She stared down at her sketch, wondering if the Earl of Tannenbrook knew how transparent he was when one bothered to study his face with the eye of an artist. It was all there—strength, loyalty, compassion. Secrets.
“My estate in Derbyshire is in the midst of considerable repair. After he married you, and I saw how you were together, I thought perhaps I could return there. I made plans to leave this afternoon. Then I received your note.”
Her eyes flew to his face once again. “Why would seeing us together ease your worry, my lord?”
He blinked twice, appearing puzzled. “You do not know?”
She released an exasperated sigh. “Why do you suppose I have asked you here? I have no idea how he feels.”
He sat back, seeming discomfited by her outburst. “Perhaps you should speak to Lucien.”
“Lord Tannenbrook, if I could obtain such information from my husband, I would have done so before today. He will not speak to me.”
The earl now appeared distinctly uncomfortable, fingers flexing, one hand fussing with his cravat where it wrapped about his thick neck. His eyes darted toward the door.
“Now then,” she continued firmly. “Let us address the reason for my note. Lucien wanted vengeance upon my brother, so he generated a scandal and coaxed me into marriage. He then attempted to cut me out of Harrison’s life entirely, thus simultaneously humiliating the duke and depriving him of his sister. Do I have that about right?”
Tannenbrook went still, his fingers now gripping the arms of the chair. He nodded.
She smiled tightly. “Good. I have only one question. Does Lucien care for me, or was this always about revenge and nothing more?”
This was it. Better to know the truth, surely. Her palms dampened, making her grip on her sketchbook and pencil slick. His answer might change everything. Her marriage, her very life. And he was taking an awfully long time. Blood rushed loudly in her ears, her stomach clenching, her skin chilled. It is better to know, she repeated. If he will simply tell me—
Finally, he sat forward, opened his mouth to speak, closed it, then replied, “He has not said that he loves you.”
Her heart tore. Blood drained away from her skin, causing a flush of ice.
I was wrong, she thought. Knowing is much worse than not knowing. It is agony, in fact.
“However—”
At that one word, her entire being paused. Without thinking, she reached forward and gripped the man’s wrist, her pencil falling to the floor with a quiet clack. “However?”
He glanced to where her fingers attempted to circle his wrist. They could not even manage half the circumference. “However, I will say this: I have never seen Lucien happier than he has been since your marriage. Not in all the years I have known him.”
The revelation sent her heart—broken only moments earlier—thumping and twirling and positively leaping. “Truly?” she asked breathlessly.
A grudgingly full smile transformed Tannenbrook’s face. “Truly.” He patted her hand where it still grasped his wrist, gently pried her fingers loose, and set it back in her lap.
She scarcely noticed.
“Rest assured, the man has been a bloody mooncalf for weeks now. I daresay if he does not care for you, not only is he daft, he should be treading the boards at Drury Lane.”
The sun had burst through the clouds. Music had broken a long and desolate silence. Rain had come to parched earth. Hope. There was hope again.
Victoria beamed at the earl, just barely restraining herself from jumping into the man’s arms. “Lord Tannenbrook, this has been … I cannot express …” She struggled against tears. “Well, perhaps simpler is better. Thank you, my lord. You have been most helpful.”
He bowed his head and said, “You are quite welcome, Lady Atherbourne.”
She rose to see him out, and he stood, his massive form towering over her. His eyes landed on her sketchbook. “Are you finished, then?”
She looked at the leather cover then at him. “With the sketch? Yes, actually, I am.”
“May I see it?”
Though she had to crane her neck to do so, she looked up into his eyes. Something there resembled the look of a shy boy. She grinned. “Of course.” Quickly flipping to the page with his portrait, she handed him the open book. He took it carefully in his big hands, his face shadowed and inscrutable as he examined her work. A slight frown furrowed his forehead.
“Is—is something wrong?” She stepped closer, moving to his side so she could see the page herself. “I had trouble with your brow, but I thought I got it right in the end.”
“No, nothing is wrong,” he said. “It’s fine. Quite the best I have ever seen, in fact.”
A thrill ran through her at the unexpected praise. It was not often she heard such things from anyone apart from Harrison or Lady Berne. Rising onto her tiptoes, she gave a little bounce of happiness, beaming up at the kind and obviously discerning Lord Tannenbrook.
The chamber door slammed loudly, echoing in the room.
“Well, isn’t this a cozy picture,” her husband said sardonically. “My best friend and my wife.”
~~*
Chapter Thirty-One
“Do not glower at me, dear boy. I am not the one keeping secrets.” —The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham to the Earl of Tannenbrook during a particularly vexing discussion.
Lucien had never enjoyed killing. As a soldier, it had been necessary at times, but he took no pleasure in it. Until now. He pictured dispatching Tannenbrook with the same brutal efficiency he had employed against the French. It was … satisfying.
Seeing Victoria standing bare inches from James, smiling up at him in radiant joy, her petite curves all but embraced by the much larger man—it was acid eating away his veins. It made his hands clench in longing for a sword, a pistol, anything to snap the connection between them.
That look belonged to Lucien. He was the cause of her angelic smile. He made her laugh and dance on her toes. No one else.
“Lucien,” his wife exclaimed. A sweep of pink flared in her cheeks as she stepped back, adding several feet of space between her and James.
Better, he thought grimly. But not nearly enough.
“I—we … That is, Lord Tannenbrook and I …” Victoria stammered, her voice a bit higher than usual. Something in his expression brought her explanation to a halt.
Looking annoyed, James placed the book he was holding on the chair behind him and moved toward Lucien, his shoulders squared as though preparing for a bout at Gentleman Jackson’s. “Don’t be a damned fool, man,” his friend warned. “She asked to sketch my portrait. The door was open.”
Lucien’s lips flattened. “You sat for her. Nothing more?”
Tilting his head slightly, James sniffed. “Bit of conversation.”
“Conversation.” Lucien’s tone was deadly.
“Perhaps I should take my leave.”
“Perhaps you should have left long ago,” Lucien retorted.
James nodded, a dry half smile emerging on his face. His steps rang loudly in the room as he slowly approached Lucien standing in front of the closed door. As he passed, he paused, clapping a large hand heavily onto Lucien’s shoulder.
“Have a care, my friend,” James murmured so only Lucien could hear. “You would be wise to recognize the jewel that rests in your palm, even if the reason you possess it is less than noble.”
With a final bruising pat, James exited, the door closing with a quiet click.
Eyes fixed on Victoria, Lucien watched as she puttered about the room, first to her work table, then to her easel, then back to the table. Reaching behind her back, she untied and removed the paint-smudged apron, revealing a pale pink, long-sleeved gown of simple muslin.
His eyes dropped to her breasts, full and lush. They were modestly covered, but he could not help wondering if James had noticed them. How could he do otherwise? Lucien thought, his stomach tightening. She is exquisitely made.
He missed her skin. Her s
weet floral smell. The feel of her lips on his body. The wave of peace as he lay his head over her heart, his cheek cushioned by her pleasure-flushed breasts.
He nearly groaned at the memory.
She capped a glass bottle of blue pigment and placed it carefully in a wooden case. Tendrils of hair escaped the simple coil at the back of her head, falling along the frame of her jaw.
He felt his own jaw clench. What did you expect her to do? he asked himself bitterly. How was she to feel, knowing you schemed to keep her from her family, that you used her for your own purposes—and only repented when you discovered you had targeted the wrong brother?
Angry. She should feel angry. And she had made it plain that she did.
He felt a wave of sickness. She had served fish every night since the confrontation at Clyde-Lacey House. First, she had fled to her sitting room without a word. Then she had fallen asleep without him. Then she had communicated her displeasure through the dinner menu.
Perceiving she desired a bit of distance, he had retreated. They slept apart, spent most of each day apart, essentially lived apart. They barely spoke. Outside of the dark months after Waterloo, it had been the worst week of his life.
“You are quite fortunate, you know,” she said quietly, swishing a paintbrush in a small cup of solvent. “Lord Tannenbrook is a most devoted friend.”
Lucien folded his arms across his chest, irritation making him bristle. “What does that mean?”
She wiped the brush clean with a cloth, then laid it neatly next to a row of others. “Simply that he appears to have been an anchor for you amidst great storms.”
As her eyes met his, blue-green and unflinching, he realized she was sincere. Her honest assessment of James was that he had been a stalwart friend to Lucien. And that was true. But how would she know? “You’ve been meeting with him regularly, have you?” he asked softly.
She rolled her eyes. “Of course not. Today was the first time.” Her expression grew sad, sympathetic. “He explained what happened last year.”
Dread, thick and paralyzing, flooded through him. How much had James told her?
“Suffering so much loss all at once,” she said, her voice gentle. “I cannot bear to imagine how you endured it.”
The air fled his body, leaving his lungs to struggle and burn. She knew. Oh, dear God. She knew about the darkness. The madness. No. No, no, no, no. It was his greatest shame, his inability to escape from the black pit. If she knew …
“I understand better now, Lucien. You believed Harrison was responsible. Vengeance became your purpose. But now you must surely see this path can only end in further destruction. For you. For me. Is that what Gregory or Marissa would have wanted, do you suppose?”
Unable to hold her gaze, he drifted toward the windows, staring out at the swirling gray fog. He braced his hands on the sill. “It was not what anyone wanted,” he confessed hoarsely. “Including me.” His head fell forward, bowing under the strain of remembering. “At the time, it was the only thing that would permit me to sleep.”
Her silence was filled with understanding. Regret. The rustle of her dress as she moved about the room was the only sound he heard for a long while. When she finally spoke, she was but a few feet behind him. Closer than she had been in days. He thought perhaps he caught a hint of her scent. Hyacinth. So sweet.
“The Gattingford ball is this evening. Do you still intend to accompany me?” Her voice, previously soft with empathy, had returned to its normal, quiet cadence.
Thank God. The last thing he wanted was for Victoria to witness him collapsing in grief or exploding in a fit of anger. He could not bear her pity. Better she should hate him.
But was that true? If she hated him, she might leave him. Nothing could be worse than that.
“Lucien?”
His fingers curled into the painted wood of the sill. His chest felt tight, the ache around his heart intensifying.
Answer her, you bloody fool.
He felt her approach, felt tingles of awareness run down his spine, curl around his hips and sink into his groin. So close. Her hand settled gently against his biceps. It scalded him through layers of wool and linen. Branded him as hers.
“Lucien,” she whispered. “Are you …?”
“Yes,” he gritted. “Of course I will accompany you.”
One heartbeat. Two.
Her hand fell away. He felt her draw back, heard her footsteps whisper a retreat toward the door. “Thank you,” she said, her voice thicker than before, as though she were having trouble forming the words.
She must resent me so, he thought. And well she should. Escorting her to the second Gattingford ball of the season was the least he could do, as it would be the final piece in restoring her reputation. He was not the husband she deserved. But he could fulfill at least one promise he’d made to her. It was a risk. She had only married him to resolve the scandal. After tonight, that would no longer be a concern. She would have no more need of him.
Clearing her throat, she drew his attention once again. “We shall dine here, before we leave. Lady Gattingford’s offerings are simply ghastly.” She paused. “Cook had planned to serve haddock, I believe.”
He squeezed his eyes shut. Fish again. Well, on the bright side, he supposed Victoria still cared enough to be angry. It was a hopeful sign.
“However, I have asked her to prepare roasted duck instead. Her brandy sauce is excellent.”
The door clicked as she exited the room.
Perhaps “hopeful” had been a bit premature, he thought wryly. She had even given up on her transparent attempts to punish him. He could only conclude one of two things: Either she was beginning to forgive him, or she no longer gave a damn.
His head dropped as despair overwhelmed him. He’d been asking himself for days how it was possible to keep her in his life. He knew she would not divorce him—she would never again invite such scandal—but with the duke’s help, she could live separately in ease and comfort. Apart from him. Forever.
He was willing to stand and accept her anger, ready to plead for her forgiveness. But if he had destroyed whatever affections she had for him—if she could not love him—none of that would matter.
He glanced around the room absently. Blue walls. Bare wooden floors. The first time he had entered Victoria’s studio, it had stunned him. Nothing of his sister remained here, not the ormolu clock on the mantel or the bureau where she had placed a vase of rosebuds. Not even the stain of her blood on the floor. Now, the room was entirely Victoria’s. That’s good, he thought. Better to remember Marissa elsewhere—perhaps in the garden back at Thornbridge.
An unexpected smile tugged. She’d been a wild thing, his sister. Her hem had always been stained by rainwater, grasses, and the dirt of the places she loved to explore. She’d had a habit of traipsing over acres of woods, ambling along the brook that cut through their land. She had said it was the only time she ever felt entirely at peace.
He blinked and felt something trickle down his face.
Are you at peace now, little one?
It was a question he suspected he would ask for the rest of his life. Even if Colin Lacey were punished. Even if Blackmore suffered for killing Gregory. Somehow, he knew none of it would ever be enough, because it could not undo what had been done.
Swiping at his face, he slowly wandered about the room. Yes, it was Victoria’s place, now. She had made it her own.
His eyes fell on the chairs near the empty fireplace.
Resentment rising, he recalled walking into the room earlier, seeing her and Tannenbrook together. She had asked James to sit for her. Not Lucien. James. Why? What was so compelling about bloody James Kilbrenner that she simply had to sketch the bloody giant?
Spotting her sketchbook resting on one of the chairs, he snatched it up and flipped open the brown leather cover.
His breath stopped, heart turning over painfully. It was not James. It was … him. Lucien. He was seated beside a window, his face shuttered and
yet sad. Hollow. Lost.
He ran his fingers gently over the sketch, tracing the path her hands had traced. She must have drawn him from memory. The forms were excellent, her strokes bold and confident. And yet, it was not simply technique. The portrait was sensitive and nuanced, her empathy for her subject woven into the shading of dark and light, the lowered tilt of his chin, the vulnerability of his hand, lying open and empty on the arm of the chair. Such a gifted artist, his wife.
He turned to the next page, his eyes flaring in surprise.
It was him again. This time, he was lying in their bed, his mouth curving slightly upward as he slept, the sheet wrapped about his hips. She must have sketched him after they’d made love.
Another page, another portrait of him. And another. And another. Dozens, in fact.
She had drawn him in every conceivable pose—nude and clothed, laughing and brooding, contemplative and impassioned. She made studies of his entire form, detailed sketches of his hands, his eyes, the contours of his chest. She seemed especially fond of the lower half of his face—his lips and jaw.
He felt himself grinning like a fool. A fool besotted with his wife, discovering that perhaps, just perhaps, she felt the same for him. He swallowed, almost afraid to believe it.
Coming to the last page, he saw the portrait she had done today, the one of James. His friend’s craggy, blunt features were far from handsome, but Victoria had managed to capture the keen intelligence in the sharpness of his eyes, the stubborn determination in the hardness of his jaw, the secretive darkness in the shadows of his brow. It was a brilliant representation of the man.
But one thing it did not show—the infatuation of the artist with her subject. Every drawing of Lucien was redolent with adoration. If nothing else, the sheer quantity demonstrated that. Feeling more hopeful than he had in weeks, he moved to set Victoria’s sketchbook on her work table. That was when he spotted her easel, covered with a large cloth, presumably to protect her painting from dust.
Curious, he lifted the linen, folding it carefully back to reveal …
Himself.
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