Twice Fallen (17 page)

Luke Daudet, Viscount Altea, stood in her studio, casual in a white shirt open at the neck, no cravat, wearing dark breeches, his polished Hessians the only nod to fashion. He gazed at the canvas, his brows slightly lifted. “This one more than the others… it’s particularly brilliant.”

“Thank you.” His praise was exhilarating, but the elation in her life wasn’t limited to his appreciation and she distrusted it.

Happiness was serenity. It was sunshine when she needed illumination. It was a blank canvas and inspiration. It was driven need and sleepless pacing as the dawn began to lighten the sooty rooflines of the city.…

It
wasn’t
romance. At least not before now.

“Why not present it?” Luke was still staring at the painting. “The execution is flawless. I admit some of your work confounds a Philistine like myself, but this… this I think I understand. I don’t know why, but it speaks to me.”

Love is why
, she wanted to say. Of course it spoke to him. He adored his wife and though their romance had been tumultuous, it had ended in the kind of marriage only depicted in fables.

“It’s for private viewing only.”

He eyed one of the old, stained chairs with a dubious look, but then shrugged and settled into it. “You always keep your best pieces to yourself, but I have never comprehended why. Usually you are this inspired only when you are distraught over some matter. Talk to me.”

He was referring to, of course, her painting of Pompeii after the explosion of Vesuvius, the ash cloud still obscuring the sun, a project she’d undertaken after their father had died. It had depicted catastrophic loss, and she’d labored over it for months, avoiding her grief, but the symbolic catharsis had in the end proved healing.

She shrugged. “About what?”

“Whatever has you currently in such a state of flux that you were compelled to portray so beautifully a once-in-a-lifetime decision on canvas. This is about you, isn’t it?”

Her smile was ironic in the shaded confines of the room, the weather still inclement after several days of rain. Regina dropped into the opposite chair and contemplated the tips of her slippers—even she wore shoes when it was dreary outside—then sighed. “I have a lover.”

That startled him, his fine features registering surprise. He was the antithesis of her in coloring with dark blond hair and bronzed skin, but they had the same gray eyes and certainly her unfashionable height was a family trait. “I… see.” Her brother paused, examining the
painting again from where he sat. In the end, he said neutrally, “While I am not used to you giving me details of your personal life, may I ask if the painting has something to do with this affair?”

She shook her head. Had she been in command of her feelings, they would not be having this unexpected conversation. “I don’t particularly want to discuss it.”

Predictably, Luke ignored her. “You are beautiful and talented and a grown woman who is completely autonomous. Why wouldn’t you have a lover? Do I know him?”

“The man in the painting? Don’t tell me you don’t recognize William Tell.”

“Don’t be deliberately evasive, Regina. If you don’t want to tell me, that is fine. You know I won’t intrude, but I admit to being curious.”

It was true she usually didn’t choose her lovers from the beau monde, but then again Luke probably didn’t realize she’d hadn’t had all that many. It was her choice to keep her private life very separate from her family, but Luke was special in that he was her only brother and he was also one of the least judgmental people she’d ever met.

“Yes.” She inclined her head a fraction and grudgingly admitted, “I’d guess the two of you know each other.”

“Oh?” With an inquiring lift of his brows he casually crossed one leg over the other, resting his ankle on his knee. “One of
us
, then.”

She blew out a short breath. “Us?”

“Insufferable aristocrats. I believe I’ve heard you use the phrase more than once. Unless you’ve developed a penchant for one of the footmen, in which case, by the way, I still wish you all due happiness.”

“No objection to a footman as a brother-in-law?” She arched a brow.

“Not unless he isn’t a good footman,” her brother answered with equanimity. “One must have standards, correct?”

A laugh bubbled up in her throat. “I suppose that is a valid point.”

“Are you really considering marriage?”

Insufferable aristocrats
. She had blithely said that about the upper classes, she realized. James did qualify as one of their class, and the mention of marriage didn’t help. At a loss for a moment, she struggled to find an appropriate response. Always she’d subscribed to the ideal that each man and each woman should never be judged by the circumstances of their birth, and she still did, but her relationship with James had nothing at all to do with social standing but everything to do with an undeniable passion, and perhaps something a great deal more. Luke simply waited until she sighed and acquiesced. “No, he isn’t a footman. That might be simpler, but he is who he is, and I am who I am, and it is all deuced complicated.”

“That explains exactly nothing.”

“It’s James Bourne.”

It was liberating, actually, to say the name out loud. What’s more, it was always gratifying to confound Luke, even if it was only visible on his face for a fleeting moment. Her brother said slowly, “Yes, I do know him. Good sort, actually. At the moment heir to an earldom, so definitely not a footman.”

It wasn’t like she hadn’t spent hours and hours trying to decipher this complicated relationship, not to mention the painting. “And let’s not forget far younger than I am.”

“I wasn’t thinking of that at all.” Luke frowned. “Though I suppose he is. I was more thinking that he has a reputation as a respectable fellow, whereas you—”

“Are not respectable at all,” she finished for him, not sure if she should be amused or burst into tears.

Truly, she never cried. What the devil was wrong with her? Her throat was tight and hot.

“I never meant that,” Luke said succinctly, running long fingers through his hair in a careless movement. “Regina, I just pointed out you are beautiful and talented and charming.”

“Charming?” she asked, recovering a little with only a slight hiccup in her voice, wondering where the bout of emotion had come from in the first place. “When have I ever been charming?”

Luke grinned. “I concede that wasn’t the right adjective. You are far too independent and opinionated to be charming. Beautiful and talented. Can we leave it there? Bourne would be stupid to not be interested. It’s just that he doesn’t seem like the kind of man you’d choose when you’ve refused so many others.”

“Doesn’t he?’ She sat back, careless deliberately, both pleased at her brother’s understanding of the painting and yet disconcerted he’d seen through her so easily. “Tell me why.”

If there was one person’s opinion she valued it was Luke’s, so why not ask? She wasn’t about to confide in anyone else, even James. If there ever was going to be a declaration of love—and she wasn’t sure she was even capable of such a commitment, no matter her feelings—it was going to be a long and well-contemplated decision.

In short, dissuade me
.

James was her lover, but maybe he was simply enjoying the physical communion and the emotional connection was her imagination. She’d never had it before. How could she know?

“Bourne?” Her brother shrugged, but his eyes were steady. “I’m hardly his closest friend, but he strikes me as steady and unruffled, a gentleman who can move about in society, a canny man of business, or so I’ve heard, but hardly one with a living that would tempt an heiress.”

Rather like James had described himself. Regina wasn’t quite positive how nonchalant she could seem, but she said flippantly, “Even if she’s an eclectic artist considerably his senior?”

“Considerably? I think that’s an exaggeration.”

“Is it?” Her smile was wry.

“Please, Regina, what does your age matter? I’m older than Madeline.”

“Not at all the same. Please admit it. I’m five and thirty, and as such, so far past spinster that I’ve been dismissed as unmarriageable. There’s no such word to describe a bachelor. Spinster means you are unwanted, bachelor means you are unmarried by choice. It’s damned unfair.”

Luke inclined his head. At least he was
that
intelligent for she didn’t suffer fools—but of course, neither did he, so at least they were in accord there. “I see your point.”

Suddenly she didn’t want to sit any longer. Regina rose and walked across to stare at the painting. Her folk hero stood there with his drooping bow, his tortured expression not unfamiliar. Their dilemma was not the same… hers wasn’t life or death.

Or was it? There was the potential death of her existence as she knew it—as she celebrated and cherished it.

And there was life…

“I think for the first time in my life I don’t know what I want.” Saying it out loud was like stripping her soul bare.

“I think that is significant just in itself, don’t you?”

“If I knew what to think,” she said haltingly, “I wouldn’t be involving you in my personal affairs for the first time I can remember.”

Luke considered her, half his face shadowed by the light coming in the unadorned windows. When he spoke his voice was quiet. “Are you in love?”

“How would I know?” She reached out and brushed her fingers across the canvas—very lightly; it was dried, but she didn’t want to dislodge a single bit of paint. “I’m confounded. Conflicted. I have no idea how he feels and that’s entirely my fault. I insist on a detached approach to any personal discussions. I always have. I assume that sounds familiar, brother mine.”

“It does,” he agreed, his fleeting smile brief. “But what we think we control and what actually happens rarely coincide. I learned during the war that all the careful planning in the world cannot control the outcome of a battle.”

She should have made Tell’s eyes dark instead of crystalline blue. Regina tried to study her work with an objective eye, but then gave up. There was no objectivity in art, and there was none in love either.

“I loved Madeline long before I admitted it to myself.” Luke was never one to equivocate. “I recognize the signs of denial. In retrospect, I wonder why I waited to accept my feelings. It isn’t nearly as frightening as it seems, Regina.”

Her smile was brittle. “I hope you are correct, because I’m petrified. Tell me, how did Madeline begin to suspect she was pregnant?”

James calculated that if he gauged the timing to the second correctly, then maybe—perhaps—he’d catch Lily alone. It wasn’t that he minded being the only male in residence. After all, he understood Jonathan’s reasons for keeping his wife in the country so she had a serene pregnancy without the bustle of the city, and besides, James took care of most of the estate affairs. It made Jonathan’s presence in London unnecessary unless there was something pressing.

But the duchess made James want to duck into the corner like an admonished schoolboy. Such determined matchmaking made him uneasy, not to mention that she had not-so-subtly taken over the management of the household. She often took all three of his cousins to the dressmaker or milliner or other shops females favored, supervised elaborate teas, and arranged dinner parties, so she was in residence most of the time.

Regina had summed it up nicely when she’d advised him to avoid the “regal old bat.”

It was so very like her irreverent sense of humor he had to laugh at the memory even as he raised his hand to rap on Lily’s door.

His cousin answered in her evening gown, but her long hair was still loose, her hairbrush in her hand. “Oh.”

“I see you are dressing to go out.”

She made a small moue. “The duchess—”

“Insists,” he concluded for her. “Can I have a short word first?”

She nodded. “Of course.”

He kept his voice low, for her maid was moving around in the background and it wasn’t like he’d ask to come into her bedroom. They were cousins and he had nothing but brotherly affection for Lily, but proprieties were proprieties. “Can you step out here for a moment? I just have a quick question.”

Obligingly she stepped outside into the hallway and eased the door closed, obviously understanding his wish to not be overheard. “What is it?”

There was no really subtle way to ask for this advice without revealing something he had kept closely to himself, but then again, Lily was trustworthy, so he said simply, “I wish to buy a gift for someone very special to me. A token, as it were, of my affection. In some ways, she reminds me of you. I thought you might have a suggestion.”

The way Lily’s eyes widened, he knew he’d surprised her. But then again, he was hardly forthcoming about what he did in private, and despite the incident with Sebring, she was still a sheltered, unmarried young woman. One night might have ruined her reputation, but it didn’t make her worldly.

No, he didn’t need advice on how to get Regina into bed; he needed direction on how to win her in a different way.

“Who is she?”

His smile was crooked. “Someday I might tell you, but for now, no. I just need to outdo myself, for trust me, this is not a lady who will be dazzled with flowers and sweets.”

She leaned back against the closed door, and Lily’s face creased into a frown. “I… I don’t know. What does
she like? What are her interests? Does she have any pursuits that she excels at?”

“The answers are in sequential order: art, art, and art.” His voice was drier than he intended, but then again, he was telling the exact truth. “She is complex in many ways but not so difficult to decipher in others. One of her more endearing qualities is a single-minded obsession with her work.” He forestalled further questions by saying gently, “You are not contemporaries so I doubt you know her. Now, then, any ideas?”

Lily was silent, her gaze speculative, then she murmured, “This seems important to you.”

“It is.” His smile was brief and humorless. How did a man even begin to court a woman like Regina, who was so self-sufficient and content with her life? Thoroughly bedding her was a satisfactory start—most satisfactory—but he was thinking more and more in terms of permanence, yet afraid to broach the subject. Instead he had decided to embark on a campaign to win her emotionally, not just in a physical sense. “I’m in love with her.”