by Dayna Quince
“Tis the least I could do for your hospitality. What have we here?” He gestured to the painter.
They now had the attention of the painter and his audience. Guests had parted to make room for the marquess and his family.
“Mr. Von Drake is delighting us with a demonstration of his talents.”
Mr. Von Drake inched forward hesitantly and bowed. “It is my honor, my lord.”
“His paintings are also displayed throughout the room for purchase.”
“Ah,” Lady Wellsford smiled. “I am partial to landscapes. Splendid.”
Draven stepped aside so the family could move closer and see the work. He was standing beside Hazel, who had barely acknowledged him. He looked back to the painter, who had nervously started to blather on about textures. Suddenly, he pointed to Hazel.
“For example, she has hair radiant with wheats and golds. If I were to do her portrait, for a nominal fee of course, it would be a great privilege to highlight each color for its own beauty and shine.” Chuckles followed his statement.
Draven looked down at Hazel. He could see a flush climbing her cheeks and her lips were firmly pinched together.
“Don’t take offense. He was giving you a compliment,” Draven said quietly.
“Would you like to be compared to wheat?” She turned an angry glare on him.
“I’m sure you could find something worse to compare me too. Wheat is precious. One can’t make whisky without wheat, and men have died for their whisky.”
“That is absurd.”
Draven shrugged. “Men are often absurd over the things they love.” Draven wanted to bite his tongue off the moment he finished the sentence. What an absurd thing to say? She blinked at him rather alarmingly, then stuttered a thank you and turned back to the painter.
Now Draven really needed a drink, and he needed to move far away from Lady Hazel Darling—who likely thought him insane—and her delectable sister who stood beside her and yet hadn’t acknowledged him at all.
“Please excuse me,” he said to no one in particular and retreated to the far side of the room. He found a footman to bring him a glass of whisky—ironic though it was, and did his best impression of a bored aristocrat. If he could, he’d fade away into the hall and take his leave, but he wasn’t about to leave his mother. She could have an attack of weakness and he wouldn’t be there to help her.
He was off kilter, a deplorable sensation for a man like him, and there was no way to immediately alleviate it. He was losing his touch, the reprobate inside him writhing in agony and from what he didn’t know. Old age? Lack of sex? He closed his eyes briefly and opened them again. There was no ease for that ailment. He had tried and failed, and the very reason why stood across the room from him. Even if he found a way to get her alone, it wouldn’t be enough. He couldn’t have all that he wanted, which was her beneath him moaning in pleasure.
Perhaps he should leave, abandon England altogether and see what the continent could offer him by way of distraction. In time, he would bed another woman, get Anabelle out of his head, and then he could return with his head straight. He could move on. By then she would be married, and some other man’s obsession—with that thought came a thunderous swelling of emotion.
No.
He was in deeper than he thought. God save him from himself. He needed her out from under his skin if he had to tolerate seeing her with another man. He swallowed the glass of whisky and grimaced with satisfaction as it burned down his throat. The question was how to do it, without thoroughly compromising her in a physically permanent fashion. She was eager for his kisses, she couldn’t hide that anymore, and she was very responsive to his touch, but that was where the danger lay. He knew where his limit was. She didn’t. She was naïve, a virgin. Everything she felt was new, the desire intoxicating and heedy. Like a boy taking his first drink, she was bound to get lost in her lack of experience and end up over her head.
If Draven didn’t have the heart most thought he didn’t, he wouldn’t care. He would take what he wanted, have her bedded before she even knew what had occurred, and then leave her to decide her own fate. But he did have a heart, and he had his honor. Only the vilest of men spit in the face of honor. Draven may be a cold rake, but he wasn’t that low.
He knew her aim was to be a respectable wife, to find a husband she could have some sort of feeling for upon marriage. It wasn’t entirely laughable. His parents had loved each other very much. He turned to his mother, still talking with her cousin and fellow matrons on the settee. He really should see if she needed anything. It was a reminder that he could never leave England, even if it were not for Anabelle. His mother needed him and his sisters needed him.
He went to her side. “Do you have need of anything, Mother?”
Four smiling faces turned to him. One happened to be Lady Wellsford.
“I’m quite fine dear, thank you.” His mother waved him away.
“We had the pleasure of your son’s hospitality today, Lady Draven. His little cottage is quite charming and Wellsford is, of course, besotted with the stables.”
His mother turned to him with a questioning smile. “I had no idea.”
“It was a riding party out in Hampstead Heath.” Draven said obligingly. “We took shelter at my cottage during a small storm.”
“We?” his mother said with a tilt of her head.
“Wellsford, I and our two daughters, Lord and Lady Heath and their offspring, including Lady Lucy’s delightful friend Miss Manton, two acquaintances of Lord Rigsby, Lord Winchester and Lord Bainbridge.”
“Quite a party indeed!” His mother laughed. “Draven, I had no idea you had so many friends. We must have dinner so I can meet them all.”
“I don’t believe you’ve met my daughters,” Lady Wellsford beckoned them.
Two of the matrons left as Anabelle and Hazel arrived and they were introduced to his mother. It was the first time Anabelle had met his eyes. They glittered with mirth when she looked his way, as if to say ‘You have a mother?’ She would pay for that slight, and he looked forward to collecting.
“Well, I will certainly have to invite your lovely family to dinner now.” His mother beamed at Hazel and Anabelle. “It’s a pity I don’t have another son.”
The mothers laughed, Anabelle and Hazel less enthusiastically, and Draven not at all. On one side of the coin, his mother had never looked better, on the other side of the coin, Draven had hoped not to disappoint her on the marriage front.
“My apologies,” he turned to the twins, “I had no idea she was so conniving.”
At this, the twins did genuinely smile and the uncomfortable tension eased. He tasted a small victory.
His mother playfully swatted at him with her fan. “Hush. You have your father’s wicked wit.”
Draven smiled down at his mother. “Then I am blessed.”
Anabelle and Hazel shared a look. It was like seeing a wild tiger bat a ball of yarn. This was Draven, cold-hearted rake, and sense scattering kisser, and apparently, a doting son. Anabelle couldn’t believe what she was seeing. Surely, he had a mother, but one never thinks about the women who spawn men like him, and that was the conundrum. The moment she thought she understood him, she found herself confounded by him all over again.
His mother was beautiful in a frail way, with hair as black as his but threaded with streaks of silver and eyes a darker shade of blue than her own. She had the pallor of one who had suffered a long illness, but her spirit was still intact and it shined in her eyes.
Anabelle was intrigued. She wondered what more a dinner with his family would reveal.
Draven excused himself to find some refreshment for his mother. Anabelle and Hazel found their way back to the painter where he was toiling away on his masterpiece. It was fascinating to see a painting come into being, but Anabelle didn’t care for the painter. He looked like a reprobate. His brown hair was long and tied back in a queue. His skin was olive-toned and he had a lean build. She supposed he could be co
nsidered rather handsome, but he was no match for the man that had just left.
The painter turned and gave them an oily smile. His audience had all but disappeared except for them. He was wiping a brush and smiling at Hazel, who smiled tentatively in return.
“I would love to paint you,” he said to Hazel.
“Oh?” she said noncommittally.
“Have you recent portraits?”
“No,” Anabelle answered truthfully, though she just wanted him to stop leering at her sister.
“Please speak to your father on my behalf. It will take some time, months really, but the experience would be transcending.”
Anabelle narrowed her eyes at him. “Your work is beautiful. I believe my father already purchased a painting.”
This time, Mr. Von Drake did pull his eyes away. “My thanks to your father, my lady. I hope he will consider me for your portraits.
“I don’t think we will be having any more portraits done, at least not until we are married.” Anabelle dismissed him.
He was giving Hazel a rather moony look again. “One can only hope otherwise.”
Anabelle had had enough. “Come, sister. I hear Mother calling us.”
Hazel turned away without a word to Von Drake.
“I find him distasteful,” Hazel said with a grimace.
“As do I,” Anabelle admitted. “The party is waning. We will leave soon.” She herded Hazel out into the hall and down the stairs to the dining room where refreshments and desserts were laid out.
“We should tell Draven.”
Anabelle paused as she was selecting a piece of cake. “Why on earth would we do that?”
“It’s his mother’s cousin’s party. She deserves to know if she is supporting a gentleman of questionable morals.”
“I’m afraid all men are capable of questionable morals, Hazel. That’s why we, as women, must correct them or avoid them.”
“Well, at least Draven could scowl at him and scare the chap into proper behavior.”
“Yes, he does scowl very well.” Anabelle laughed. “Shall we sit here?” She waved to the long table.
“Yes, hopefully, Mr. Von Drake will be gone when we return.”
It was almost midnight when they ventured from the dining room. They were the only guests left downstairs. The party was winding down, many guests having already departed. The hall was empty and dim, the candles having melted down to small flames in their sconces. Anabelle looped her arm through Hazels.
“Oh, I left my fan,” Anabelle slipped back to the dining room while Hazel waited at the foot of the stairs.
There was a low whistle. Hazel turned in puzzlement, unsure if she actually heard anything at all.
“Over here, love.”
Hazel turned sharply towards the hall at the side of the stairs. It was dark, not meant for more than the passage of servants to the back of the house. “Is someone there?”
A shadow moved forward but only just enough to reveal its manly shape. “Come here.”
“I certainly will not,” Hazel said forcefully. She remained at the foot of the stairs where a pool of light made her feel secure.
The shadow moved closer and Hazel tensed to scream. As it moved closer, the shadow revealed himself as the painter Von Drake. “I mean you no harm.”
“You startled me.”
“I thought we had a peculiar connection, you and I. An affinity for beauty.” He stepped into the pool of light now.
Hazel kept her hand on the banister but remained calm. “I know not of what you speak.”
He inched closer, putting his hand on the banister near hers. “You are beautiful and I paint beauty. It’s rather serendipitous, don’t you think?”
Hazel ground her teeth and wondered where the devil Anabelle had gotten to. “No, I don’t. If you will excuse me, I must meet my sister.” Hazel moved to go around him, but he placed his hands over hers.
“Darling, don’t leave so soon. We’ve only just begun this adventure.”
“Take your hand off me or I will scream,” Hazel said between clenched teeth.
“I’d love to hear you scream... with pleasure, of course.”
“Tell me, Von Drake, what happens to the value of your paintings if you die. They become more valuable, don’t they?”
The voice came from the top of the stairs like a sudden chilled wind. Von Drake let go of her hand and Hazel backed away from his reach. Slow steps descended the stairs and Von Drake didn’t move as they continued to descend.
Hazel looked up at the source, her mouth going slack.
Draven had already begun to unbutton his jacket. As he reached the bottom, he removed it and slung it over the banister. Then, slowly but precisely he began to unbutton his cuffs and roll up his sleeves. Hazel was mesmerized. Von Drake looked like a rabbit frozen by fear.
“No harm done, my lord,” he uttered shakily.
Draven smiled maliciously. “No harm done? Is that what you think? Let’s see where the moment takes us.” He descended the last step and faced Von Drake.
“Tis a simple misunderstanding.”
Anabelle popped out of the dining room as Draven approached Von Drake.
“What is going on?” she said with dismay.
“Just a little demonstration in chivalry,” Draven said dryly.
Anabelle gave the two men a wide berth as she came to Hazel’s side.
“What is going on?” she asked Hazel.
Hazel shook her head and then swallowed. “Draven is… rescuing me? Where have you been?”
“I had to wait for Mrs. Bell to retrieve my fan from her office,” Anabelle murmured. She was afraid to look away from the two men. “Are they going to fight?”
“Of course not.” Von Drake blanched. “Certainly not in the presence of ladies.”
“You’re right, of course,” Draven paused, “I do believe a visit to the mews is in order.”
“Surely you jest, my lord. There was no harm done. I was mistaken, is all. Isn’t that right, my lady?” He appealed to Hazel.
“Certainly no harm came to me, but I cannot say the same for you,” Hazel said dryly.
“This is ridiculous.” Anabelle stepped forward. “We are civilized people and fisticuffs will not solve anything. Surely, a simple apology is all that is needed for… for—” Anabelle looked back at her sister. “What exactly occurred?”
“He wouldn’t let go of my hand and claimed he wanted to hear me scream with pleasure.”
Anabelle’s eyes were so wide it was actually painful. She looked back to Draven. A wave of anger and disgust overcame her and her stomach did a nauseating roll. “Carry on, we will continue to the drawing room to say our goodbyes.” She turned to leave and then paused. She put a hand on Draven’s arm. “Thank you.” She looked into his eyes. His were cold and fierce, but he nodded meaningfully.
“Now, wait a minute!” Von Drake cried and grabbed Anabelle’s arm.
She gasped, but as soon as he had touched her, his hand was ripped from her by the force of Draven lifting the blighter by his jacket lapels and carrying him down the darkened hall with a vicious growl.
Anabelle was stunned. She shook herself out of it. “Go back to Mother and Father,” she urged Hazel.
“What are you going to do?” Hazel said with alarm.
“I have to see this.”
“Anabelle!”
“Go, Hazel, I will only be a moment. And for God’s sake, don’t say anything to Mother and Father.”
Anabelle didn’t wait for her sister to say anything more, but she did pause to make certain Hazel was not following. She followed the dark hall to the back of the house and out a side door. There she found Draven and Von Drake squaring off.
Anabelle had never found male displays of brute mentality worthy of her attention, but she had never seen Draven so… animalistic, and she couldn’t look away. Her heart was beating in her throat.
Von Drake was still pleading for mercy, but then his entire demeanor chang
ed as he sneered at Draven.
“A good show, my lord. I can only assume that you are after the chit yourself. You’ve done your job and now I will be on my way.”
“I can’t excuse your deplorable behavior. Is this a habit of yours, abusing the charity of your hosts, and preying on their young feminine guests?”
“Trespassing on your territory, am I?” Von drake folded his arms across his chest smugly. “You lords are all the same. You feel as though it is your right to claim everything, but what right do you really have? My work will leave its mark upon the world, be appreciated for decades, even centuries to come, but you are nothing but a title and pile of money. Your only worth is what you will leave your greedy predecessor.”
Draven shrugged. “Perhaps, but that is neither here nor there. You accosted a lady and I will not have that.”
“She was willing.” Von Drake curled his lip.
“She said no, and I heard it clear as a bell from the top of the stairs. You defiled her with your presence and I will not stand for it. Put up your fists like a man or not. Either way, I will have satisfaction on behalf of her and her family. If I were her father, I’d put a bullet in your heart, but alas, it is not my place to do so. Therefore, I will simply beat you to a bloody pulp.”
Von Drakes hard swallow was audible even from where Anabelle stood peeking behind the door. Admirably, he put up his fists, but they shook. The two men circled—Draven a quiet menacing force and Von Drake a pale staggering fool. It was Von Drake who swung first, a far-reaching punch to Draven’s chin that fell short. Draven answered with a swift uppercut and Von Drake fell limply to the ground. Anabelle squeaked and covered her mouth. Draven inspected Von Drake, kicking his foot and then checking his pulse. He shook his head while standing over him and then turned towards the door.
He pulled it open and there Anabelle stood.
“Are you mad, woman?”
“Apparently so.”
She grabbed him by his cravat and pulled herself to him, catching him by surprise with a heated kiss. She didn’t know what had come over her. All she knew was that she needed to taste the wild animal he had become in the defense of her and her sister. She wanted to feel his power against her and under her hands. She was achingly aroused by him, a sensation still new and frightening, but she let it take over her for just the moment.