The Duke's Willful Wife

The Duke’s
Willful
Wife
             
             
Elizabeth Lennox

Chapter 1

Sasha
picked up the paintbrush, her fingers shaking and her stomach churning with fear and anticipation.  “I’m over him,” she whispered out loud, ignoring the cold
mist
that showed her breath as she
took the step closer to the canvas.  Dipping her brush into the first color, she
braced herself
and started
the process, the first colors hitting the white canvas no longer a shock to her mind but still something she didn’t particularly enjoy
. 
But since this whole process, of painting this particular subject was physically painful for her, she ignored the starting sensation and concentrated on working through to get to the answer. 

There was no other way to do it, she told herself, but to dive right in.  Being afraid of the answer wasn’t going to solve the problem and she wouldn’t know the truth until she started.  Procrastinating wouldn’t give her the information she desperately needed. 

Impatiently, she pushed her long, brown hair out of her way, tucking it up on top of her head with the end of her paint brush
, uncaring that a bit of paint smeared across her lovely cheekbone
.  She wore no makeup, but her soft, brown eyes and peaches and cream complexion were rarely viewed by anyone anymore.  She went out each day for a long walk
and she occasionally saw the others in the village
, but the only
daily
care she took in her appearance was to remove her paint smock that covered her from neck to knee while she worked. 
She was unaware, and unconcerned if people questioned her appearance. 

At least that was the case over the past year. 

Classical music flowed around her as she worked on the painting.  She didn’t stop for food, didn’t notice the light changing as the morning turned to afternoon, then the evening faded into night
, nor did she acknowledge the ache in her legs from standing all day
.  It was almost midnight before she put her paintbrush down and sighed in frustration. 

As she looked at the painting, her heart lurched, the truth staring at her from the eyes she’d just painted. 
The truth was irrevocable and no matter how many times she told herself that she didn’t, when she painted his face, she knew she was still in love with her husband. 

She sighed
with the acceptance
that she wasn’t yet over the man who had hurt her so deeply that even a year
later, she still felt as if a
hole had been torn out of her chest.  Maintaining a stoic face while she worked, Sasha
carefully cleaned her brushes and set them in the appropriate place in their holders to dry out
, meticulously ensuring that they were
immaculate
and ready for her next project
. 

When she was finished with her supplies,
she
wearily
carried the canvas to the barn behind her tiny cottage and stored it with the others that she’d worke
d on recently.  The paintings here
were
items
she’d either started and hadn’t finished
because she’d lost the inspiration
, or that she didn’t want the
world to see because they were too personal or not good enough.  This one fell into
all of those categories
so she stacked it towards the back, pulling the heavy tarp over the stack to ensure dust
and
water didn’t get to it
, and made sure that the moth balls were in place to deter some of the more
curious animals from damaging any of the works
.
She might not be ready to sell or get rid of these efforts, but that didn’t mean she wanted anything to happen to them. 

Back in her cottage, she turned off the music, poured herself a glass of milk for dinner, then climbed into bed without bothering to change.  Worn out jeans, flannel, tattered shirt and all, she just needed the warmth of the
relative
soft
ness of her
bed.  And the pillows.  She pulled them close, hugging one to her chest and the other tucked under her head.  Not the same
because the pillows didn’t emanate the same heat as his arms and chest and they were much too soft
compared to his muscles that were more analogous to rocks than anything else
, but close enough
and they were all she had at the moment
, she thought as the tears spilled down her cheeks. 

Tomorrow would be better, she promised herself.  And she wouldn’t try again for another month.  Long walks, maybe some different music and a new painting.  Her mind went th
r
ough all the rituals she’d discovered that would help her get through the day. 
One breath at a time, she sighed into the night.  Just one breath, one moment, one step at a time.

The following morning, she forced herself to fix
some
breakfast and eat it.  It was only a soft boiled egg and
whole wheat
toast, but it was more than she’d eaten the whole previous day.  A cup of tea warmed her up and she pulled her sneakers on for her morning walk.  She pushed herself harder this time, walking around the pond, through the village, sm
i
ling and waving to the people she saw.  She’d grown up in this small town so she knew just about everyone, but she didn’t socialize a great deal anymore. 
Ever since Dante and his accusations, his rejection of her, she hadn’t felt strong enough to be around other people
. 

Soon though, she’d start accepting some of the invitations.  She needed to get out more, to be with othe
r people and stop
acting like a
miserable, old recluse
. 
Her activities lately weren’t
healthy and she needed to
rejoin the world, to feel
life again
even if it might be painful at times
. 
She knew she wasn’t ready to start dating again, but she needed to reconnect with her friends
, especially her college friends.  She missed them terribly and she knew they worried about her.  She e-mailed with them when she remembered to log into her account, but the communication was sporadic
.  Dana was ma
rried with a baby on the way and Jenna was doing well as a journalist.  They both had stopped by over the past year to check in on her and she’d done a relatively good job of convincing them that she was okay. 

The banging on the door as she stepped through her back
access
startled her. 
Since the house was so small, she could see straight through from the back to her front entrance but the solid oak wouldn’t allow her to see through and discover who had invaded her space so unexpectedly. 

“
Sasha
!  I’m here for the paintings.  I know you’re here so don’t try and pretend otherwise,” the male voice said.

Sasha
’s body relaxed as she released a relieved laugh, then
hurried to the front
door
.  “Robert, you know I’d never pretend with you,” she said and hugged him
enthusiastically
.  “What are you doing
way
out here in the country
?  I told you I’d bring the paintings to you Monday
and I know you abhor leaving your precious city life and risk running into a leaf or, heaven forbid, a bug
.”

Sasha’s agent and friend stepped through the front door and took his favorite client into his arms, as much to greet her as so determine if she was
taking care of herself
.  As his arms closed around her slender frame, he became worried that she wasn’t eating well. 
“I didn’t trust you
to be on time and you know that’s a completely justified terror when it comes to you lately.  Your sense of timeliness seems to have disappeared completely
.  Besides,
Monday is
too
far in the future. 
I need the paintings this weekend.”
 
H
e surveyed her face, noting the more pronounced cheekbones and
prominent, brown
eyes
still filled with so much loneliness
.  Damn that man who had done this to her gentle soul!  Sasha was one of those sweet, caring people who pushed spiders out of her house instead of stomping on them.  How Dante Fuitello could do this to such a beautiful woman was beyond anything Robert could understand. 

Sasha pulled away, knowing that Robert would comment on her weight if he felt how much she’d lost in the past few weeks.  And since there wasn’t a whole lot to lose in the first place, he
wouldn’t be shy about mentioning her health, a subject that he brought up constantly it seemed
. 

“I thought you had a full gallery.”
  She pulled him into her house, excited to see him but not sure why he’d come all this way instead of waiting for her to deliver the paintings she’d promised. 
His comment about being too slow was worrisome, only compounded by the fact that
Robert was a city man, completely in tune with the rhythm of London and all the excitement available.  He hated coming out to the country where she lived, considering it too “earthy”. 

“I did until I sold your last two yesterday.”  He looked around the dark, dingy little cottage that had
only
four rooms
, a number that was abhorrently tiny in his
estimation
.  “You’re a wealthy woman and a famous artist now.  Why are you still living in this hovel?”

Sasha rolled her eyes at the comment he made about her humble
dwelling
each time he visited, horrified that anyone would live in a place that doesn’t have hardwood floors and
twelve
foot ceilings with strategically
designed
lighting
to enhance one’s living space
. 
“I love this hovel
.  T
hank you very much for not disrespecting the hovel.”  She moved into the galley style kitchen
that was about the size of some people’s closet
and put
her battered
tea kettle on one of the two burners of her ancient stove.  With a flick of the lighter, a flame popped up under the kettle. 

Robert leaned against the rough, wooden door frame that looked like a termite had rejected it about a hundred years ago. 
“The condo next to mine is about to go on the market.  I can tell my neighbor that you’re interested.  Lots of light, plenty of room and it doesn’t smell like turpent
ine or burnt toast all the time.”  He looked around disdainfully.  “How in the world do you create such amazing masterpieces in this kind of light?”

Sasha
looked away, the memory of the most amazing place she’d ever painted coming to mind.  This little cottage was the antithesis of that room with all the windows and natural light, the skylights that let in the sunshine no matter what time of the day. 

Unfortunately, with that
wonderful
room came a not-so-perfect existence.  One she had tried, and failed, to endure. 
“This place is perfect for me.  At least for now.”  She still held out the hope that she’d get over that time in her life and be able to move on.

“I only have three pictures ready for you unfortunately.”

Robert rolled his eyes.  “Do you have any life outside of painting?” he asked
without sarcasm
.
  For an artist of her caliber to produce three paintings in the last month, he suspected that she barely slept and did nothing other than paint.  He also knew it was her way of working through her emotions, which had been severely tattered, but maybe if she got out a bit, she might recover more quickly.  And for him to want an artist to slow down, which would mean less commissions for his bank account, that was genuine concern as Robert never really considered himself very selfless.  But if she didn’t slow down, she was going to burn out and that also wouldn’t be good, for his account or his friendship with a woman who was truly special to him. 

Sasha
looked up at him,
distressed
by his comment.  “Am I too slow?  I’m sorry….” She started to say but Robert interrupted her with a laugh. 

“Dear, three paintings from you is like money in the bank.  I don’t know any other artist who can produce like you can so please, ignore my silly comments and understand that I’m absolutely thrilled with three paintings from you.  I have some artists that work on one painting a year, and they don’t have half as much talent as you do.  With all the emotion you put into your paintings, I don’t know how you get through the day.
  Your productivity concerns me, is all.
”

Sasha
was relieved, not sure what the art world expected of her.  It wouldn’t have mattered anyway.  She could only paint what she felt at the speed at which she was feeling things.  The past year had been a pretty emotional disaster for her so she’d been extremely prolific lately.  But she hoped to be able to focus on only one painting per year
at some point
. 
Maybe when she wasn’t so centered on the past, she could….