by Kelly Bowen
“Do you really? Do you understand that, until Anthony, Rose had never really been a part of the cutthroat arena otherwise known as polite society? Do you understand how her engagement—how her trust in that man drew her in and made her believe that she was one of you? How her belief in his love and her place in your world left her exposed and vulnerable when that same society turned on her?”
Eli frowned. That was an odd choice of words—
“You’ve been gone a long time, Rivers. You weren’t here to see how long it took her to heal. Between Gibson and that vile publication that came out after—”
“What publication?” Eli froze, the small hairs on the back of his neck rising.
“You wouldn’t have seen it. It was a contemptible collection of caricatures, mocking the appearance of dozens of women, including—”
“No.” A horrible feeling was rising from his gut and wrapping its clammy fingers around his lungs.
“So you did see it.”
Eli shook his head. “No,” he managed. “I didn’t.”
Strathmore still had him pinned beneath his dark gaze. “It was unusually cruel. Published anonymously. Gibson might have broken her heart, but that shattered what was left of her confidence. The woman I found upon my return was a mere husk of the beautiful, vibrant sister I had left. She still hasn’t entirely—” He stopped, as if reconsidering his intended words.
It was everything Eli could do not to lunge to his feet and stagger toward the door. “Your sister,” he said instead, speaking slowly and deliberately, an odd buzzing in his ears threatening to drown out the sound of his own voice, “is the most courageous, dauntless woman I have ever had the privilege of knowing.”
The baron was silent. “She is,” he said eventually. “And if you do anything to threaten what she has managed to regain, then I will happily make sure that the resolution and retribution she deserved years ago will be realized.”
Eli stood, unable to remain motionless. A sickening comprehension was flooding every corner of his mind, and for a moment it felt as if he were back in a tiny farmhouse in Belgium, a piece of broken mirror lying facedown on the table before him. A moment when the need to discover the awful truth fought against the need to remain in blissful ignorance.
“Your sister has always had and will continue to hold my greatest respect and admiration,” Eli said roughly. “So please, take your threats and get out.”
The baron also stood, his long frame casting an eerie shadow in the flickering light. “I have never dictated what my sisters might do, who they spend their time with, or how they choose to live. I will not start now.” He moved so that he was standing at the end of the bed, almost in front of Eli. “But don’t ever mistake my objectivity for indifference.” And then, with three long strides, he was gone.
Eli stood in the sudden silence, trying to order his turbulent thoughts. Understanding that Rose, for all her excruciating honesty, hadn’t been completely truthful with him.
Eli snatched the small lantern from the washstand and extinguished it, plunging the room back into shadow. And using the darkness, his long-time ally, he slipped from the dower house.
* * *
Avondale was again dark and silent. The kitchen window was as obliging as it had always been, and Eli stole through the rooms, his direction unerring. He kept the small lantern in his hand, careful not to let it rattle as he climbed the stairs. He paused at the top, listening hard, but nothing stirred, and he made his way soundlessly down the long hall.
The studio door had been left open, and it creaked slightly as he pulled it closed behind him. The curtains on the far wall hadn’t been drawn, though the moonlight outside wasn’t enough to illuminate much. With hands that were surprisingly steady, he relit the little lantern and carried it over to Rose’s large trunk of supplies. He set it down and dropped to his knees before opening the heavy lid.
Swiftly he withdrew packets of paper and brushes, tins of charcoal and pigment. With less steady hands now, he found the long, smooth box he was looking for. He closed the lid of the trunk and set the box on top. Releasing the catch, he revealed the stack of folded drawings that Rose had shown him.
Except she hadn’t shown him all of them.
He yanked at the brown ribbon tied around the bundle, letting it fall to the ground unheeded, and began unfolding each drawing. The ones on the top were the ones he had seen earlier, and he shoved those aside. He rifled through the rest, his revulsion growing with each carefully rendered sketch, until he came to the very last one, resting on the dark velvet lining at the bottom.
Slowly he picked it up and unfolded it, smoothing the square sheet out on top of the trunk.
Anthony had captured her features perfectly—the straight line of her nose, the delicate arch of her brow, the gentle sweep of lashes at the corners of her eyes, the elegant curl of her hair. Yet there was where the likeness ended. Her petite, slight body had been drawn as an emaciated rat, every rib and joint visible and exaggerated grotesquely, a scaly tail trailing after her. One claw-like hand clutched the coattails of a gentleman who unmistakably looked like Anthony, depicted running from a church with a look of horror on his face. The rat’s other hand clutched a purse that was labeled “Father’s Fortune.” In the background, a line of grandly dressed people pointed and laughed. The Most Undesirable of all the Undesirables—A Plague Upon Le Beau Monde was styled neatly across the bottom of the sketch.
Eli sat back on his heels, concentrating on taking even, steady breaths. Trying to temper the rage that was starting to cloud the edges of his vision. At that moment the hate that he harbored for Anthony Gibson was more absolute, more extreme and encompassing, than anything else he had ever experienced. And with that hate came the familiar contempt for himself, a man who had lived in a fog of obliviousness so thick and viscous that he hadn’t been able to see Anthony clearly. Hadn’t been able to look beyond the polished surface and see the abominable rottenness that lay beneath.
Eli tipped forward, his knees banging painfully against the hard floor. He was chilled and breathing like a winded racehorse. He glanced down and realized that he had crumpled the drawing in his fist, and with an epic effort, he uncurled his stiff fingers and set the drawing back down on the surface of the trunk. He put his hands to his face, pressing hard enough that he could feel the sensation even through the thickened, ruined skin. This was what had been left behind. This was what Rose had been left to face.
You have no idea what it’s like to be shunned and ridiculed because of your appearance.
He had shouted that at her on the beach. And she hadn’t said anything to him. Hadn’t corrected him. Just watched him flail in a whirlpool of self-pity until she had thrown him a lifeline he hadn’t deserved.
You should know what those drawings did to some of these women. The destruction they wrought on their lives, when one’s reputation and appearance are often the only things society puts any value on. The suggestion that all these women were tried and found wanting…
Rose had told him, and he hadn’t been listening. She’d already been regarded warily by the ton as an outsider. As someone different—someone to be feared and distrusted because there had never been a neat, proper label that could be applied to her. Eli didn’t delude himself into thinking that anyone, outside of her family, would have leaped to her defense.
Eli braced his hands on the edge of the trunk, the edges cutting into his palms. He hadn’t recognized the truth behind everything that she had ever said or done. When she demanded he talk about the hard things, challenged him to do the difficult things, it was because she understood. Her behavior came not from mere recalcitrance or recklessness. It came from experience.
Eli raised his head. Very slowly and deliberately, he gathered all the drawings save one that were scattered across the top of the trunk and on the floor, refolding them and binding them once more with their ribbon. The wooden box was refilled and closed and placed within the confines of the trunk. The art suppl
ies he returned neatly to their places on top, and he lowered the heavy lid. The drawing that was left he refolded and slipped into the pocket of his coat before standing and extinguishing the lantern.
The hallway was deserted, the darkness almost absolute. His feet made no sound as he made his way down the hall, the fingers of one hand trailing lightly along the wall. He passed the entrance to the staircase and continued until he reached the last door of the south wing. He stood for a moment, listening, but all he could hear was the sound of his own breathing and the faint rattle of a windowpane somewhere as the wind rose and died again. The door opened easily, and Eli let himself in, closing it soundlessly behind him.
Her room was as dark and silent as the rest of the house, though her warm, exotic scent instantly surrounded him. He listened, trying to detect the steady, rhythmic sound of breathing that would tell him that she was asleep.
“You’d make a lousy thief, Dawes.”
Eli spun toward the window against the far wall where he thought her voice had come from. “I didn’t wake you.” It wasn’t really a question.
“No.” There was a suggestion of movement from near the window, accompanied by the sound of curtains sliding closed along their rod. “Lock the door.”
Eli swallowed. “What?”
Light flared suddenly and subsided as Rose lit a candle. “As progressive as this school is, men creeping into bedrooms that are not their own is generally frowned upon. I’d prefer to avoid awkward explanations should a student make an unexpected appearance.”
Eli turned and did as she asked.
“I suppose you found it.”
He froze, his hand still on the key in the lock. “I beg your pardon?”
“You were in my studio. I’m assuming you found the drawing.”
Eli pivoted slowly to face her. She was sitting on the edge of the wide bed, wrapped in the same embroidered robe he had seen her in that very first night. Her hair was down, streaks of fire tumbling over her shoulders in the soft light. Her eyes were fathomless, her expression unreadable, her voice without inflection. He couldn’t tell if she was angry or upset, resigned or indifferent.
He dropped his head and reached into his coat pocket, slowing withdrawing the folded paper. He held it in his fingers, suddenly unsure of what he wanted to say.
“You should have told me.” He cursed silently. It sounded like an accusation, but he was still having trouble thinking clearly.
“Why?”
Eli felt his fingers ball into fists, frustrated at his inability to put what he was feeling into words. That dark emptiness within him yawned wide and precarious, but this time it seethed and writhed with a hatred and anger so acute they were making it hard to breathe. “You should have told me,” he repeated, unable to come up with an answer to her question.
“So you could what? Call him out? Defend my honor? He’s already dead, Dawes, and time has marched on. I told you I don’t need your protection. Then or now.”
“I know you don’t need it, but you should have had it.” Eli felt another surge of rage crash through him. “Give me the candle.”
“What? Why?”
He didn’t wait for her to answer, simply stalked over to where she sat and yanked it away from her. Hot wax splashed over the backs of his fingers, but he didn’t care. The flame sputtered. He backed away from her until his hip hit the edge of the washstand. He set the candle down on the edge.
“What are you doing, Dawes?” She had risen to her feet. “Don’t—”
He set the corner of the drawing to the flame, the paper catching and curling instantly.
Rose lunged toward him, but he dropped the burning paper in the empty washbasin and caught her fast in his arms. The fire flared and then just as quickly faded, leaving behind only pieces of blackened, smoking ash.
She stared at the faint curl of smoke. “Why did you do that?” Her voice was dull, her body rigid in his arms.
“Why didn’t you?” he hissed.
She dropped her head against his shoulder, and he pulled her against him, one hand going to her back, the other stroking the hair away from the side of her face. His insides twisted in anguish because he hadn’t been able to protect her from any of this. That after everything that had happened, she’d been left to face it on her own.
“That drawing is a reflection of the coward who created it, not you,” he said fiercely.
She turned her head so that it rested against his chest.
“Tell me you believe that, Rose.”
“I do now,” she said, her words muffled. “But at the time, when that drawing was published, everyone seemed to accept it as truth. That Anthony so abhorred the idea of marriage to me, he’d rather run and forfeit a promised fortune and risk French guns than suffer a union with a woman so flawed.”
He tightened his arms around her.
“There were those who saw the drawing and simply laughed at my expense. But there were those who resented me—blamed me—for driving away one of the shining stars of society. More so after word came that he had been killed. A young man with such promise, at the pinnacle of his popularity. I tried to pretend nothing had changed. I wish I could say I rose above it and ignored it all. But everywhere I went, I heard every awful comment whispered just loud enough for me to hear, and those that weren’t whispered at all. Found all the bits of greasy rodent fur that would be slipped into my hair or the rat tails that would be stuck in the back of my gown at balls or assembly rooms. Saw Clara try to hide the boxes of dead rats delivered to our house with my name on them. Watched as every person I had befriended through Anthony turned away. And all of it hurt. It made me doubt everything I once believed to be true about myself. And I hated myself even more for letting it.”
Eli thought he might be ill. “Why did you keep the drawing?” he asked. “Why did you keep any of them?” He had asked her that once already, standing in her studio. And she hadn’t given him an answer that he had understood.
Rose lifted her head without looking at him. Her palms rested against his chest, her forehead creased faintly. Abruptly she twisted away, as though she had come to some sort of decision. She skirted the bed to the tall walnut armoire that loomed against the far wall.
“Where are you going?” he asked.
She shook her head and instead bent to retrieve a canvas that had been leaning against its side, handling it carefully by the edges.
“What is that?” he asked.
Rose didn’t answer, only laid the canvas on the bed and stepped to the side, watching him with an expression he couldn’t read. “See for yourself.”
Eli cautiously approached the bed. And stopped breathing.
It was a Titian, perhaps. Or a Brueghel. A masterpiece of color and decadent detail, its subject a young woman of astonishing beauty. She had been painted lying on her side against a bed of crimson satin, wearing nothing but a curtain of lustrous black hair and a soft, sensual expression that he couldn’t tear his eyes from. When he did finally manage to force his eyes away, his gaze traveled over the roundness of her shoulder and the dip of her waist to the beautiful curve of her hip and down the smooth lines of her legs. Well, one leg, he realized belatedly. There was something not quite right about the leg that rested beneath her.
At the same time he realized two other things; that the painting lacked the burnish of age and, when he finally remembered to breathe, that the scent of linseed reached him.
“You did this,” he whispered.
“Yes.” There was no pride or meekness in that syllable, just a simple confirmation. She returned to the armoire and picked up a second canvas, this one wrapped in heavy paper. She laid it on the bed next to the first. “Open it.”
Eli obeyed, pulling the wrappings away. This too was a portrait of a nude woman, far from the flush of youth but possibly even more erotic for her years. She had been captured standing in front of a long mirror, her head tilted slightly, her hair piled carelessly at the crown of her head. The play of lig
ht over the lines of her back, the curve of her spine, and the dimples above her lush buttocks had been executed with incomparable skill. But it was the woman’s reflection that riveted him. She’d been caught with her eyes lowered, an enigmatic smile on her lips that made Eli believe she knew something that no one else did. One of her hands was resting between the valley of her heavy breasts, the other over a web of faint lines that marked the thickness of her abdomen.
“Jesus, Rose.” The sense of wonder and reverence for these works, for their creator, was making him struggle for words that would justify his emotions. Why had he never known Rose could do this? Aye, he had known she painted, knew she was artistically gifted, had even seen a few portraits she had done of children, but this…this was overwhelming.
“You should be painting for kings,” he said.
“I have no desire to paint for kings.” Rose smiled a small, strange smile as she gazed down at her work. “I paint for me. And for the women you see before you.” She ran a finger along the edge of the first canvas. “Lady Ophelia Volante. Twenty years old. Born with a malformed leg that never grew straight and that prevents her from walking without a crutch. She’s never danced, never taken a moonlit walk through a garden, never been called anything but ‘that poor cripple.’ She speaks five languages, has every play ever written by Shakespeare damn near memorized, and is a gifted writer. Yet everyone is so focused on what she isn’t. No one can see what she is.”
“Except you,” Eli whispered.
“And now, more importantly, her.” Rose tipped her head. “Smart. Brave. Beautiful. In that order.” She moved her hand to the next painting. “Susan Jones. Mother of six, wife and partner to a man who owns half the lace industry in Nottingham. It was her husband who commissioned this. Because he hated how self-conscious and disparaging she had become about her body and he wanted her to see how he saw her. That bearing him the gift of a family had only made her more beautiful to him with every passing year.”
Eli finally tore his eyes away from the paintings to find Rose watching him.