovers and ladies of the night. He had become lost to her when her mother had died all those years ago. 

“Hmm.” 

She nodded to the maid, and as she did so, he whirled around to face her so fast that she jumped, startled. His eyes were bright with an idea, and she felt herself tense. 

“You know, Arabella, I think you are so talented that perhaps we ought to show off this new skill of yours.”

“Edward,” Priscilla warned, glaring at him. “What are you suggesting?”

He shot her another dark glance, which Arabella ignored. She knew they had something of a tumultuous relationship, her grandmother always urging her to stay away from her father, but she didn’t know why. All she knew was that Priscilla thought him dangerous, and she often blamed herself as his mother. 

“Was I talking to you, old woman?” he demanded. Priscilla shrank away once more, attempting to lighten the mood. Arabella spoke with a bright and loud voice. 

“Do you think other people would like my art?” she asked. “I think the one of Hampstead Heath is my favourite.”

“No, no,” Edward said, shaking his head. “No one cares much for scenic imagery. No, it’s the ones of the human form I’m most interested in, Arabella.”

“Surely we couldn’t show people those,” she said, feeling the heat in her cheeks as she glanced over at the painting of the gardener she had completed just a few days before. 

There was nothing expressly risqué about it, as such. It portrayed a man at work and nothing more. But there was something about how his thick arms glistened in the sunlight, his muscles popped as he worked, and how he looked—dark and brooding. There was something sensual in the image, something indelicate she had captured without even meaning to. It was all the more evident now as she watched her father staring at it, and she felt embarrassed as if he were seeing into her carnal thoughts. 

“Perhaps, Arabella,” he said without taking his eyes from the painting, “you’d be intrigued to paint real models? In the flesh? I’m certain I know a few people who would jump at the chance of having such exquisite portraits, and it may allow you to explore the human form a little further.”

Arabella sat back, shocked at her father’s words. Her cheeks flushed an even deeper red, and he laughed as he looked back at her. 

Surely he is not suggesting …?

“Goodness, nothing like that! If anything, I’d wager your purity and innocence make you such a wonderful artist. I meant to explore it in painting form only. I’m sure you would like to develop your skill further.”

“But I … I …” Arabella stuttered, still unsure what he was suggesting. “I wouldn’t know what to draw,” she said, hoping he would catch her meaning. He laughed again, the sound cold, though she knew he couldn’t possibly mean it as such. 

“Let me worry about that, little one,” he said. He grinned at her, his teeth large in his mouth. “Why don’t you come to this week’s ball with me?” 

Priscilla gasped. “You can’t possibly mean that! She has not even debuted yet and—”

“Then this will be good practice for her, won’t it?” he said, snarling at her grandmother. “You well know it is not a normal ball nor part of normal society. Those in attendance will keep her presence a secret that we can rely on one hundred percent. It would hardly be the first secret they have kept.” He snorted in amusement, and Arabella shivered.  

“I … I’m not sure what you mean, Father,” Arabella said. She could feel herself shrinking under his excited gaze, a ball of dread already tightening in the pit of her stomach. Whatever he was suggesting, she was certain not to like it. She’d always known her father was involved in something less than proper, but Priscilla had been careful to keep the details away from her. 

“My sweet, innocent, darling girl,” he said, taking her hand in his. “I belong to a group of like-minded gentlemen who gather together occasionally. Upon seeing your art, I have absolutely no doubt that some of them would like to have their portraits painted. You would be perfect for the job.”

“That is not why I asked you here to look at them, Edward,” Arabella’s grandmother snapped, her chin defiantly in the air. Arabella could sense her worry from across the room, and it made her own heart thud. 

“And I didn’t ask for your opinion,” he snapped. “Drink your tea and mind your own business.”

Arabella swallowed back her fear. When he turned back to her, the rage in his eyes had gone, replaced by what she thought was love. She wondered how he could be so kind to her and so cruel to his own mother, but she supposed it wasn’t her place to ask. Priscilla had raised her as her own and had been nothing but kind and loving. She would discover the truth eventually. 

“Now, Arabella dear, how would you feel about coming to the ball with me this weekend?”

She pursed her lips together and thought, though she knew she would go. She always did what her father wanted her to do. “Will I get a new gown?” she asked. 

He chuckled. “Yes, we can arrange for you to have a new gown. And you can bring your paints!”

She frowned, her brows deepening into a v. “But why on earth would I take my paints to a ball?” she asked. 

“Because, my sweet girl, you will play a very special role.”

“I will?”

“Oh yes. You’ll be painting portraits live for our very special guests.”

Chapter One

Three Years Later

The Duke of Ravenswood sipped his wine, leaning against the wall and watching the events unfold in front of him. London’s season had just begun, and he was glad to be a part of it. It was his first year attending, and it seemed his reputation had preceded him. The invitations had started pouring in the moment he had arrived in London. He had worked hard to get to where he was, and now he was here, determined to find the person he was searching for most. He just had to work out who everybody else was first. 

“So you’re the Dark Duke, are you?” 

He jumped at the sound of the woman’s voice, deep and sensuous, and he turned to look at her. She joined him, leaning against the wall and watching the world go by. She wore a gown of shocking red silk, and her cheeks had been painted to match. He blinked at her boldness. Though he may not have been to many of these events, he knew it was rare to have a lady speak so openly without a prior introduction. 

“Oh, don’t look so shocked,” she said in a loud whisper, leaning over her glass of wine as if conspiring with him. “You’re the only gentleman here I do not recognize, Your Grace, and I would have thought that—from what everyone says about you—boldness would not be a problem.”

He turned to look at her fully, intrigued at what the latest gossip was. “And what are they saying about me?”

She held the rim of her wine glass in both hands and grinned as if she had snared him. He could have her, he knew it, if he wanted to. She wouldn’t be the first, either. He looked her up and down, appraising her. She was pretty enough, he supposed, but he no longer had an interest in such things. No, he had a much more important job to do than satisfy his loins. 

“They say you are something of a man of mystery,” she said. 

He laughed. “I should imagine they say that about everyone they have never met.”

“True enough,” she said with a tilt of her head. “But nobody knows much about your past, either. And the nobility, as I’m sure you’re aware, believe they know everything about everyone.”

“The late duke, my … my father,” he said, his words halting, “was something of a recluse. I suppose it’s only now I have an opportunity to explore the world, shall we say. Introduce myself to society.”

At five-and-twenty, Sebastian Ravenswood really did fit the image that the gossip mongers seemed to have created. He was indeed the Dark Duke, with hair the colour of midnight that flopped over his forehead and sideburns as thick as a baby’s arm. His emerald eyes shone with secret knowledge, speaking of tales untold and adventures yet to come. His eyes alone made people want to know him. He was handsome, and he knew it. Everyone knew it. 

It was not merely his brooding good looks, though. Sebastian had long ago learned to hold himself confidently, even when he didn’t feel it. He also held his cards close to his chest, rarely revealing anything about himself unless he knew it was worth his while. Information, after all, was a currency in the world of the ton, where the wealthy had no need for money. Besides, he had no time—nor any desire—for idle chatter or making friends. He was here for one reason and one reason only: to find the man who had murdered his mother. 

“You know, everyone is saying how you are the most eligible bachelor attending this season,” the woman continued. “You’re quite the catch. I’m surprised you haven’t had all the matrons fluttering around you, trying to pair you off with their ugly daughters.”

“I have,” he said wryly, still watching the people coming and going, dancing and talking and enjoying themselves at the season’s first ball. 

“Ah, that explains why you’re hiding here then,” she said. In another life, another situation, he might have been intrigued by her. He might have even asked her name, but he had no patience for it. 

“I’m hardly hiding,” he said. “I’m watching. As I’m sure you’ve been told, I’m not very experienced at such events. I’d like to see how they go before jumping into them.”

“Very wise,” she said, a single eyebrow raised. 

Sebastian was about to reply when he spotted him: Edward Sinclair, Duke of Westment. He narrowed his eyes, tracking the man as he made his way across the ballroom towards the garden. 

“Do excuse me, won’t you?” he said. 

Sebastian thrust his wine glass into her hand and marched away before she could answer. He pushed through the throngs, chasing the duke. He couldn’t let the man out of his sight. He had to know the truth. He had to worm his way into the inner circle. 

“My Lord Duke,” he called. “Your Grace.”

To his pleasant surprise, Sinclair turned and looked at him. “And you are?” he asked, shaking his head as if disturbed by the riff-raff. 

If only he knew. 

Sebastian took in a deep breath. This was his moment. “The Duke of Ravenswood, Your Grace,” he said with a bow, condescending only to age and not to his equal title. “Sebastian.”

When he straightened himself once more, he allowed himself a closer look at Edward Sinclair. It was him; he was sure of it. He would remember those callous eyes anywhere. He held his hand out to shake but lowered it when Sinclair didn’t respond in kind. 

“And what can I do for you, Sebastian Ravenswood?” Sinclair asked. His eyes had narrowed, and Sebastian knew he had to tread carefully. Sinclair had untold power within this world, power Sebastian wanted to draw upon. This could be his only chance to gain access to the man who killed his mother—and exact his revenge. 

“Well, I …” Sebastian let out a self-deprecating laugh. “If I’m perfectly honest, this is my first time at such an event. I hear you are a man who is … how can I put it? In the know, shall we say? Someone I ought to befriend.”

Sinclair turned fully to him now, and Sebastian suppressed a grin. He knew that meant the duke’s interest had at least been piqued. He had set his first step within the door. Now, all he needed to do was prise it open. 

“Perhaps I am,” Sinclair replied, narrowing his eyes even further. “You are the one they call the Dark Duke, yes?”

Sebastian smirked and looked down at his feet, acting for all the world as if he were proud of such a moniker. “I believe that is the name the ladies have come up with, yes, though I can’t for a second think why.”

Sinclair smirked, too, and Sebastian saw it again: the coldness, the hardness. The man was a monster underneath, and Sebastian’s mind flashed back to that day so long ago. His poor mother, lifeless and limp, the man above her, hands covered in her blood. When Sebastian had walked in, all but six years old, the man—this man—had turned to look at him, an expression of glee written across his face. Sebastian had promised himself he would never forget those eyes, and he hadn’t. 

And now he will be punished for his crimes. 

Sebastian knew he had to bide his time, especially if he wanted a punishment that would last. Lashing out at the duke here, with all these people, would earn him nothing more than a blackened eye and a split lip. No, Edward Sinclair deserved much worse than that, and Sebastian was determined to ensure he got it. 

“The ladies do adore a man of mystery, Ravenswood, and it seems to me that you have presented yourself as one of those. I must admit, even many of the gentlemen are intrigued about you and where you have come from. It’s rare a duke simply appears in our midst.”

“I can imagine,” he said with a smile. “What can I say without putting myself at risk of scandal? I have lived life to the fullest up until now.” Sebastian hoped to imply he was a good fit for the secret society thanks to his past, but he wasn’t convinced Sinclair understood that. 

“Have you indeed? Well, now, isn’t that interesting? There are plenty of rakes in our ranks already, though.”

Sebastian chuckled again. “I am far from a rake; I can assure you of that. I prefer to think of myself as …” He allowed himself a moment’s thought. “Free from society’s dictatorship?”

Sinclair nodded his approval. “Well, Ravenswood, you’re lucky to find me. Honestly, I rarely attend such banal events, especially not when there are so many more exciting places to visit.”

He had a twinkle in his eye as if testing Sebastian and his knowledge. Sebastian knew all about the Lord’s Society, a secret group of gentlemen run, in part, by Edward Sinclair. The late Duke of Ravenswood had told him everything he knew about it. It was a debauched place, an open secret amongst certain parts of the ton, with parties and balls that most ladies would blanche at. It disgusted and excited Sebastian in equal measure. He was not one to shy away from carnal matters, but the way these men satisfied their urges did not sit comfortably with him. Still, he had to see it with his own eyes if he wanted to get close to the duke. 

“Are there indeed?” he asked, feigning innocent curiosity. “I do hope you’ll share them with me.”

Sinclair’s lips twitched with a smirk. “Perhaps one day,” he said. “For now, I bid you goodnight.” Sinclair dipped his head and turned to leave. 

With a heavy sigh, Sebastian himself made to leave. There was no point staying if his target wasn’t here, and he had no desire to talk to anyone else. Instead, he fetched his cloak and hat from the footman and travelled back to his London townhouse. 

He was disappointed, certainly. Sinclair knew nothing of him, of course, and had no reason to trust him, but Sebastian had hoped to secure an invitation to the secret society—or, at the very least, some way of getting to know Sinclair better. Despite that, the conversation had been hopeful. Sinclair seemed interested in Sebastian, and that was a good sign. 

The carriage rolled to a stop on the busy London street, rattling on the cobbles beneath. The footman opened the door, and Sebastian stepped out, his feet loud on the metal steps. He looked up at the house for a moment. It was a beautiful building, the red brick bright even in the gloom of nighttime, the black door polished to a shine. He’d always wanted a house like this, and now … well, here he was. 

He climbed the steps just as the butler opened the door. 

I could get used to this. 

“Good evening, Beaumont,” he said, taking his hat off. 

But before he could get through the door, someone called from behind him. 

“Your Grace! Sir! Your Grace!”

Sebastian turned and, to his surprise, found a boy of no more than nine years holding out a piece of folded parchment. Even from a distance, it looked of high quality, and he could make out his name scrawled across the front in decorative script. 

The Duke of Ravenswood. 

Sebastian dug in his pocket for a coin, which he flicked to the messenger, then took the letter from him. The boy ran away before he could even say thank you, but Sebastian was far too intrigued to care. He looked down at the parchment, turning it slowly in his hands. It had been sealed with thick black wax, the image Sebastian knew instantly. It was the symbol of the male, though a rosebud had replaced the circle. 

The symbol of the Lord’s Society. 

He cracked the seal. Opening it slowly, he peered at the words inside. He could make them out despite the darkness of the night. It was an invitation to a ball the following week. Folding the parchment back up and inhaling deeply with satisfaction, Sebastion Ravenswood turned and trotted up the steps into the house. This was the moment he had been waiting for. 

Chapter Two

Arabella sat with her legs curled beneath her, staring out at the moon and stars. She often found herself here, on the window seat, though more often than not with a book. Tonight, she wanted only to look out over the sky and dream of the day she would be free. 

If ever that day should arrive. 

She pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders. Though there was a low fire in the grate and summer had begun in earnest, Arabella could find no warmth in her life. Her father had made sure to crush all that out of her, and no amount of her grandmother’s fussing made her feel any better. 

It wasn’t all miserable, of course. There was Priscilla, who cared for her like her own. They spent long hours together, talking about art books and mathematics. Priscilla was the only mother figure she’d ever had, her own mother having died bringing her into the world, and now Priscilla was her only friend too. As she had grown up, Arabella witnessed how cruel her father could be to her grandmother as well as to her, but at least they had each other. 

There were the odd occasions that Arabella was permitted to attend a society event as well—a normal society event, not one of her father’s events. Those evenings, she was overjoyed to feel normal, to dance and talk and explore. It was never long before her father whisked her back to Westment Manor and locked her away again, but for those few hours, Arabella felt free and happy. She lived in between proper society life and life within the Lord’s Society, never quite getting to know either one. 

She had everything she could wish for physically, too—delicious food and beautiful gowns, every book she could imagine, and estate grounds she could wander at will. And yet …

“Arabella? Are you still awake?”

She looked up to find her father at the door. As he always did, he let himself in without knocking, as if she were still a child. She tried to smile. 

“It’s late, Father,” she said weakly. “I was about to retire for the evening. Is something the matter?”

“Nothing’s the matter, child. I just wanted to inform you that the Lord’s Society’s first ball of the season is on Friday evening. You will be expected to paint, as always.”

“Oh.” She couldn’t help letting the disappointment show in her voice, her heart sinking at the realization she would be expected to attend yet another season. This would be her fourth, and she hated every minute of it. 

“Don’t be like that, Arabella,” he said. He came into the room and sat near her, reaching out to touch her hand as if he were a loving, caring father. She turned her head and looked out the window again. “You know these events wouldn’t be the same without you. Why, half the guests only come to see your wonderful work.”

“No, of course,” she said, still looking at the moon. 

She had longed for her father’s affections as a child. Now, she wished he had never noticed her paintings. Now, he showered her with attention but profited from her skills. If only a handsome knight could come and rescue her, take her away from this place. It happened in the novels she read, but she doubted it would ever happen in real life. 

Will he ever let me marry?

Love was something Arabella craved more than anything, though her father and his potential actions frightened her. She guarded her heart closely now, having lost too much in the past, but deep down, hidden in her soul, she wanted love, romance, and most of all, passion. True passion, not like that which she painted. 

She could have had it if it weren’t for her father. She was incredibly beautiful—or, at least, that was what she had been told. She certainly got enough attention from gentlemen wherever she went, though she could never decide whether that was thanks to her paintings or herself. Either way, the sensual nature of her paintings earned her a certain reputation. 

Her hair was as black as black could be, so at odds with her porcelain white skin and the dusting of pink across her cheeks and her thick, sensuous lips. It was her eyes that drew people, though. Despite the darkness of her hair, they were a bright sky blue that called to men from behind her lashes. She was every man’s lascivious dream, and try as she might to hide it, her innocence and sweetness seemed only to enhance it. 

“There’s a good girl,” the duke said, getting to his feet. “There’ll be a new gown in it for you, of course.”

“Of course,” she repeated. 

She forced herself to smile up at him before he left the room. Then she turned back to her daydreams. One day, her knight would come, and he would whisk her to the countryside where she could paint landscapes all day—her first true love. 

One day. 

***

Arabella settled herself behind the canvas and looked across the room. The ball was a masquerade, as was usual for the first of the season, when potential new society members were shown around. She wore a scarlet gown and a golden mask, her dark hair tumbling around her shoulders. Such freedoms were permitted in the Lord’s Society, and it was one of the few things Arabella liked about it. She enjoyed the sensation of her hair around her neck and not painfully pinned to her head. 

She arranged her paints carefully in front of her. She had a method, cold and exacting, so at odds with the heat of the paintings she produced. The guests had begun to arrive, and, despite the masks, Arabella noted a few of the usual attendees. 

Nothing ever changes. 

She stuck her paintbrush into her mouth, pulling it out slowly between her lips so that the bristles formed a neat tip, and then she dipped it into her first colour. 

“I’m not convinced there’s much need for that mask, is there?” her father said with a chuckle next to her. “Everyone knows you are the painter, my darling girl, and I couldn’t be prouder.”

Because you profit from every painting I produce, she thought bitterly. 

“Yes. The easel is a little difficult to disguise. But I like the mask, and I’d like to keep it on.”

“Whatever you want, Arabella,” Sinclair replied. “You know I’d do anything for you.”

No, you couldn’t possibly risk losing your prized workhorse. 

“Of course, Father,” she replied without emotion. She let the brush move across the canvas as if it had a mind of its own. 

“You know how these first nights go, don’t you?” he asked. “I believe a number of our members have invited potential new members here tonight—I know I sent one invitation. So there will be quite a few new people around. Be careful, Arabella. You know how uneasy I get when you receive undue attention.” 

Arabella almost laughed. Uneasy was one word for it. Possessive and controlling were other words that came to mind. 

“I shall be careful, Father.” She stared out across the ballroom, seated in front of the easel, as he hovered over her shoulder, his presence overbearing. 

He chuckled. “Not that we need to worry too much. I have warned all members to stay away from you. I don’t think any of them would be willing to face my wrath. You are to remain my chaste girl, for that’s where your talent for such passionate paintings comes from.”

Arabella ignored his last words. She’d heard it all before. He believed that it was her innocence within his world of sin that made her such a talent, not even dreaming that her thoughts were often far from pure. 

“Do you have someone to take under your wing, Father?” she asked, looking at the backdrop of the ballroom, examining the colours and shapes. This was her favourite part of her painting, having long ago bored of painting the human form. 

“Yes, I think so,” he replied. “I only hope he stands up to the potential I see in him.”

“Does he have a name?” she asked out of mere curiosity. 

“Come on, Arabella. You know we don’t discuss that. Certainly not on the first night. Let’s see who gets accepted as members first, shall we? Who knows, if all goes well, you’ll be painting his portrait in a day or two! Now, get started. Perhaps if you finish this one quickly enough, you can start a second.”

Arabella bit back her sarcastic reply as her father stalked across the room. He carried himself with such pomp and arrogance that it made her shudder. His power sometimes seemed all-encompassing, and here, he was in his element. As he strode around the ballroom, he greeted people with a warmth she had rarely seen herself, and the grin on his face showed how proud he was of everything he had accomplished. 

She forced herself to look away, knowing she would be too angry to paint if she didn’t. Dipping her brush in the paint, she mixed the colours on her palette to match those on the damask drapes across the windows. She mapped out the shape on the canvas, then looked up again to check where the light and shade fell in the lamplight. 

That’s when she saw him. Her breath froze in her chest, her heart seeming to stop, and she stared at him. She had no idea who he was, but she had an overwhelming desire to find out. 

If only I could. 

He was leaning against the wall just next to the window she was painting and staring right at her. As she looked away, putting her brush to the canvas, she felt her cheeks redden, a heat rushing across her chest and down her belly. She couldn’t even see his face behind the dark mask, but she could see the sharp angle of his jaw and that beautiful black hair dropping across his forehead. 

He had one leg raised so that his foot was against the wall. As his gaze bored into her, her eyes were drawn again and again to that thigh, the trousers taut against the muscle. 

Paint, she told herself harshly. Paint she did, but her hand shook slightly, and she struggled to breathe slowly, calmly. Again and again, her eyes were pulled to his legs, to what was between his legs. 

At least look at his face, she thought, reprimanding herself once more. She did, and she saw him take a long gulp of his drink. When he lowered his glass, he licked his lips, his pink tongue darting out from his mouth. To her surprise, she wanted to kiss those lips, to be wrapped in his arms. 

Is this the knight I’ve been waiting for?

For the first time in a long while, Arabella wanted to paint the human form again—his form. She imagined the shape of his chest, the way her brush would have to move across the canvas to capture his essence. Perhaps she would get the opportunity sooner rather than later. 

She shook her head at that thought and forced herself to focus. Anyone willing to be in this society was unworthy of her attention, no matter how handsome. She painted the candles in their sconces on the walls, the light bright against the dark background. Then she began working on the ballroom floor, the feet that danced across it, the glasses of wine they held. She wouldn’t look up again, no matter what. She couldn’t risk it. 

Except she couldn’t stop herself either. After only a few moments, she raised her head again, searching him out, drawn to him in a way she had never before experienced. She looked over to the window, but he was gone.

---

“A Duke’s Lustful Portrait” is an Amazon Best-Selling novel, check it out here!

Lady Arabella Sinclair is a gifted painter, trapped in the Lord’s Society, a world of sensual portraiture and unspoken desires. She longs to escape her father’s control, yearning for the tranquility of the French countryside, where she can paint the landscapes her heart truly desires. Yet, as the enigmatic Sebastian Ravenswood enters her life, her passion and restraint collide, setting the stage for a sizzling love that defies the boundaries of the ton.

Will she follow her fiery heart on a fervent journey of love and discovery?

Sebastian Ravenswood, a brooding Duke with a vengeful past, harbors a burning desire for retribution against the man who murdered his mother. To achieve his dark purpose, he infiltrates the secret Lord’s Society to unearth the truth. As he delves into society’s secrets, he becomes entangled with the alluring Lady Arabella. Balancing his thirst for revenge with an irresistible attraction, Sebastian risks losing himself to the very passions he vowed to conquer.

Can Arabella’s artful hand put some color in the Duke’s resentful heart?

Their forbidden love story unfolds against the backdrop of the Lord’s Society, a clandestine world of vice and intrigue. As Sebastian and Arabella navigate lust, they risk exposing dark secrets and confronting inner demons. Will their passionate love withstand the secrets that threaten to tear them apart, or will the Duke’s sinful portrait become a haunting reminder of a love forbidden by society?

“A Duke’s Lustful Portrait” is a historical romance novel of approximately 80,000 words. No cheating, no cliffhangers, and a guaranteed happily ever after.

Get your copy from Amazon!