by Dayna Quince
She stood, her hand shaking, the papers rattling like rain on a window. She met his gaze and stormed away. He did not follow her out of the tower.
Once in her room, she stomped to the hearth and threw a log on the fire. She stood, waiting for the flames to grow bigger, and the force of her feelings nearly overwhelmed her.
Who was this man?
There was clearly more to him than the person he'd shown to everyone. She glared at the drawings in her hand. If they weren’t of her, she wouldn’t be so embarrassed. If she wasn’t the woman on the page, she'd say they were quite good. Beautiful even, so why hide his talent away in the tower? Is it because he only drew lewd things? Was this a secret pasttime for him, visiting house parties and drawing the women there in compromising positions?
As she stood there thinking it over, her fear began to ebb. She knelt before the fire and set the pictures down beside her.
The things he'd said…
“It's all I'll ever have of you. Please don't take them away.”
She closed her eyes, his words echoing in her mind, sinking deep into her subconscious the same way a stone sinks into deep water. The ripples on the surface dissipated but the stone would forever remain there, lost in the darkness.
She pressed her fingers to her mouth, reliving the pressure of his kiss.
How was she going to face him for the remainder of the party, knowing what she knew, what she'd seen? She glanced at the sketches again and picked one up. She inspected the drawing. It was her reclined on the chaise lounge, a smile about her lips. Knowing, Jeanie would call it. She certainly knew far more than Jeanie did about rakes.
But what he said and what he did, didn’t make sense.
He said this was a fantasy. This is what he wanted her to be.
No—he didn't want her—he couldn't, and yet… She stared so hard at the picture that her eyes began to water. He’d deliberately drawn her, beautiful, seductive. He did want her, he just didn't intend to have her.
He’d used his reputation as a rake to excuse their kiss. But there was no excusing these drawings or what he’d said to her. He couldn’t take those words back. They were hers now, and they’d already burrowed into her stubborn heart.
“You can have me,” she whispered.
This time it wasn't anger that filled her but sadness.
She wanted him.
She wanted the debonair rake, the knowing, charming, urbane gentleman that he presented to all of them. But as long as she was a poor Marsden daughter, she couldn't have him, and it wasn't fair. She couldn't control her birth circumstances, and if she had to choose between giving up her sisters for the chance to marry him, she never would. She loved her sisters, she loved her family, and there was no amount of money that would make her give them up.
She sniffed, ready to wallow in her misery, to mourn the loss of something that truly would've been a dream come true.
A handsome and rich gentleman to rescue them from their uncertain fate.
To take her away to London as a fabled prince carries his true love away to his castle.
But none of it was true. It was as fake as the smile he'd worn. The promising sparkle in his eye nothing more than his practiced skills.
He’d played her like a puppet.
But what was true and what was fake? Everything he did was a contradiction.
Jeanie just didn't understand how to deal with this situation. This was too far out of her level of experience, and she couldn't help but feel that there was more going on. It had something to do with those letters but she'd never know now, would she?
She regarded the drawings, the fire hungry and purring in the hearth, ready to consume them. But was she ready to be rid of them?
She changed her mind, and instead of watching them burn, she hid them under her mattress.
He said they were all he’d have of her, and in return, they might be all she’d ever have of him.
Chapter 9
Luc glared at the trunk, the echo of her slippers on the stone steps ringing in his ears. He kicked the trunk closed with those blasted letters inside. He should burn them. They were nothing but a curse. He knew she'd seen them but it was impossible for her to know what they were exactly, and now she'd quite likely never speak to him again. Or smile at him or even look in his direction. If he tried to draw her, he wouldn't be able to recreate her smile, the glimmer of hope in her eyes.
He gritted his teeth, wanting to hit something.
He scrubbed his hands over his face.
All he could see now when he thought of her was her angry expression, the pinched lines around her eyes, the furrow between her brows, the blaze of scorn in her gaze. He was familiar with that look. The viscount had worn it quite well.
Perhaps it was better this way. Now she knew him for what he was.
She would no longer be in awe of him, so dazzled by his shiny mask.
It was just as the viscount had said. Artists are slimy pretenders. The viscount must've seen in him what his grandparents had seen in his mother's lover.
Snarling, he threw open the chest and picked up the letters. He wanted to throw open the window and toss them into the wind. Watching them fly away out over the cliffs, but that likely wouldn't happen. With his luck, they would blow right back into the castle, where the other guests were sipping their tea and then be read aloud for all the world to know his true origins.
Luc couldn't read French but almost everyone he knew could. Miss Jeanette, would she be able to piece together the name on the envelope and connect it to him?
He exhaled, closing the trunk and relocking it, though it seemed even a novice could open it, but it didn't matter now. The true treasure that had lived inside was now gone, and she would destroy them. Just the thought made his stomach turn. Those hours of worship, staring at her beautiful face, were gone. He winced as he stood and left the tower, unsure if he ever would return. He had no need of it any longer.
His drawing had been the final straw for the viscount. He’d been just a boy, only seven when he’d first taken an interest in drawing. He’d sketched the new foal, spending hours watching her follow her mother around the paddock on wobbly knees. He was so proud of that picture, and he’d thought his father would be proud too.
If he had an adequate excuse, he would leave.
Letters in hand, he made his way to Weirick's study, thinking up a reason to leave. He could make an excuse about an urgent note from his sister, but he hated to lie to Weirick, one of his few true friends, and the only one who knew the truth of his birth.
He'd been lying his whole life. To the viscount, to his sister and brother, to his friends, and mostly to himself.
He was what he was.
He could pretend, he could throw out his pencils, his sketchbooks, but it wouldn't change anything. It wouldn't stop the urge to draw, to bring to life to the images in his head, or to capture the beauty of the world on paper. Was this what St. Pierre had felt? This itch in his fingers, this powerful need, like an addiction that couldn't be ignored? Was he doomed to live the rest of his life feeling like an outsider among the people he knew? He was raised to be an aristocrat, to be exactly what a wealthy heiress would want. A titled lord, the handsome gentleman with a flawless face and character. But even though he knew those things were trivial, he'd made them the pillars of his life and now they were crumbling. And it all started when he met Miss Jeanette Marsden.
He blinked as he became aware of his surroundings and found himself before Weirick's study door. He looked down at the letters in his hand and shook his head.
He knew what he needed to do now.
He had to share his truth with one person, at the very least, to unburden himself. Almost like a confession. The thought made him want to leap out of his skin. The pounding of his heart was not from fear but exhilaration.
Luc wanted to let go of this. He wanted to know what was in these letters, finally. To no longer be haunted by them.
He knocked on the doo
r and at Weirick's bidding, he entered.
Thankfully, Weirick was alone.
He looked up from the work on his desk and raised a brow. “Has something else gone wrong?” Weirick asked, running a hand over his bald head.
“What?” Luc asked.
“Never mind,” Weirick replied. “Roderick took ill, if you haven't heard. I was just with him but I had to take a break." He shuddered. “I couldn't stand listening to the retching anymore.”
“Roderick's ill? How serious is it?”
“Just an ailment of the stomach. The doctor says he'll be better by tomorrow. I was going to check on him again. Would you like to join me?”
Luc grimaced. “I think I’ll abstain."
Weirick nodded. “I’m hoping the worst is over." He exhaled.
Luc stepped forward, hesitating, but he forced himself to walk all the way to the desk and put the letters down.
“I found these years ago in a trunk of paint supplies my mother gave me after the viscount’s death. I don't speak or read French. I know they’re from my mother to her lover and vice versa.” Weirick reached for the letters. “From the viscount?”
“No,” Luc said, his heart pounding, “my real father.”
Weirick met his gaze as his hand touched the top of the letters. “Your real father, the artist?”
“The very one."
“You don't speak French? I thought all aristocrats spoke French.”
Luc shrugged. “The viscount hated all things French, for one very specific reason.” Luc tapped letters.
"Ah," Weirick said. "And you truly wish me to read them?”
"I need to know what's in them just for…just because."
Weirick nodded “I see."
Perhaps he did, perhaps he didn’t, but Luc trusted him all the same. Weirick had his own demons to face regarding his father, and if anyone could understand the hate between a father and son, it was he.
"It will take me some time," Weirick said.
"Of course," Luc replied. "I don't expect you to spend your every waking hour reading them. When you do finish, let me know." He turned away and paused,. “Thank you, Weirick."
Weirick nodded. “Of course.”
Luc left the study, his feet heavy but his head light, the sensation peculiar, as if he’d drunk too much but couldn’t remember the occasion.
He returned to his room, only then remembering he hadn’t mentioned to Weirick that he didn’t need to use the tower anymore. He hesitated outside his door, thinking of the trunk he’d left there. Would anyone else go snooping? Well, there wasn’t anything left to tie him to the trunk or Jeanette.
But oddly, he was attached to it. He loved and hated that rotten trunk, from the flimsy lock to the musty cloud of charcoal and paint odor that rose every time he opened it. When his mother had given him the trunk, he’d been afraid of it, but once he’d opened it, discovering the pots of paint, brushes, charcoal, pencils stubs, and stacks of old sketches, he hadn’t been able to stop himself from digging through it like a treasure throve. The part of himself he’d denied, locked away from the sunlight. The boy who’d had his knuckles rapped every time he’d tried to draw, rose forth, and he’d drawn until his fingers blistered, until his hand cramped. And then he’d painted until he’d scraped the last pot dry. The end results hadn’t been pretty, but like a drug, he was hooked. He’d made himself a studio in the east parlor of Luckfeld terrace. He kept the door locked, and his brother and sister never knew what went on in that room. For all they knew, it was just a musty old room no one ever used.
But it was his secret lair, his bastard child.
The door behind him opened and Luc straightened, affecting a bored expression as he turned to face Selhorst, who occupied the room across from his.
“Afternoon, Selhorst.”
“Where did you get off to?”
“Just wandering the castle. And then I spoke with Weirick in his study. Did you know—”
“Roderick’s ill? Yes, quite strange. We all ate from the same kitchen.”
Luc shrugged.
“And Miss Marsden turned her ankle, though she appears fine now.”
Luc stroked his chin. “Odd. Where are you off to?”
“The library.”
Luc rolled his eyes. “Reading that much is bad for your vision.”
Selhorst smirked. “I’d rather be blind than illiterate.”
“That doesn’t make sense. If you’re blind, you can’t read a damn thing.”
He chuckled, adjusting his cuff. “But I can be read to.”
“By a woman.”
“With my head in her lap, as she rakes her fingers through my hair.” Selhorst’s gaze grew distant.
Luc raised a brow, his instincts perking up. “Any woman in particular?”
Selhorst refocused on Luc. “Any woman would do.”
Luc snorted. “Liar. I’ll be sure to make that special request to Mrs. Kemp for you.”
Selhorst grinned. “How old is your sister now?”
Luc scowled as Selhorst laughed and strode away.
“I hope you go blind,” Luc called after him. He shook his head, chuckling as he entered his room and removed his jacket. He changed into a fresh set of clothing. He’d have to make a showing at tea, even though he wasn’t sure how he would face Miss Jeanette again.
He didn’t want to leave, if he was being truthful. Not as long as Weirick had the letters and was helping him decipher them. Not as long as she shared the same roof with him, even if she hated him. One he returned to London, he’d have to find himself a rich wife, and the thought of that was…well, about as enjoyable as pulling his own teeth.
And even though Jeanette might loathe the sight of him, he could enjoy her from a distance and maybe catch a glimpse of her smile.
If he left, he’d never have the chance again.
Chapter 10
Jeanie went in search of Georgie, but when she knocked on her door, there was no answer. When she peeked her head into Georgie’s room, it was empty.
Where could she be?
She tried Josie’s room next, but it was also devoid of her next closest sister. But unlike Georgie, who could be anywhere, Jeanie knew where she could expect to find Josie.
As she approached the library, she could here arguing, not loud arguing, but the hushed muttering of two voices shooting barbs back and forth like arrows from enemy encampments. Jeanie rolled her eyes. She’d been listening to Josie too much.
“There is nothing to be learned from poetry that can’t be learned from Shakespeare or any other philosophical text.”
Jeanie could hear Josie clearly as she reached the library door and paused beside it, out of sight of the occupants.
A man snorted. “Poetry is lovemaking with words.”
Jeanie’s mouth dropped open.
“Boring, slow, terrible, dry, lovemaking,” Josie replied.
“You lack imagination,” the man purred.
“Thank you,” Josie replied. “I consider imagination for children. Adults must use logic.”
Jeanie peeked around the doorframe to see this unnamed gentleman who was sparring, or flirting, with her sister in such an inappropriate fashion.
Lord Selhorst?
His auburn hair looked more brown than red in the somber light of the library, but his striking handsomeness was no less subdued.
Her sister stacked books with more force than necessary, slamming them down on top of each other as she built a tower.
“I suggest you expand your mind with a bit of Sir Walter Scott,” Josie parried.
“Reading can be fun, you know. Have you read Thomas Peacock?”
Jeanie could hear the grinding of her sister’s teeth all the way from the door. She covered her mouth to hide a giggle. Josie considered reading enjoyable only when it was improving her mind.
“Yes,” Josie ground out. “Roderick is quite fond of satire material.”
Lord Selhorst chuckled. “As am I.”
&
nbsp; “Really, I hadn’t noticed,” she replied dryly.
“But I’d have to say my favorite, you’ll be happy to hear, is a work of Shakespeare.”
“Oh? Which one?”
“The Taming of the Shrew.”
She narrowed her eyes at him as she slammed more books on the pile and swept them into her arms, stalking to the bookshelf to put them back.
Jeanie watched, her gaze glued to Lord Selhorst as he perused her sister, amused and…
She cocked her head, studying him, intrigued by his expression. He prowled around the table, closing the distance between him and Josie, much as a cat would stalk a bird, his steps slow and meticulous.
Jeanie’s mouth dropped open.
Was he…attracted to Josie? She wanted to glance away, suddenly feeling like she was invading what should be a private moment for Josie but… She wasn’t sure Josie would want this.
Though Jeanie suspected, from Josie’s own impassioned rants regarding Lord Selhorst, that Josie was smitten with the lord. But what if she wasn’t ready for this? They were all so inexperienced, and as the older sister, it was up to Jeanie to protect her.
He was closing in, his intent clear. The man intended to do something, and if Jeanie wasn’t certain her sister would enjoy it the way she’d enjoyed Luckfeld’s kiss…
She banished the thought. She could barely discern her own feelings. Who was she to interrupt this moment?
Josie could handle herself. She appeared angry, but Jeanie knew her sister and Josie loved to argue. Talking about books, debating the meaning of complex ideas was Josie’s preferred pasttime. And from the warmth in Lord Selhorst’s gaze, he appeared to enjoy it as well.
But what if she was wrong?
She’d been wrong about Luckfeld. He was not the man he pretended to be. He was more, and after this afternoon, she didn’t know who he was.
And she didn’t know this man either.
They were rakes, Violet had warned them. They had to be careful.
She cleared her throat.