Ophelia blinked. Vane didn’t consider himself to be a seducer, then? That stunned her, given his age and good looks. Surely such a man spent a good deal of his time in the pursuit of women?
“I admire you, Stark. You know I do. But. . .” He gestured to the spot where he’d found them. “Do you wish her utterly ruined?”
Ophelia stared at Andrew, praying he would somehow correct this wretched misadventure. But he only stared blankly at Vane as if a hundred torturous thoughts danced in his head.
“My lord?” she asked, wishing she could press his arm with her hand, wishing they could go back to the moments before Vane discovered them.
Andrew seemed struck by Vane’s words, his entire demeanor in the thrall of some unseen demon.
Ophelia frowned as she realized exactly what she was doing. She was waiting for Andrew to rescue her from this strange situation, but as she took in the man who had rescued her and her mother, giving them hope in a time of sorrow, it became infinitely clear that it was he who needed saving.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Never yield to shame if you have
been true to your heart.
-Ophelia’s Notebook
Vane’s words slammed down on Andrew, driving at his heart and soul, each incrimination an anvil meant to pound him through the floor. He couldn’t reply, but only because he had no defense, no contradiction.
And it was bloody well shocking that such realizations had come from the former lecher. Had Vane retired from his once-scandalous behavior? It certainly seemed so. Vane was not, nor ever had been, a hypocrite. Still, what had made him change so drastically? A few years ago, Vane would have laughed and jested at their circumstances.
But for all his altered demeanor, the marquis was in the right.
In his need for Ophelia, Andrew had given no thoughts or concerns to the consequences of taking her out in the hall, hoisting up her skirts and pleasuring her. He’d thought of nothing but himself and his desire to satiate her newly discovered passion.
He was the one with experience. The one who knew how to control his urges if necessary, and he’d controlled none of them. Ophelia was already in precarious social circumstances, an artist, an artist’s model, which was only just acceptable by polite society because of the precedent set by a few important ladies, such as Effie Ruskin. There was also the fact that Ophelia was the rejected half-sister of an earl.
He’d wanted to release her from the fetters of her cold, country prison. To help her embrace the passions of this life. But if he’d wanted to cast her as a strumpet and a jade to the world, he was going about it in an excellent manner.
He felt sick. His stomach twisted, and he could not even bare to look at the woman he’d used so foully. She was a fiery angel, and good God, he was dragging her down into his oily hell, a soul-coating hell that she’d never escape from once he truly inundated her in it.
“Lord Vane,” she said, her deep voice resonating with the power of that seraphim he loved so well. “You blame Viscount Stark for that which is my fault.”
Andrew blinked. Her fault?
Vane angled toward Ophelia, his face surprisingly kind. “My dear, you are mistaken.”
She pressed her lips together for a moment, then said, “I asked Viscount Stark to make love to me.”
Vane stilled. “Indeed? I beg your pardon for my forwardness, but you strike me as untouched.”
“Not. . .untouched,” she replied evenly. “And I do not wish to be so.”
The softness vanished from Vane’s face. “I see.”
Andrew stared back and forth between Vane and his Ophelia, who was casting herself into moral ruin. “Vane, she’s had too much champagne,” he began, desperate to save her from her own burgeoning madness.
“I have not,” she said sharply, before she locked unrepentant gazes with him. “I wish for you to make love to me.” Then she lifted her chin and leveled those unyielding eyes at the marquis. “As many times as Viscount Stark wishes.”
Vane stared, his face unreadable. “I only wish to protect you. Forgive me if I have misstepped.”
Andrew’s gut clenched. He couldn’t let her do this. Not for him. Not to rescue him. He wouldn’t allow her to take the blame for his asinine and selfish behavior. “Ophelia,” he said lowly, “you speak out of grief.” He looked to Vane. “Her mother is dying. You know that. She doesn’t know what she is saying.”
“Andrew,” she whispered. “Are you casting me off? So quickly?”
Something in that quiet plea of hers circled around his heart and squeezed, bloodying it. Turning it inconsolably raw. Touching it as no thing had in years. Their eyes met again, and as always seemed to happen when their gazes locked, everything but the two of them vanished. Vane, the strains of the orchestra drifting down the hall, and the brash din of the company. There was nothing in the world but she. “How can I cast off myself?” he asked.
The tension in her shoulders eased, and her gaze softened. “Take me away from here.”
Without a word, Andrew went to the woman who had somehow stolen his heart and soul like a night thief and took her hand.
“You’re marrying her, then,” Vane demanded. “You must, Andrew, if you’re to continue this sort of behavior.”
Andrew barely heard his old acquaintance. His entire attention was focused on Ophelia’s beautiful face and the frame of her red-gold hair and the halo it made.
“It is the only way,” Vane insisted.
“You assume I’d accept,” Ophelia said.
And the reverie broke. Andrew sucked in a sharp breath and yanked his gaze from the woman who’d just held his heart in her hands and now twisted it in her pale, harsh fingers.
You assume I’d accept.
Vane bowed. “I see you do not wish my interference in your choice, my lady. Once again, forgive me. But. . .I beg you, do be careful. Ruination is a cruel thing.”
And with that, Vane turned and strode down the darkened hall, vanishing into the shadows, leaving Andrew alone with Ophelia.
Her rejection boomed in his brain. Boomed again and again. Until a clear voice made it inescapable in his mind. She didn’t love him. She never could. She wanted him for the pleasure he could give her. The distraction. The escape from pain. She wanted him for what he did best. And apparently she was willing to ruin herself to get it.
And if that was what she so truly desired, he was suddenly unsure if he could do as she wished.
The hypnotically sad notes of Chopin’s Nocturne No. 7 drifted down the long hall, calling Andrew toward its source. Of course, he knew where it came from. The melody, both dissonant yet perfect, held such passion, such knowledge.
It bespoke a lifetime of loss, of love, of pain, of knowing it was all worth the cost.
He should have been walking away, not toward the dowager’s room, but nothing it seemed could stop the pull of that music. Andrew paused before her door and placed his fingers on the handle.
He hesitated. The music filled the air, sending slight vibrations up through the wooden door and brass latch. His fingers hummed, and he closed his eyes.
He’d left Ophelia at her door. Oh, he was committed to her seduction. But not tonight, not when her hard words still resonated deep within his heart.
You assume I’d accept.
Those fatal words carried the same lamentable force as Chopin’s desolate composition.
Not giving a damn for propriety, Andrew opened the door quietly, entered and closed it with a soft snick. He lingered, his gaze transfixed.
Moonlight shone in through the tall windows that faced the garden, beaming down onto Lady Darlington, casting her in its silver-blue hue. She played by that light and no other.
Her long hair flowed over her back, a shining curtain in the faint glow. Despite the frailty of her body, her arms moved with vigor, her emaciated fingers mastering the keys.
Such self-possession he’d never seen. One might have never guessed Lady Darlington was defying death’s reachin
g grasp, what with the passion her spirit held on.
The last notes reverberated through the room, and her body, so full of vigor, came to stillness. She drew in a long breath, her slender shoulders expanding ever so slightly beneath her blue silk robe. Her fingers rested on the ivory. “You’re in the wrong room, Andrew.”
He blinked.
Slowly, almost painfully, she turned, her movements stuttering as she braced herself on the lip of the piano. “You’ve had a disagreement with Ophelia? She’s quite stubborn.”
“Surely you don’t mean—”
“What else could I mean, dear boy? You love her, don’t you? You should be with her, not an old woman.”
He nearly barked an emphatic denial, but what would be the point? Instead, he drew in a long breath, then stepped farther into the room. “Your company is exactly what I require.”
She gave him a wry smile. “You prefer older women, is that it?”
“I—”
“Oh, Andrew, what are you so afraid of? You’re as bad as my daughter.”
He winced. “Your daughter doesn’t seem to be afraid of anything.”
“Don’t let her fool you.”
“Ophelia would laugh at the devil.”
“Oh, she might, but she’d do it to hide the quaking of her heart. She’s known too much pain in this life. Like you.”
He snorted. “We’ve all known pain.”
“We have. But yours, Andrew? Yours has made a home in your heart, carving out a dwelling place. You must evict it or you shall never be happy.”
Was that why he’d wandered down the halls, drawn by her music? To be told such platitudes? Except they weren’t platitudes. The way they hurt, they were truths, for he’d learned long ago that it wasn’t lies that ripped out one’s heart. “I don’t know about happiness. I think it’s a myth.
She laughed. “Oh, it exists, but only for those who work for it. Happiness is a demanding taskmaster.” She raised her arms, the sleeves of her embroidered gown swooping about her, then beckoned. “Come. Sit by me.”
Andrew hesitated again. He shouldn’t be here. But he could deny the older lady nothing, and in truth, it was exactly what he wanted. The wise words of a mother. Silently, he crossed and lowered himself gently onto the damask-covered bench before the piano.
“Do you play?” she asked. “You do, don’t you? I can tell.”
How he wished he could contradict her. But he did play. In fact, the piano was his. He had kept it in his room since the day he’d claimed the house and his title. But the moment he’d learned of her love of playing, he’d been determined that she should have it for as long as. . .as long as she was able. Now, he was glad he had given his piano to her, for the joy of music had graced her face.
It was a face already touched by grace. Still, he was still glad to have been able to give her something she so enjoyed.
She placed a withered hand on his strong forearm. “Beethoven or Chopin?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“What shall we play?”
He couldn’t tear his gaze away from her hand. Once, it had been slim, the fingers long and delicate, glowing pink and white with health. Now, it shook slightly, and the bones strained against the slightly spotted skin. Even so, it was perhaps the most purely loving touch he’d ever known. “I wish you’d been my mother.”
The words were out before he could stop them, and they rang in the air, dangerous, full of longing. He couldn’t take them back. He waited for her to laugh.
Instead, that frail hand lifted, and she stroked his dark hair back from his face, then gently cupped his cheek. “My dear Andrew, I am. And you are my son.”
His throat tightened as the sting of tears burned his eyes.
She gazed up at him, her gaze open, soft, full of love. “I know it in my heart. I knew it the moment I saw you, that you would be my boy.”
“I don’t know if Ophelia will ever—”
“Shh.” That soft hand of hers pressed against his mouth to silence him. Then she took his big hands in hers. “Now. I do believe you and Ophelia are meant for each other, but I will not have you believe that my love is conditional, Andrew. Love is never conditional. If someone attempts to give you conditions, then it was never love they gave you.”
Andrew gasped back his pain. “I do not know if I can make her love me.”
“She already does. That will not be your problem.”
How easily Ophelia’s mother said such things. “Then what is my problem?”
“She has no idea how to trust the male sex, Andrew. Her father died, leaving her, and her brother hurt her very badly. She loved them both. So she is wary of giving her heart freely again. You must earn her trust if it is her love you seek.”
“I am not trustworthy.”
“If you never try, you never shall be.”
Good God. She was forthright. She wasn’t trying to convince him of his good character, or that he’d secretly been a good man all along. Oh no. She was simply telling him to change. “What if I can’t?”
“Then you embrace your unhappiness. You choose it. Unhappiness doesn’t force you to its lonely path.” She squeezed his hand. “There now, I wager your mother never said such harsh things.”
He stared at her a long moment. “My mother never said anything to me. Not beyond the odd comment about my appearance.”
“Well, then.” She smiled softly. “It was high time someone took you in hand.”
“I suppose. I never thought I was worth taking in hand.”
“Ah. Now, I’m going to tell you something very important. And you must listen.”
“Yes?”
“Ophelia can never make you feel worthy.”
“I know I’ve done things. Said things. But surely she can—”
“You’re not listening,” she admonished.
“Forgive me.”
“But there’s the point of it, Andrew. The only person who can forgive you is you. And the only person who can deem you worthy is you. If you allow others to determine your worth, you shall allow others to hold your fate in their hands. Take responsibility for your own life, my dear boy, and always remember you are a precious child of this universe who was born worthy and will die worthy. No one but you can take that away.”
To his horror, a tear slipped down his cheek. He resisted the urge to dash it away, but rather let it fall. “Thank you, Lady Darlington.”
“Mama,” she said softly.
“Thank you. . .Mama.”
“Good. Now let us play. Something with verve. Beethoven, I think.”
And so Andrew faced the piano with the mother of his heart, a little boy who finally knew he was loved, and was suddenly aware of how wonderful life could be.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The only way to survive
is to protect one’s heart.
-Ophelia’s Notebook
Ophelia sat very still, chin tilted up, gaze skyward, her hands lightly clasping a dagger with the point carefully positioned against her red velvet-covered breasts. Apparently, she was Juliet, longing for her Romeo.
It was a surprisingly sympathetic pose. One that filled her heart with longing. Longing for the dratted man standing in the back of the studio keeping a wary eye upon Rossetti as the artist worked, sketching wildly over a large canvas.
Andrew had left her at her door last night. After awakening her body, after kissing her with a passion she’d never even conceived of, he’d left her. Why hadn’t he followed her into her room to finish what they had begun?
What had changed?
And good Lord. The night had been filled with music.
She’d sat in her room, listening to her mother play. When she’d opened her door, ready to go to her mother and sit beside her, she’d spotted Andrew slipping into her mother’s room.
There had been silence for sometime and then. . . Then they’d begun to play together. Duet after duet after duet.
Ophelia had never played well, preferrin
g to listen to her mother, savoring the feeling of being transported by such impassioned playing.
She’d been temped to burst in on them and demand to know why they kept the house up at all hours. But she’d known jealousy motivated her, jealousy that Andrew shared something with her mother that she never could. And perhaps a simple jealousy of the ease with which Andrew had seemingly bared his heart to Lady Darlington.
Why couldn’t he bare his heart to her?
When would she learn? When would she finally learn that giving one’s heart to another was horrifyingly dangerous? Oh, it was all well and good to live for pleasure, without fear, but she couldn’t risk losing anyone else.
She’d lost her father. Granted, he’d not wished to leave her. But in the end, she had felt abandoned just the same.
She’d lost her half-brother, whom she’d once adored. What a fool she’d been in that regard. How he must have secretly hated her to cut her so easily from his life.
And now she was losing her mother. This hurt most of all. For her mother was her rock, the constant in her ever-shifting, changing world. Now, there would be no one left to love her best. To love her no matter what good or bad choices she made or despite what she might do wrong.
Ophelia refused to make the mistake of placing her heart in Andrew’s hands. For surely, whether he willed it or no, he would abandon her, too.
That was the point of it. Life could steal Andrew from her. So she would have to ensure that she never loved him too well. She’d have to. Or she’d risk more pain than she could bear.
She frowned. That wasn’t what her mother had meant when she’d said to embrace life. Ophelia swallowed, dismayed to realize that perhaps she wasn’t as courageous as her mother thought.
Banging and pounding filled the hallway, mixed with the cacophony of several voices.
Despite herself, her gaze slipped to the open doorway.
“Don’t move,” roared Rossetti.
She snapped her face back to the light, attempting to recapture the rapture Rossetti had assured her she’d found. But the voices became clearer, one of them absolutely distinct and female.
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