Fourteen

When the hell was this place last cleaned? George surveyed the fortress wing attics with his lamp. Was his home a rubbish heap for everyone to dump their refuse? Was that a water stain?

And where was Lilith?

He released an exasperated breath and checked his pocket watch. Ten minutes past two. After he had spent the evening torn between excitement and dread, Lilith was late.

In the drawing room, he had tried valiantly to focus on the beautiful Lady Cornelia, but his eyes always drifted to Lilith. He had played Lord Charles’s hateful game in secret and Lilith had won. Though she claimed the story was claptrap, the words came alive from her lips. She captured the nuance of Colette. She voiced Colette as he heard her in his own mind when he read.

He would give her a few more minutes while he shoved trunks and broken furniture away from the wall to determine the extent of the water damage. It would be easier to tear down this ancient wing than continue to sink money into it. Old castles littered England and the guidebooks wouldn’t miss one less.

A gentle hand touched his shoulder, sending a warm current down his arm.

Lilith!

He wheeled around, ready to lecture her about timeliness, but the sight of her evaporated his frustrations. She wore that damned robe again. Her hair was loose, falling in waves over her breasts. The light from her lamp reflected in her glassy, red-rimmed eyes.

He seized her hand. “Lilith, are you well?”

She smiled and disentangled herself from his hold. “I’m just wonderful,” she cried in false merry tones.

“You’ve been crying. What has happened?”

“Nothing. I’m— I’m merely cracking under the heavy strain of behaving myself.” She edged past him. “Let me show you the paintings.”

He wasn’t going to let her change the subject. He grasped her elbow, again enjoying a flood of warmth.

“Has something upset you? Did someone say something troubling?”

“Yes, all manner of troubling things like cricket, the weather, proper behavior for young ladies, but nothing about radical art or lurid poetry. All the things that I adore.”

“’Tis a pity you find Colette and the Sultan not to your taste.”

She glanced at where he touched her and whispered, “Do you truly enjoy that story?”

“Why do I think that if I answer emphatically yes, you will think less of me…if that is even possible, considering I’m a fusty frog in your eyes.”

She winced.

“Lilith, I was in jest. Tell me if someone upset you. Has a man made an improper gesture?”

“One.”

His pulsed quickened. “Lord Charles?”

“No.”

“Fenmore, that bloody cove. If I get through this house party without landing him a facer—”

“No, the man in question kissed me on my breast this morning. Very improper and compromising. I might insist that he marry me, but you wouldn’t approve of him. He meets ladies in the dead of night alone in attics and he has quite a foul temper when provoked. And worst of all, he is an artist. You know how you feel about artists.”

“I’m implacable in my poor opinion.”

“A pity.” She flashed him an impish glance from under her lashes and then led him through the rubbish.

“It’s in here.” She entered the back attic room.

When he crossed over the threshold, his mouth turned dry and his hands clenched. What the hell was wrong with him? He was just going to view some old drawings made by a little boy.

Lilith set down her lamp and tugged a huge trunk, trying to slide it atop another.

“Here, allow me.” He stepped closer to her than necessary to milk the comfort of her body. Together they shifted the trunk. Beneath it rested an old chamber pot. Lilith reached for it, but he stopped her.

“A man must be chivalrous and hold a chamber pot for a lady,” he joked to hide his nervousness. Good God, man, what has come over you?

Below the chamber pot waited a doll trunk with the childishly scrawled words “Kep Out.” The work of his little sister.

Lilith knelt, opened the tiny latch. One of Penelope’s old samplers rested inside.

“Ah, you’ve found my art,” he joked, and tried to close the trunk. Why this dread? What was he afraid of?

She didn’t laugh but gently slid his hands away and lifted the sampler. He recognized the roll of papers. God, no! He felt a sickening turn in his gut. He wanted to yank the art from Lilith’s hand and keep it unseen.

The painting she revealed of Penelope beneath a tree punched out his breath. The visceral memory blossomed in his mind: the light reflecting on the water, the breeze blowing up his collar, the smell of grass, Penelope smiling, and the joy of being lost in the moment.

Lilith leaned against his shoulder and asked quietly, “Did you draw this?”

His burning throat closed up. She had exhumed a grave. Inside waited what was left of a hurt boy, a disappointment of a son, and a sensitive dreamer, whom George had destroyed in order to become a man.

He should muster a casual joke, insult his work, or call out Lilith for foolish behavior—anything to push this aching moment away.

She carefully removed the painting to reveal the one beneath. A maid sewing by the fireside. The model was the kind village girl who helped in the nursery and snuck him sweets after a spanking.

“Did anyone tell you how talented you are?” Lilith asked. “Did they tell you how poignant your work was?”

The sorrow in her voice broke something inside him. How dare she feel sorry for him?

“I’m a marquess,” he barked. He didn’t mean to be gruff. She had done nothing except kick up the dirt of old memories. Yet he threw his anger at her. “See here, I’ve played your silly little game. These ridiculous paintings are the work of a feeble-minded—”

Her mouth stopped his words. Her lips were soft against his tense ones. Her fingers caressed his hard jaw. All the fury fled, leaving the raw hurt emotions beneath.

She withdrew and cradled the painting to her chest. “I couldn’t let you say that your work wasn’t beautiful.”

She gently laid the picture on a trunk, and uncurled the painting he had done of the farmhands before his father had chanced to ride by and cracked his whip down on George’s paints. “What the hell are you doing?” his father had bellowed. “Those lump-heads picking turnips are more responsible than you.”

“Look at the beautiful composition.” She traced the elements, careful not to touch the canvas. “The rows contrast with gossamer swirls of clouds and hunched-over workmen.” She fixed her dark eyes on his. No trickery waited in them. “This should not be hidden in an attic under a chamber pot but cherished.”

He couldn’t bear to see the beautiful compassion on her face. He kissed her again, locking his hand behind her head so she couldn’t escape and show him more paintings or say words that ripped into his heart. He pressed her mouth open and delved into her softness, his tongue filling her. She stiffened at his violent kiss.

He stroked her neck as an apology for his brusqueness, but he wouldn’t let her go. Her body, her scent, her touch were a balm to his wretched feelings. Slowly, tentatively, she began to explore him.

Keeping her captive in their kiss, he gently lowered her until she rested on his thighs. He opened his eyes long enough to slide the paintings away with one hand. He caught a glimpse of a painted nest filled with robin’s eggs. He remembered the day the gardener smashed them and how little George had wept. He closed his eyes again, letting Lilith’s lips, mouth, and tongue draw out his pain and caress it away.

She finally drew away but only to rest on his arm. “Do you ever think about painting now? Tell me the truth. Don’t get angry out of defensiveness.”

He couldn’t lie to those unguarded, vulnerable eyes.

“Every day,” he confessed. “Right now, I wish to capture you. In this low light, your skin is almost white against the inky darkness of your eyes. You’re all light emerging from darkness.”

Tears shone in her eyes. “George. They shouldn’t have hurt you. They should have encouraged you, loved you…they didn’t know how lucky they were.” He kissed a tear that spilled from her lashes.

“Tomorrow we will have to pretend this moment didn’t happen.” Her voice was brittle. “We will never share another moment like this. But promise me…” She swallowed, more tears fell. He wiped them away with his thumb. “That you’ll draw and paint again. Please.”

He smoothed an auburn strand from her forehead. “Why? Why is this so important to you?”

“Because I think who you are inside, the man you hide, is beautiful,” she said. “He needs to be released. To know joy. Happiness.”

Joy? Happiness? These were selfish words. He would be damned if he would go gamboling about like Lilith’s set, seeking his joy while his tenants needed a roof over their heads and food to eat.

She rested her finger on his lips, hushing him even though he hadn’t uttered a word. “But you are too busy to think about yourself. Yes, you must take care of everyone, especially that bothersome Lilith. But one day I’ll be gone far, far away, married to some Timbuktu diplomat you’ve scratched up for me, if I don’t run off, foolishly casting my would-be wealth to the wind. How will you console yourself without me to fight with, to refuse to put up with your mule-headedness—”

“I’m not mule-headed.”

“—and force you out of the iron cage of your rational mind. Promise you’ll make your art.”

He couldn’t make such a childish promise. But he would be damned if he would tell her that, not as she rested tame in his arms. “I must think upon the matter. Maybe if you kiss me again, I might be persuaded.”

She smiled lazily, wrapped her arms around his neck, and raised her lips. The gentle touch soon turned fevered. Their tongues swirled against each other’s, their bodies demanded more.

He groaned and released her mouth, letting his lips drift down her chin, neck, and chest. There he lingered, yearning so much to feel her breasts again, caress them, and learn their contours. He restrained himself. He must stop. But Lilith shifted under him, pressing her breasts up to be known.

He closed his eyes and found a hardened nipple. She gasped and her fingers dug into his arm as his tongue lapped the silken fabric over the tip.

“Dear God,” she murmured, arching her back. She whispered his name, softening the hard consonants in a rush of breath.

He raised his head, letting his fingers play upon her. He studied her face. Her lips were parted in rapture, her lashes cast shadows on her cheeks. She was stunning in her wanton state.

His cock burned and he saw the moment she felt his arousal. Her eyes flew open. Conflict colored their surface.

“I’m sorry, Lilith,” he said. “But you are too beautiful.”

She sat up, keeping her eyes fixed on his face. She rested her palm, fingers spread, on his chest. Slowly, slowly, that hand drifted down until she reached his cock straining in his trousers. There her touch turned unsure.

“Lilith, please, you can’t…I can’t…” His words were choked. “What we’ve done already is improper. This is my fault. We must stop.”

“Does my touch please you?” She kissed his neck.

“Please, woman,” he begged.

“Let me,” she whispered.

He slowly interlaced his fingers in hers and showed her how to stroke him over his trousers. He guided her until she needed no more instruction. Her touch was generous, she wanted nothing more than his pleasure. She quickly learned what heightened his arousal and gave him more. But she didn’t know how to pace lovemaking to make it last and he carried too much pent-up frustration. The sensation built too fast, too powerfully.

“I’m going to climax,” he cried through his tight jaws.

“I don—”

His mouth covered hers. He gently pushed her onto the floor and wedged his thighs between hers, wild for her magic.

“No!” she cried. “Stop! Stop! Please.”

He sprang back, horrified at his loss of control. “I’m sorry! Forgive me. I would never take you against your wishes. Never! You know I would never hurt you.”

She sat up and yanked the roll of paintings, now flattened from the weight of their bodies, from the floor and unrolled it.

“Thank heavens,” she cried in relief. “The paint didn’t crack. You must put them under some heavy books immediately.”

He stared at her cradling his wounded paintings. “What?” he finally managed. “You were more concerned about that childish scribble than…than… It’s nothing! The painting is nothing!”

“It’s not scribble! It’s beautiful.”

He shook his head and rested his hands on his thighs. “Lilith, I don’t understand you. Does the rubbish on those pages mean more than the disaster that almost occurred here? We almost had intercourse.”

He couldn’t decipher the emotions burning in her eyes.

“Yes,” she said quietly. “Art means everything to me. My family didn’t want me. I drifted from one school to the next, even my beloved Frances and Edgar betrayed me. Art remains true to me.” She carefully swept her fingers over the pictures. “And it’s not rubbish. A wonderful little boy lives on in the work. As long as this work remains, a piece of him is still here. ‘A thing of beauty is a joy for ever: / Its loveliness increases, it will never / Pass into nothingness; but still will keep…’ That’s from Keats’s Endymion.” She pressed the painting to his chest. “Don’t ever destroy these, George. One day they might save you.” She rose and dusted off her robe. “There, I have shown you the paintings. That’s all I intended. It’s the only reason I behaved for the entire day. So good night.”

“What?” he thundered. Thank God no one stayed in this wing. “No, it’s not good night. What…what are we going to do tomorrow?” He came to his feet.

“Very simple. I’m going to keep my distance from you.” She tried to sound matter-of-fact, but he wasn’t fooled. He could hear the pain beneath the bravado. “I’m never going to utter a word about what happened if you honor your promise.”

“My promise?”

She flung up her hands. “To paint, to draw, to make art.”

He began to say something, many things in fact, but quickly shut his mouth. Technically, he had never promised. “Very well,” he said, feeling very much like a careful solicitor.

“It was a near wreck. That is all. You almost sullied yourself with Lilith Dahlgren.”

“Good God, Lilith, how can you say that?” How could she use the word “sullied” to describe the most loving and compassionate moment he had ever experienced?

“It isn’t? Then George, you have compromised me. You must marry me now. Ah, the panic upon your face!” A sad smile graced her lips. “It is well. I would rather throw myself off St. Paul’s Cathedral than be a Maryle.” She picked up her lamp. “There, your kingdom is saved. Go marry Lady Cornelia. She will make a wonderful Marchioness of Marylewick.” She started to walk away.

“Lilith, don’t go.”

She turned and gazed at him in that tender way that destroyed his heart. “Don’t ever forget tonight or your promise.”

“Let us talk.”

“Whatever we have to say will only hurt,” she whispered. “Good night.”

She turned out of the room. He started to chase her and then stopped.

Bloody hell, let her go.

Just let her go.

He picked up his paintings and drawings, slowly studied them one by one, her words echoing in his mind. “A wonderful little boy lives on in the work. As long as this work remains, a piece of him is still here.” He wanted to call her an irresponsible, grown-up child, anything to push away these feelings. But he couldn’t. All Lilith had done was show compassion to his sister…and to him. His eyes burned. Goddammit, you weakling! He mentally shouted the words his father had once used.

He didn’t need compassion. Nothing was wrong with him. He had obligations he had to honor.

He rolled up the paintings, restored them to their sarcophagus, and then encased it in its chamber pot tomb.

* * *

In her bedchamber, warm tears streamed down Lilith’s cheeks, dripped off her chin, and wetted the pages of her Keats that she hugged to her chest. She had done what she intended by showing him the paintings. She must let him go to Lady Cornelia or some other worthy wife.

But it was so bloody hard!

Her heart had shattered as she watched him gazing at his old pictures. She could see the fragile boy still inside him after all these years.

Why must she fall in love with the patriarch of the family she despised? She had been saving herself for a Keats-worthy man. Someone she could love with that trembling, ethereal delight she felt when reading a lovely poem or viewing a masterpiece.

She never thought she would feel such love for a man she could never have or want to have. George was her own Pre-Raphaelite painting. A lush, mysterious male beauty trapped in a canvas, forever unattainable.

It was all so bitterly useless.

At least she had made him vow to draw more. Some merit would arise from this horrid mess.

But on the crest of sleep, a tiny thought niggled in her mind. She bolted up.

He hadn’t precisely promised to create art.

Did that sly marquess think he could get away with that not promising after she had all but given her body to him?