by Ingrid Hahn
But he could have drawn.
The longing to draw and paint pulled to an acute point as he found a stray lap rug and covered enough of himself for what the situation required, then turned back to them. The sunlight of an early evening in spring pouring through the windows caught Miss Emery’s face—half in shadow, half in light. Her eyes were huge and clear. Filled with tender vulnerability.
Giles snatched the nearest object and, without bothering to see what it was he held, hurled it. “Why can’t you leave me alone to die?”
He couldn’t aim with his right arm any more than his right hand could draw a smooth, straight line. But it wasn’t directionality he required. It was force. Force he could produce.
The china something-or-other smashed into the wall. Shards flew in every direction, as shattered as he was. A moment ago it had been a something. Now it was a nothing. Worthless. Giles heaved one breath after another, gulping for the life he disdained as he fought to regain emotional equilibrium. Or the semblance of. It was the only sound in the room for a long time.
“Miss Emery, perhaps it would be better if you returned later.” Holbrook remained carefully calm, as if measuring his tone to avoid upsetting Giles further.
“I’m not afraid of him.”
Giles snarled. “Don’t speak of me as if I’m not present.”
“Very well.” The smile she returned to him was nothing if not willful. Willfully unyielding. Willfully obstinate. Willfully determined. Absurd, foolish, strong, beautiful woman that she was, driving him mad with desire at the lowest point of his life.
If it wouldn’t have embarrassed her in front of Holbrook, Giles could have crammed his hard cock into her then and there.
Was that why he needed her gone? Because making her his and his alone was now impossible?
But instead, as if nothing in the world were wrong, she found the paintings that had been taken down and piled together in the corner, the picture side facing the wall. She bent and started pulling the frames back to study them. “What are these?”
Inner turmoil churning, Giles took a long time answering. He didn’t want to remember he owned them. But in the upheaval he’d thrust upon the household since his return from Glenrose, they’d been overlooked. “My collection of Rubenses.”
“That’s what I thought.” She squinted and leaned closer to study the brushstrokes on the wood panel. “But isn’t he hopelessly despised?”
“Yes.” Giles waved his good hand indifferently. “Hopelessly despised by complete bores who know nothing of passion, excitement, and wild inventiveness.”
Miss Emery and Holbrook exchanged a glance. She rested the paintings back and righted herself. Her beauty was excruciating. All the more so because he’d never paint her again. The siren spoke. “I’ve brought a bonesetter.”
“What?” Giles shook his head. Was there a part of the conversation he’d missed when his mind took a holiday from his head and went to rusticate in his cock?
“He’s going to see to your arm.”
See to his what?
A flurry of a thousand needling emotions spiked his veins. “Like hell he is.”
Miss Emery and Holbrook shared another of those infuriating glances between themselves.
“Hell and damnation, stop doing that.”
She looked at Giles, nothing but innocence. “Doing what?”
“Looking at each other. You’ve spoken about this together, I take it? Planned what you ought to do? How you ought to handle me?”
“We have,” she replied matter-of-factly. “We both care about you and—”
“Stop. I forbid you to do so from this moment onward. Forget you ever knew me. The person I was is gone and will never, can never, return.”
Holbrook’s brows knit in annoyance. “That’s why we’ve brought the bonesetter.”
“I’ve seen a hundred doctors.” Giles tugged the falling end of the rug back up his shoulder. “If this were an option, they’d have told me.”
“Doctors who have been working under your father’s orders.”
“Not all of them.”
“Not so fast, Ashcroft.” Holbrook was using those infuriatingly measured tones again, the bastard. “Silverlund’s reach extends far. He’s a powerful man.”
Miss Emery nodded. “But he doesn’t know about this. A few years ago, there was an accident at my father’s shop, a very bad accident. One man died, and my poor father never stopped blaming himself. Another man lived, but with a leg… Oh, it was terrible. The doctors said he’d never walk again. But my father found the bonesetter and—”
“Enough!” The hope in Miss Emery’s eyes was worse than reliving the accident—as he did so often in nightmares.
“We’re not saying it will fix you, b—”
“I said, enough.”
It was worse than being caged. The bars keeping him imprisoned pressed upon him as if one broken bone in his body weren’t enough. As if every last part of his skeleton had to crunch and crumble to dust.
That was the problem, wasn’t it? About being fixed. The treatment might not work. Giles couldn’t hope. He didn’t dare. They could, if they wanted. It was their own bloody business. The fools.
“I’m not seeing any bonesetter. Not today. Not tomorrow. Not any day hereafter. Never will I let any such a person lay hands upon me. Not for any reason at all. Not even for either of you.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
“It’s time for you to learn to be a duke, my boy.”
Giles cracked his lids open enough to allow in a blur of light and color. He must have slept, contrary to what he’d believed would happen, because he hadn’t heard the intrusion. But the words hadn’t come from a dream. Which had to mean…another night. Another morning. Another unwanted visitor. This was becoming a terrible pattern in his life.
Perhaps Holbrook would leave him to haunt Glenrose. Alone. Or as alone as one could be with a selection of a few trusted servants.
The bed curtains were already pulled aside, but this time the light was unmistakably of the morning. It was soft. With the glowing promise of fresh starts. What Miss Emery had said about rising from the ashes beat about in his brain.
“It’s a new day. The day you must begin again.” Silverlund’s voice rumbled through the room. “You’ve had enough time to come to terms with your altered existence.”
The duke sounded as if he were trying to rouse troops, though Giles remained silent on that score. To have remarked as much would have put them too close to treading congenial ground, a place Giles had no intention of going with the man. “I must, must I? Why don’t you get to the point?”
“I already have. You weren’t listening.”
“Humor me.” Giles pushed to sitting and dangled his legs off the edge of the bed. He’d slept badly on his right arm, and the damn thing had gone numb. There was nothing to do but wait it out. He hadn’t the use of the other arm to rub life back into it.
“Every hour of every day and in everything I do, I humor you.”
“Be that as it may…”
“It’s time for you to learn to be a duke.”
Learn to be a duke. How much worse could his life become?
But the thought played in his mind, like a tiny string from a bit of frayed fabric caught in an indifferent breeze. Giles hated his own company. Hated food in his mouth and drink pouring down his throat. Hated the sight of his room.
He stared unfocused, for the thousandth time, into the bedchamber. Into nothing.
Or…something? The light. The new day. Learn to be a duke.
All his life, he’d put his faith in what could be observed through the senses, especially what could be seen. Was it time to put his faith in the unseen? Maybe this whole time, his whole life, he’d been wrong about himself…about everything. He hadn’t been born to paint and fuck. He’d been born to be a duke. Quite literally bred for it.
His right arm started tingling and then bloomed into a thousand hot needles attacking the skin all at
once. Giles cringed, thinking through muddled senses and physical discomfort. Oh heaven help him, was his father…did he dare think it? Was his father…right?
Giles blinked his surroundings into focus and stared his father dead in the eye. “Fine.”
If the acceptance shocked Silverlund, not one muscle in his face betrayed the emotion. The duke snapped his fingers in the air. A manservant appeared from the shadows. The duke gave him a single nod and the man set immediately to work—on Giles.
“What’s this about?” Giles spoke to the duke as he allowed the servant to ease him to standing.
“My valet will attend you.”
“What’s wrong with mine?”
“Mine’s better.”
An hour later, the proof of the duke’s words was absent from Giles’s reflection. He’d been shaved and his hair had been cut. Neither smooth face nor the shorter length enhanced his appearance. On the contrary. The hollows in his cheeks were darker and the circles under his eyes more pronounced.
His impeccable clothing was absurdly somber. Black. And white. Nothing else, not a hint, as if the fabric of the finely cut jacket didn’t dare defy Silverlund’s desires.
That, however, was just as well. If the world could betray Giles by retaining color after he was destroyed, he would have to settle into permanent protest and wear none a’tall.
The duke seemed as close to satisfied as the man could probably come. Viewed in particular light, his grimace might almost have been a smile. “You’ll do.”
Down the stairs and outside, Giles allowed himself to be led wordlessly into the Silverlund carriage—a grand affair, not afraid of taking up precious space on narrow roads. It boasted a coat of arms that gleamed rather more garishly than usual. Each of the four carriage horses was an inky black except for one sliver of white above each hoof. Where the duke managed to procure four such horses with no markings but for those perfect coronets was a mystery. Maybe they were painted on.
Giles paused before ascending the conveyance, taking it all in. A duke might be a thing of the mind, but it required a theater of sorts to support the illusion.
No. He wasn’t going to debate with himself the seen versus the unseen. He’d find himself thinking about visual representation again…and his inability to ever again partake in the creation of beautiful things.
A silent hour later, the carriage stopped. In front of a small church.
From the window, Giles peered up and down the street. This was a section of London with which he was not familiar. He leaned back again. “What are we doing here?”
“I would have assumed that was obvious.”
“We’re to pray together?”
“Try again.”
…
It was another tense late morning in the small drawing room where Patience and her parents sat together flagrantly ignoring the gossip about Patience flying about London. Because nobody would discuss the matter, the atmosphere was stifling.
Mrs. Emery set aside her empty teacup and reread the section of newspaper over which she’d already pored, then gasped. “I don’t believe it. I don’t believe it! My love, you must listen to this.” She waved for her husband’s attention, her eyes never leaving the dark print on the smoothly ironed sheet.
Patience took another rose cake from the tea tray. The cakes were the very slightest bit warm, and Cook had iced them just so. She sank her teeth into the cake and let her eyes fall shut as the delicate flavors and perfect hint of sweetness filled her mouth and melted on her tongue.
Which left Patience in a precarious position at her mother’s next exclamation. “That horrible, depraved marquess—you know, the son of that wretched, odious duke who ruined our Patience’s life—is actually getting married.”
Crumbs spewed across the room. Suddenly, all eyes were on Patience, her parents’ and Frances’s, who’d appeared with fresh hot water. The maid darted to Patience’s side. “Are you all right, miss?”
Patience’s eyes watered as she coughed and coughed. Getting married? Ashcroft? No, it couldn’t be. It couldn’t.
But how many other marquesses did England have that her mother would describe in those terms?
“Quickly, Frances, fresh tea for Miss Emery.”
The maid quickly poured a new cup, filling the delicate cup halfway and swirling the tea to cool it quickly.
Patience’s mother’s hand gently patted her back. She took the tea and gently plied it upon Patience. “This will help, my dear.”
Patience wheezed, trying to breathe. She wiped the tears from her eyes and tried to speak…which she couldn’t. She croaked inelegantly. “Forgive me. I’m all right now, I think.”
She patted the remainder of the cake from her skirts before her dress was ruined, but met with nothing but soft muslin. Somewhere in the commotion, her mother had found the presence of mind to confiscate what she no doubt viewed as a forbidden item.
Patience took the tea and gulped greedily. It was the last thing from refined—not in the least how she’d been brought up to behave—but a momentary lapse would be forgiven.
When her breathing mechanisms returned to working order, her mother shook her head. “Gracious, child, whatever happened?”
“I find—” Patience swallowed. Her mind spun. She had to escape. Had to find him. “I find I’m not feeling well. I think I need to retire to my room.”
“But you just said you were all right, my dear.” Her father’s bushy brows knit as he watched her. He sat by an empty fireplace, but when she rose, so did he.
“Yes, but…well, you know.” It was the best she could do.
As she was exiting the room, she overheard her father speaking in low tones. “You remain here, Martha. I’ll see what it’s about.”
Patience took the steps to her room two at a time. Something was wrong. Yesterday Ashcroft had thrown a fit at the idea of a bonesetter. Today he was getting married?
Not if she had anything to say about it.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
No sooner had Patience burst into her room than her father caught up with her. Apparently, he was quite spry for his years. Must have been from the days he oversaw matters at his printing house—he’d always walked both ways.
“Patience, I think we can end this charade here and now. You asked me to trust you, but there are limits.”
“I am sorry, Father, truly I am, but I can explain nothing—there isn’t time.” She rummaged through her things until she found a silk wrap to toss about her shoulders, then grabbed a reticule from where her collection of three hung from pegs adjacent to the dressing table mirror. Coins jingled. She wasn’t going to stop to count it. It would be plenty. She only needed enough to get to—
“Oh!” She froze, insides clenching with panic. Where was she supposed to go?
Before she could dash back to the drawing room and pry the newspaper from her mother’s hands, her father jumped directly in her path. “Why don’t you tell me everything?”
“I already said—”
“Because I might be able to help you.”
She shook her head. In many ways, her father had always been her ally. In this, however, she was alone. “Oh Father, I don’t think—”
“Give me some credit, Patience. Don’t you think I was young and in love once?”
In love. There were the words. Applied to her.
The idea of her parents having passions wasn’t as absurd as it once might have been. So long as she didn’t consider what said passions might have led to. There were some things best left to the realm of, yes, that probably happened, but it’s best never to dwell on the matter.
“All right. All right.” Her father held up his hands, apparently changing tactics. “Just tell me one thing. Does he deserve you?”
“No.”
The answer caught her father off guard. “No?”
“It’s not…it’s not like that. When the subject of marriage arose…” That horrible night Silverlund had burned his son’s paintings and A
shcroft had tried to claim her to spite the man. She’d never be his bride if all he wanted to do was use her to thumb his nose at his father. “Suffice it to say, it would never work and I refused him.”
“Refused him? It’s already gone that far, has it?”
Her face went hot. Gone so much further, yet she could never admit it. The fucking came first. The proposal of marriage—mockery though it made of that term—had been a cruel point of intended manipulation. Her throat squeezed. It hadn’t been Ashcroft’s finest moment, to be sure.
“And so we understand one another, it is that Ashcroft fellow we’re discussing here, yes?”
She confirmed with a shallow nod.
“Ah. And is he as depraved as they claim when they print those stories about him?”
Her lips parted. How was such a question to be answered? To say the marquess was misunderstood sounded vapid and naive.
She raised her chin. “It’s fair to say…he lives by his own rules.”
“So does Bonaparte.”
“Oh, Father.” She tsked. “It’s hard to explain. By many people’s measure, yes, he’s quite the most depraved creature in England.”
“By yours?”
“He’s nothing of the sort.”
Patience’s father’s face softened, and he reached out and took her hand. “It’s like you’ve begun a whole life independent of your mother and me.” He looked wistful, but continued before she had to think of how to fill the silence, adding with a decided nod, “That’s as it ought to be.” He sighed. “It seems like yesterday you were a tiny thing who refused, under any circumstance, to sleep unless you were being held.”
“Father, I haven’t time for reminiscences.”
He went serious. “But, Patience, dear, if he’s recovered so quickly that he’s marrying somebody else today—”
Patience had to make him understand, but he wouldn’t stop talking, and they were both speaking at once.
“No, you don’t see—”
“I would caution anybody against trying to break up a wedding, no matter the reason, but in this instance—”
“Father, I pray you, I will tell you all I can when I can, but I must be allowed—”