Page 48 of Forgery, Love, and Other Lies
“I thought it did. I believed myself to be quite, quite sneaky. Smarter than them all. But my father knew the whole damn time. Played me for a fool.”
“Perhaps he did not want to embarrass you or… or create a rift between you by pointing out your thievery.”
He snorted, tightened his arms around her. “I doubt that. None of us, me nor my siblings, were what he wanted out of his progeny. Too rough and tumble, not nearly enough refined or, of course, interested in the arts. I’m sure he relished forming a will that would pressure us to make art, relished leaving us inheritances that he knew were worthless, and—”
“What do you mean pressure you to make art?”
A harsh bark of laughter. “A stipulation of the will. Even if the paintings we were willed were the originals, we cannot have them until we each produce a work of art deemed valuable by my mother. My brother Raph and my sister Maggie have both won their inheritances, but—ha—there is nothing worth selling to inherit. In the end, I have ruined my family as much as my father did.”
She snapped her head upward, bumping his chin.
“Ow.” He plucked at her earlobe. “Don’t throw your flames at me, dragon.”
“I will if you deserve them.” She smirked, liking the way he called her dragon. Not, perhaps a conventional endearment, not one other women would welcome, but he’d recently spoken of relishing, and she relished that—the power of the word and the fondness with which he said it. “Have you tried to win your inheritance, fake though it may be? Have you sculpted or drawn or—”
“No. I’ve no talent. For any of it. I have an eye for what is good, what is true, what is exceptional, but unlike you, I cannot make these things myself.”
She turned and wrapped her arms around his neck, buried her face in his shoulder and cravat to best hide her sudden fit of giggles.
“What’s the meaning of this? Should I be insulted she laughs at such a time?”
“No,” she shrieked on a laugh flung sky high. “No. It’s only… it’s only we are the same, don’t you see. Each of us unable to create—”
“Hold on. Youcancreate—”
“Not how I want to. They will not allow me to.” She laughed some more into his shoulder, clinging tight to him as he clung to her. When she had recovered enough to speak, she said, “We are a pair. Perhaps I should create some art for you to show your mother, then you can get your”—the laughs returned again, crowding out her words, but she squeezed them through anyhow—“forged inheritance.”
“’Tis not funny.” But he laughed, too, a deep rumble that rocked her, turned her mirth to something else entirely, like earth-warm fireflies glinting into diamond stars in the night sky. A transformation.
He pressed a kiss to the top of her head. “You’ll be safe. We’ll find all that is missing.” A promise. She intended to believe him.
Sixteen
Lysander woke unwillingly at who knew what late hour, reluctant to let the dream woman he’d held all night go. But sunlight across paper-thin eyelids eventually banished his hold on her. When he opened his eyes and pushed to sitting, scratching his head where it slightly ached from the pressure of the knot holding his domino together last night, he realized he did not want to let her go. Hated it. Which likely meant the infatuation he’d been attempting to rid himself of last night… was not an infatuation. What it was, he would not explore. No reason to. She’d been too eager in his arms last night, too ready to continue their inadvisable actions, scandals if they were ever found out.
He flopped back down on the bed. Last night. A debacle from beginning to end. At least they knew the dowager yet lived. He’d make a visit to her townhome today. Unlikely she’d returned there when she knew they were after her, but worth a try. He knit his hands together behind his head and studied the ceiling. He should call on Fiona, too. See how she fared after such a shocking night. Likely well enough. She probably had a plan already spun and expected him to step in with no hesitation. She’d be animated—explaining, arms waving, hair falling, eyes wild, lips mobile—and he’d want to kiss her.
He grew hard, and the coverlet draped over his lower half tented. “Damn.”
A knock on the door.
“Double damn. One moment please,” he called out.
“You’ve a note, Zander.” Maggie’s voice. “That’s all. It’s been waiting on you all morning. It’s past noon, you know.” He’d not known. “I’ll slip it beneath the door.”
Silence, then the thumps of fingers fumbling about wood and the slight shush of paper, and then, “Will we see you at all today?”
“Oh, I’m sure. Getting up now.” And he did get up as the sound of her footsteps receded behind his chamber door. He knelt and picked up the note, his name written on it in curling, ostentatious script. He unfolded it and read, and a boisterous waltz broke out inside him. Impossible. Was it to be that easy?
He flew into movement, cleaning his teeth and any bits of himself that smelled stale or worse. He threw on the cleanest clothes he had and shoved his feet in boots, and after a much too slow hackney ride, he burst through the front door of Frampton and Son’s, waving the letter. “I need to speak to Fiona.”
Her sister, the only one in the shop, looked up from where she leaned across the counter, book open before her. She scowled. “Lord Lysander. What are you doing here?”
The first time he’d stepped foot in the shop through the front door, and it seemed he was about to be kicked out. “I need to speak with your sister.” He looked toward the door that must lead to the workshop at the back. “Fiona!”
Miss Frampton circled the counter to stand before him. “Do you have permission to address my sister so informally?”
“He does.” Fiona stood in the doorway, her head tilted to the side, a bevy of questions in her eyes. “What is it, Zander?”
