by Kelly Bowen
Flynn didn’t budge from the door, as baffled as he was repelled at her presence. “What do you want?”
Cecelia fluttered her lashes and sauntered back in his direction. “That’s not much of a welcome for an old friend, Flynn.” She reached out an expensively gloved hand and stroked his forearm.
Flynn stepped back. “We are not friends.”
Her eyes narrowed slightly before they widened again. “Don’t be like this, Flynn. We both know that we were quite spectacular together.” She advanced another step closer. “We could be again,” she breathed.
“I’m sure your Italian count might have an opinion on that,” he said coldly. “Good day, my lady.” He held the door a little wider.
“That Italian does not possess half the skill you do,” she purred, seemingly undaunted by his rudeness. “In the studio or otherwise.” Her sooty lashes were fluttering again. “I admit, I should never have let you go.”
“You didn’t let me go, Cecelia. I left.”
She waved her hand as if she hadn’t heard him. “I always knew you were destined for great things, Flynn.”
“Well, right now, I am destined for Italy. And I need to finish packing. Goodbye.”
She blinked, this time in what looked like genuine surprise. “Italy? What are you thinking?”
“That Italy is far away from London.” And you, he refrained from adding.
“But you can’t leave. Not now.”
Flynn was hanging on to his patience by a thread. “Watch me.”
“But you’re famous. Together, we’ll be feted like royalty.”
“I can assure you, Cecelia, that I am no more famous now than I was a year ago. Just a whole lot smarter.”
She was shaking her head. “Now is not the time to be humble, Flynn,” she snapped. “Not when you have princes offering patronage. Now is the time for you to embrace your celebrity.” She preened slightly. “And I will be there at your side every step of the way.”
Flynn was frowning. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. And I certainly don’t need you anywhere, least of all at my side.”
Cecelia laughed, and it wasn’t a pretty sound. “Come now, Flynn. Start acting like a gentleman and not an ignorant urchin from the stews. Your exhibit that’s opening at the academy this afternoon will only get you so far—”
“I beg your pardon?” Flynn felt himself go hot and cold all at the same time.
Cecelia’s lips twisted. “Manners, Flynn. They must be as flawless as your work. I believe I’ve mentioned this in the past, and it’s clear that I need to do so again.” She poked a finger at him. “You need me now that you’re going places. Though I would suggest that you stay away from exhibiting subjects that have a religious context in the future.”
There was a dull roaring in his ears that had almost completely drowned out the sound of her voice. He could feel the edge of the door cutting into the palm of his hand, and he held on, afraid that if he let go, he might simply spin away. The room around him seemed to steady then, and a curious calm descended. He straightened, his limbs oddly numb but obeying the commands of his mind nonetheless. “I have to go,” he mumbled, urgency propelling him through the door and down the stairs, heedless of Cecelia’s furious shrieks.
He had to go. Before he made another mistake.
Chapter 14
The Royal Academy’s exhibition hall, housed in Somerset House, was thronged.
Those of the upper classes who hadn’t traveled to a country pile for Christmas were out in droves in the city, seeking their own entertainment. And a new artist, one who was rumored to have garnered the attention of royalty at home and abroad, was always a draw.
Flynn had no idea where those rumors had come from, nor did he care. He skirted the crowd, his hat pulled low over his brow, his eyes fixed on the far wall where a massive knot of people milled, gesturing and chattering. He ignored the noise, slipped through the crush, and came to an abrupt stop, robbed quite suddenly of breath.
His Madonna had been hung in the center of the hall above a raised dais used only for the most illustrious of exhibitors. High above him, winter light streamed in from the windows and fell across the painting, illuminating the Madonna’s gentle expression with an unearthly brilliance. It was dramatic, it was celebrated, and it was everything his mother had always wanted for him. The gift he had always wanted for her to reward her unflagging love and belief, even if she never had the chance to see it.
Charlotte had done this, he knew. He didn’t know how or when, though those details could be guessed at. What wasn’t fathomable was why. Why had she done this for him after everything? After he had walked away from her?
Because she loved you, the voice in his head hissed. And you didn’t believe her. Didn’t believe in her.
Didn’t allow her to make a mistake.
He raised his hands to his face and pressed his fingers into his eyes hard enough that spots danced. He cursed and let his hands fall, spinning quickly enough to startle a flock of well-dressed matrons who were pressing toward the dais. He ignored the infuriated gasps as he shoved his way back through the crowd. He would fix this. He would find her and—
“Mr. Rutledge.”
The man was standing just inside the hall, as though he had been waiting for Flynn. He could have been a Tudor prince, given his expensively tailored clothing, his aquiline features, and the confident ease in which he moved, an ebony walking stick held loosely in his hand.
“I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage,” Flynn replied.
“Hmmm.” The man made no effort to introduce himself but merely gazed in the direction of the portrait on the far side of the room, impossible to see now behind the crush. “I must say, your work did not disappoint. Haunting. Compelling. You have bent the light to your will with a mastery very few possess.”
“Thank you.” Flynn frowned. “But if you’ll excuse me, I—”
“Leaving in such a hurry?” The man tapped his fingers on the head of his walking stick. “I would have thought you’d wish to linger. Bask in your newfound success, as it were. Even without the rumors of royal patronage, you’ll have lords and ladies falling all over themselves for a piece of you. It was, after all, the purpose of this exercise, was it not?”
“No. It wasn’t the purpose at all.”
“Ah.” Pale blue eyes probed his. “I wondered.”
Flynn bit back a retort. This man didn’t know him, and Flynn certainly wasn’t about to explain himself to him, whoever he was. Nor was he going to waste any more time. He needed to find—
“Charlie Beaumont.”
For an agonizing moment, Flynn thought his heart might have stopped in his chest. “I beg your pardon?”
“Mr. Charlie Beaumont. I understand that he was your partner for the St. Michael’s commission.”
Flynn felt a peculiar feeling winding through him. “Yes. How did you know that?”
“You might find it of interest then to know that I have since hired him,” he replied, ignoring Flynn’s question.
“For what? Where?” Flynn was trying to keep his expression neutral, but even he could hear the rough desperation in his voice. “Where is s—he?”
“Ah. I wondered at that too,” the Tudor prince murmured, almost too quietly for Flynn to hear. “He was here, as a matter of fact. You just missed him,” he said more clearly. “If you hurry, you might catch—”
Flynn didn’t hear the rest. He was already running.
* * *
The carriage was as fine as any Charlotte had ever seen in her life.
But given King’s blatant predisposition for fine things, she shouldn’t have found this surprising. Sleek and well sprung, and painted a glossy ebony with scarlet trim, it was only missing a coat of arms. Not something that a boy from Aysgarth, dressed in a loose pair of trousers and a baggy coat with a canvas bag slung over his back, should ever have at his disposal.
Charlotte handed her bag to the goliath of a driver, dressed
just as sleekly in ebony livery, and tried to offer him a word of thanks. It came out as a strained whisper because the emotion that was threatening to suffocate her was making it equally difficult to speak.
She had stayed in that hall only long enough to see that the Madonna had been hung as she had wished. Long enough to hear the rumors swirling through the expensively dressed crowds speculating about the man behind the painting and arguing over who might have discovered him. Long enough to know that, if nothing else, Flynn would know that she had loved him.
And then she had escaped to the carriage that waited for her, because the tide and the ship that would take her from England waited for no one. She climbed into the plush, darkened interior and reached for the door, only to have it yanked open, away from her grasp. A body hurtled through the opening into the carriage, and the door snapped shut. Charlotte swallowed a shout of startled alarm.
“Don’t go.” Flynn was crouched in front of her, his hands braced on either side of her legs, breathing hard.
Charlotte closed her eyes, willing her breathing to steady and wondering if she might be imagining this. She opened her eyes and discovered he was still there, illuminated by the daylight filtering in along the edges of the closed curtains. A familiar brew of terror and ecstasy bubbled up to fill her chest. “What are you doing here?”
“Trying not to make another mistake,” he said hoarsely.
“Another mistake?”
“My first mistake was letting you go once. I’m not going to repeat it.” His eyes were the color of pewter in the dim light, filled with anguish.
Charlotte looked down at her hands, her heart hammering against her ribs so hard that she feared they would crack. “In all fairness, I made the first mistake.”
His fingers caught her chin, forcing her eyes back up to his. “And it was yours to make and mine to forgive. And I didn’t. And for that, I ask your forgiveness.”
“This is a very circular conversation,” she sniffed, a sound that was half laugh, half sob escaping. “All these mistakes and forgiveness.”
“Yes. Because we’re going to make more mistakes,” he said. “And we’re going to forgive them. Because that is what people who love each other do.”
Charlotte caught her breath, her throat tightening even further.
“I love you. All of you. Charlotte, Charlie, Lady Charlotte. Whatever you wish to call yourself, it matters not to me.”
“Yours,” she whispered. “I want to call myself yours.”
He kissed her then, a hard, possessive kiss that stole whatever was left of her composure. Her hands slipped around his neck, and she held on tightly, not ever wanting to let go.
He pulled her closer against him. “I can’t ever repay what you did for me in that gallery,” he said against her neck.
“I didn’t just do it for you,” Charlotte replied. “I did it for me. I did it for a woman I never got to meet, but who loved unconditionally.”
“Charlotte.” He pressed his forehead to hers.
“I have a commission waiting,” she whispered. “I have to leave England.”
“I know. I heard that Charlie Beaumont had been hired.”
“Come with me—”
“Yes.”
“You don’t even know where I’m going,” she sniffed with a smile.
He pulled back from her and wiped a tear from her cheek that she hadn’t realized had fallen. “It doesn’t matter.”
Charlotte caught his fingers with her own. “I love you, Flynn.”
“And I you. Don’t ever forget that.” He smiled softly at her. “Tell me where we’re going, Lady Charlie.”
She kissed him, love for this man suffusing every corner of her being. She raised her head and saw that love reflected in his own eyes with the promise of forever. “How do you feel about Italy?”
August Faulkner wasn’t supposed to be Duke of Holloway. Yet now that he’s got the title, he’s going to make sure he fills the family coffers with savvy investments. And the Haywards’ business is ripe for the plucking. But Miss Clara Hayward proves much more intriguing than he anticipated—and makes him believe that business is not more important than pleasure.
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A Duke in the Night.
He had danced with her on a dare.
Childish, certainly. Boorish, most definitely, but it was easier to critique such behaviors when one was no longer in the throes of obnoxious youth, surrounded by arrogant acquaintances who snickered and leered and sought entertainment at the expense of others. And to this day, August Faulkner, the twelfth Duke of Holloway, had never forgotten it.
He hadn’t been duke of anything then. Though his bravado and sense of self-importance had seemed to make up for that shortcoming. At the time, he’d thought Clara Hayward, the eldest daughter of the charismatic and wildly popular Baron Strathmore, would simply be a means to an end.
She had been pretty—flawless fair skin framed by lustrous mahogany tresses shot through with rich, ruby highlights. Dark eyes ringed by darker lashes, set into a face that smiled often. An elegant figure displayed by tasteful gowns and a graceful poise that was remarked upon often. Combined with the staggering wealth of her family, there should have been earls and dukes and princes falling all over themselves begging for her attention.
Instead, her dance card remained empty despite a flurry of proper introductions. And those earls and dukes and princes kept a wary distance—held at bay by the single, inexcusable flaw that illustrious lords could simply not tolerate in a potential wife: an education and an intelligence greater than their own.
August hadn’t understood that then. Instead, he had foolishly put Clara Hayward in a box labeled “wallflower,” confident in his superiority. And with the snickers and guffaws of his companions echoing in his ears, he had sauntered up to where she stood at the edge of the dance floor that night and offered her the privilege of his presence.
Miss Hayward had gazed upon him with what looked like bemused tolerance when he had bowed dramatically over her hand. Her dark eyes had flickered over his shoulder to where his cronies watched, waiting for her to stammer or stumble. Instead, her full lips had only curled a little farther and her eyes had returned to his, a single brow cocked in clear, knowing amusement, and he knew then she had heard every crass, careless word. And it had been August who had stammered and stumbled as she took his arm.
He had led her out on the dance floor, appalled at the way his heart was hammering in his chest. She had placed one steady hand in his, another on the sleeve of his coat, and met his eyes directly as the first strains of music floated through the ballroom. August had tried then to recoup whatever advantage he seemed to have lost and used every ounce of his considerable prowess on the dance floor, leading her in a sweeping, reckless waltz that should have wilted a wallflower into a blushing mess.
But Clara Hayward had only matched him step for step, never once looking away. And by the time the waltz had concluded, the conversation in the room had faltered, every damn guest was staring at them, and August was experiencing a horrifying shortness of breath that had nothing to do with his exertions.
“Good heavens,” she had murmured, not sounding nearly as breathless as he. “I was told that you were daring, Mr. Faulkner. And you do not disappoint. You are exactly as advertised.”
“And you, Miss Hayward, are not.” He’d blurted it before he could stop himself, unsure if her words were a compliment or criticism. And unsure what to do with either.
She’d grinned then—an honest-to-goodness grin that suggested that they were collaborators, complicit in something deliciously wicked. “Good,” was all she had said, and his world had tilted. He had found himself grinning foolishly back, disoriented as all hell.
August had left Miss Hayward in the care of her brother after that, and Harland Hayward had gazed upon him with the reproach and pity that August both deserved and hated. He’d not danced with her again, a fact that evoked a pec
uliar regret if he thought about it for too long. In fact, he had never spoken to Miss Hayward since that night, their paths seemingly diverging in two completely opposite directions.
He to a duchy he’d never expected. She to a life of refined academia she’d undoubtedly planned as the headmistress of the most elite finishing school in Britain.
That was, until August had made an offer to buy that school yesterday. Well, that wasn’t entirely accurate, he supposed, because the final sale would not go through until six weeks from now. Not a long time for August to wait to purchase a property he’d had his eye on for years, but a long time in which Miss Hayward might change her mind.
He glanced down at the papers his solicitors had left on his desk. Miss Clara Hayward was written in neat letters on the previous deed of ownership, and the sight of her name still jolted him even now. Which was absurd, because it mattered not which Hayward actually owned the damned school, only that they were finally willing to sell. But seeing her name had triggered a flood of memories and somehow undermined the fierce satisfaction that he should have felt at the prospect of the Haverhall School for Young Ladies becoming part of his vast holdings.
August had made the unforgivable mistake of assuming that the current baron had owned Haverhall, along with the shipping empire that had given rise to the Haywards’ extensive fortune. But now August was left contemplating why, in a world where women very rarely owned a freehold property that hadn’t been conveyed to trustees, Clara Hayward would let it slip away from her.
To anyone else, the why probably wouldn’t matter. Not when one had gotten what they wanted. There was a whole slew of advice that involved gift horses and mouths that most individuals would heed. But August was not most individuals. He despised questions that did not have answers. He abhorred not knowing what motivated people to act as they did. His sister, Anne, often told him that it was an unhealthy compulsion, his need to pry into the dark corners of other people’s lives for profit. But he hadn’t become as wealthy as he had by simply accepting what was on the surface. There was something more to this that he wasn’t seeing. Information was power, and he could never have enough.