by Dayna Quince
Luc turned away from the reflection, glancing to the chest again. He walked toward it slowly, as if it might move of its own volition and attack him. He knelt down and fished the key from his pocket. He opened it again and dug his hand under the stack of sketches, his eyes briefly touching on Jeanette, grateful that she could not see his shame. Under the lining of the case, he pulled up a ripped corner and slipped his hand underneath the fingers touching the delicate paper. He pulled the stack of letters out, his hand shaking as he brought them into the light.
Letters from his mother to her lover, Archibald Lucian St. Pierre.
The artist or that filthy Frenchman was how the viscount had referred to him with bitter scorn. That meant Luc himself was half French. No wonder fashionable clothing suited him so well. The viscount had denied him French lessons, instead offering Latin and Greek as a replacement.
Every sniveling fool knows French. Teach him to be different. Challenge him. Make him work.
Luc had picked up a little French here and there but not enough to read the letters that were written in French between his mother and her lover. Still he opened them, unfolding the pages carefully. The parchment was delicate, the edges beginning to tear. Upon the viscount’s death, his mother had given him the trunk and asked if he wanted to meet his real father.
Archibald St. Pierre was living in France even now, alive, living off the generous sum his grandfather had paid him to disappear from England.
Luc had said no to meeting him. He still clung to the idea that the viscount had been his father. He owed it to his brother and sister to keep the lie intact.
He’d worked so hard for even the slightest sign of approval that he wasn't about to spit on the man's grave now. A year later, his mother had died from what Luc suspected to be too much laudanum. She'd simply gone to sleep, the lady’s maid had said.
So now it was up to Luc to fix what his mother had done, to fix what the viscount had done. To keep the secret of his true father buried deep within the trunk and tucked away. But the more he tried to resist who he was, the more the urge to draw consumed him. He was what he was, deep down, and he couldn’t hide it forever. The truth resided there in the trunk, in a language he couldn’t read. The more time that passed, the greater he was compelled to look deeper and explore who he was under the facade.
Luc refolded the letters and put them back, burying them under the ripped lining, closing the lid, and locking the case. He stood, using the sleeve of his shirt to wipe his brow before turning and blowing out the candelabra, leaving the trunk and the tower in darkness much like himself.
They were in between activities the following day when Jeanie slipped away from the drawing room, where her sisters were sipping tea and chatting, to find Luc. Earlier they'd gone down to the beach again at low tide to inspect the tide pools. Anne had fallen and turned her ankle, but she was fine now and everyone was resting before the next activity, which was lawn games.
But something had been different about Luckfeld. He was not quite himself at all, and there was something brooding in his eyes like a storm. He was nothing like the man who had flirted with her and touched her the night before, building up this burning need within her to get closer to him. Where did that man go, the seductive one? The more she thought of him, the more she wanted to be seduced, to at last be the woman that he or any man would want, to be held, to be touched, to be loved.
He withdrew after the beach excursion. Jeannie wondered if perhaps he’d gone up to his tower to draw again and made her way there, keeping out of sight of any passing staff until she reached the foot of the steps. She listened intently but could not hear anything and peered around, making sure no one was close by to spot her. Then she went up the flight of steps slowly, until she reached the closed door, and pressed her ear to it. Still there was no sound. Her heart racing, her breasts short and quick, she put her hand on the latch and pressed down, pushing the door open just a sliver. Jeanie peeked again but she saw nothing, heard nothing, so she pushed the door open all the way, revealing tower chamber, empty, except for the chaise lounge, the candelabra, and a trunk. She entered the tower, looking around the bleak space. The windows were closed, the room fragrant with the musty gritty scent of the stone walls, but there was so much light pouring into the room, the brightness stung her eyes. She inspected the trunk, bending to run her fingers along the aged leather top. There was no inscription, no indication what it was. She picked up the lock, a heavy brass thing, and frowned down at it, biting her lip.
She shouldn't.
She absolutely should not try to open the trunk. If it was locked, it was locked for a good reason.
Jeanie sat back on her bottom and chewed her nail.
But…he was hiding something.
She certainly didn’t have a right to know what he was hiding, but if she wanted to know him, to understand him…
Would a little peek hurt?
Yes, her conscience warned her. It was a violation of his personal property…
If it was his. Someone else could have stored the trunk here, though… Looking around, nothing was here, and she could hardly call the chaise lounge and candelabra stored. They were placed specifically in their positions. She regarded the chair and the stool.
Was he drawing someone?
Bitter jealousy filled her.
Did he have a woman somewhere here in the castle? Or was it a maid, or could it be…
One of her sisters.
She scowled at the chair, trying to imagine someone there, but the woman was faceless.
She gritted her teeth. Maybe it wasn’t right, but neither were his actions. He was doing something here with someone and keeping it secret.
She whirled to face the trunk and knelt before it.
“I’m a terrible person,” she muttered. “But he’s no saint either.” She pulled a pin from her hair and went to work on the lock. Not the most ladylike skill but her own bedroom lock could be tricky and had a mind of its own. Both she and Georgie had had to pick it a time or two.
Was this lock different? Probably but that didn’t deter her from trying. It appeared old, the brass worn smooth and polished from the oils of a hand-holding as if it was locked and unlocked frequently.
It clicked, and the arm snapped open.
Jeanie gasped. “I did it!”
She almost clapped her hands in her excitement but then remembered she was doing something wrong and shouldn’t make a lot of noise whilst she was doing it.
Opening the lid, the smell of rotting silk and other scents rose like a cloud to tickle her nose. Jeanie peered into the box, but there was nothing salacious about it. She’d usurped a man’s privacy for…what exactly? Pencils, a pouch that contained bits of charcoal for sketching.
“I am a terrible person. A nosy, jealous—” She lifted the cloth on the bottom and stopped breathing.
It was her.
She was…leaning over the billiard table seductively, her eyes knowing, her dress falling off her body.
She lifted the sketch, and there were more underneath, all equally suggestive, her on the chair, an arm slung over her head with her hair unbound and one knee bent with her legs bared. Her on a great big bed, lying on her side, apparently naked under a—she squinted at the picture—a rather transparent sheet? Was that her nipple? Her in a patch of grass with her skirts pulled all the way to her thighs, but still hiding her… nether region, and her back was arched, her eyes closed, her mouth open like she was…
Jeanie didn’t know what to think of that picture, but they were all undeniably her.
She covered her mouth.
He’d been drawing her?
Suddenly she didn’t feel so terrible about opening the trunk. She had a right to know about this, didn’t she?
This was her face, her body, her…
She didn’t know what to think.
He’d captured her likeness so accurately she was certain it was only her and not any of her sisters.
Her heart
was pounding and her stomach had turned sour, but as she stared at the pictures, something else occurred to her, and it made her feel worse.
He clearly desired her, but he was drawing a version of her that she was not and that made her feel…not good enough. This woman was bold, wild, captivating.
Jeanie couldn’t be those things. She didn’t attract a man’s attention the way this Jeanie could, with her sleepy eyes and—she tossed the pictures back in the trunk.
The woman on the paper was more beautiful. More everything.
Jeanie was jealous of her own picture!
She folded her arms and glared at them.
Then she heard someone cough.
Jeanie froze, a guilty flush infusing her face as she turned her attention to the door.
“You don’t like them?” Lord Luckfeld strolled into the room nonchalantly.
“They’re nothing like me.”
“Ah, so you invaded my belongings only to disparage them?” His face was hard, but Jeanie was in no mood to make excuses for her behavior.
They were both in the wrong, he with his secret lascivious drawings of her and her for… Well, it didn’t matter anymore. They’d been caught.
And she was certain he wasn’t about to call the magistrate.
“Why would you do this? Is this a joke?”
He strode forward and slammed the case shut.
“Do you often rifle through others belongings? Locked belonging, no less?”
“Don’t change the subject.”
“The subject is you are some place you don’t belong.”
“What does that mean? I don’t belong here at this house party? Or I don’t belong with you because I’m nothing but poor gentry.
“Don’t be absurd. I meant you don’t belong in this tower. Weirick allowed me this room for my own use. It may as well be my bedroom.”
She blushed again. But she would not be deterred.
“I’m not leaving until you give me these drawings to be destroyed. That’s me on those pages, even if it is nothing like me. You could ruin me with those pictures. Is that what you mean to do? Take them back to London and show your friends how you seduced one of the Northumberland Nine?”
His jaw flexed. “I would never.”
“Then why do you have them? What right do you have to draw me in such a way? Why would you do it at all?”
He glanced out the window, scowling. “I drew them for me. And only me.”
“But why? And why in such a crass manner?”
He twisted back to her. “Crass?”
She marched toward him, her body on fire, her head so hot steam could rise from her cheeks. “On the chair, on the grass, in—in a bed. Clothes in disarray.”
“I’ve scandalized you.”
“You’ve infuriated me.” She poked his chest. “You made me…a wanton. I’ve never done any of those things and likely never will. But in those pictures you turned me into…”
“Don’t take insult. Nothing about how I drew you is shameful in my eyes, and they are for only my eyes.”
“But…” His words jarred with her franticly drawn conclusions. Was he mocking her? Using her?
She shook her head. “I don’t understand. Why would you draw me like that if not to hurt me in some way?”
He inched closer, but he did not touch her. “You don’t even realize, do you?”
“Realize what?”
He shook his head, his expression baffled.
“You’re that…”
She shrugged. “Dense? I think not. Just because I’m not as sophisticated as you, doesn’t make me stupid. I may not—”
He held a finger up. “While I’m enjoy this lovely tirade, I really must stop you. I was going to say innocent.”
She frowned. “Innocent? I’m almost on the shelf. Do not patronize me. I know what you are. You’re a rake.”
“And you are far too tempting for me to resist, Miss Jeanette, but heaven help me, I am trying. I’m no saint.”
“Clearly, since you’ve been drawing lewd pictures of me.”
He snorted. “Lewd? If only you knew the thoughts in my head.”
Her mouth dropped open and a fresh wave of heat consumed her. Where was the fire? All over her skin, apparently. Only it was just embarrassment that tortured her with licks of flame to her flesh. Those images, they had moved something in her, and now the way he looked at her, his gray-blue eyes turbulent with all the energy of an oncoming squall.
She tried to pin her senses down before they were swept away by his wind.
“Just what is your point, my lord.”
“I cannot let you take those sketches.”
She folded her arms. “And why is that?”
“It’s all I’ll ever have of you. Please don’t take them away.”
Wits scattered. Blown to bits.
She licked her lips and tried to form words. “All…you’ll…what?”
He filled her vision, and then he was so close she couldn’t see. She closed her eyes as his lips touched hers and his arms came around her. One hand at the center of her back brought her body to his and her knees went weak.
He’s going to kiss me again.
It was her last thought before sensation consumed her. Their mouths molded together, his lips silky and warm, his scent filling her head, clean and earthy, like the grassy hills after a rainstorm with a hint of cinnamon spice. She wanted to pull away and sniff him more carefully, his neck, his jaw. Was it shaving soap or cologne? Her head buzzed, euphoric from the smell.
He angled his head and dipped her back, tipping her off balance. The pressure of his mouth increased. But just when she thought he’d never let go of her and the urge to open her mouth was on the tip of her tongue, he broke the kiss.
She sucked in a breath, stars dancing behind her eyes as she waited for her world to right itself. She straightened but he still held her, his hands running up and down her back.
“You can open your eyes,” he said. His voice tinged with amusement.
She shook her head. “You might disappear.” Like you did last time.
He chuckled so quietly she felt it more than heard it.
“This isn’t a dream, Jeanie. We kissed and now I must let you go.”
Must he?
Please don’t.
She took a deep breath and opened her eyes. “What happens now?”
The amusement faded from his eyes. “You can’t take the drawings.”
“But…”
“You mustn’t tell anyone about what you saw. Not the sketches, not the trunk, and not this tower.”
She swallowed, baffled by his tone. “Why such secrecy? Is it because…” She didn’t want to ask, but she could easily guess he didn’t want his desire for her to be discovered. Her confidence dropped by several degrees. Was he embarrassed of her? Of her poor station? Fury filled the wounds left by her conclusions and she finished her sentence. “Because they’re of me?”
His expression was unreadable. “It goes beyond you. Yes, you would be ruined if they were discovered. Everyone would think I drew them in person and not from fantasy.”
She blushed. Fantasy. As in, he’d been fantasizing about me quite explicitly.
His hands dropped away from her and all the heavenly warmth in her body disappeared.
She hugged herself, now cold.
“And what am I to do with this knowledge. Keep it all to myself?”
He brushed his knuckles down her cheek. “It’s what I’ve had to do since our kiss at the last ball.”
She couldn’t breathe. “But what—what about… You kissed me.”
“And that must also remain our secret.”
“But…” her heart pinched. She pressed her hand to her chest as if she could rub the pain away.
He frowned, closing his eyes. “I can’t marry you.”
She licked her lips, the pinch growing to a stabbing pain. “Then why did you come?”
He opened his eyes and she could see hi
s pain.
“Roderick didn’t know when he invited me, but… I have to marry an heiress. I can’t marry you no matter how stunning you are.”
Jeanie’s lip trembled, so she clamped her mouth shut. She wasn’t going to cry in front of him and humiliate herself even more.
Her heart rent itself in two. She was too poor for him to marry.
“You must marry for money,” she stated, astonished by her cool tone. Perhaps she had a little bit of sophistication after all.
She glanced away from his apologetic gaze. Her attention drawing to his crisp white neckcloth, a pearl-tipped pin stabbed into its folds, his fine dark gray coat, silver buttons so shiny she could see her face in them.
“You have to marry an heiress? Why?”
She watched the notch in his neck move up and down.
“Its… what is expected of me.”
Her gaze returned to his. “You have need of money or it’s just what you wish to do? Add to your wealth.”
“You intend to marry someone wealthy don’t you?” he asked in return, sharply.
“Because when my father passes, which is hopefully years from now, my cousin will inherit and I will no longer have a home. It is less about the amount of my future husband’s coffers and more about keeping a roof over my head, but I don’t think we share the same fate, do we?”
"I don't have to explain myself to you," he said. "My family's dealings are none of your business."
"But those drawings are my business. They are of me."
His face hardened. He folded his arms. "So what do you intend to do, Miss Marsden?"
She marched over to the trunk and flipped it open. He jerked but he didn't try to stop her. Perhaps he was afraid to touch her again or maybe he just didn't want her to know how much they meant to him. Clearly, they meant a great deal to him or he wouldn't have gone to such trouble to hide them away up here in the tower far from everyone else.
What was he so afraid of?
Whatever it was she was not going to be part of it here or on paper. She picked up the stack of drawings, her hand catching in the folds of the rotted silk lining. The bottom tore as she lifted her hand and she glanced down with a gasp.
There, under the silk, was a stack of letters bound with twine. She glanced quickly at them. Her French was barely passable, but she read Mademoiselle Leticia before she pretended not to notice them at all.