Page 70 of His Mistress, His Muse, and Other Madness
Finally, she wiped real tears from her eyes and sighed. “Oh, Theo. It’s perfection. Where did you get the idea?”
“From the ridiculous body of water beside us,” he said, bending a knee.
The drawing depicted a fisherman sitting on the bridge over the moat, the one she’d fallen from, and at the end of his line was a mermaid, her long, curling hair caught in his hook. The mermaid had freckles and a heart-shaped face and wore a look of shock. The fisherman, whose hair was fashioned the same way Theo always styled his, had more of a scowl than a face—brows that hung ominously low over narrowed eyes, a cliff for a jawline, and he focused it all on his unexpected catch. Few words marred the picture, and they streamed from the granite fisherman’s lips—“Can I keep you?”
He’d gotten the idea not only from the day she’d fallen, but from his every thought upon waking with her in his arms. Could he keep her? And how?
“And,” he said, the words escaping on shallow breaths, “it’s what you said to me.” He turned on his side to face her and pushed his fingers through her hair, drew a line around the shape of her face, ran the pad of his thumb over her chin and down her neck. Her breath caught, and her gaze caught, too. On him. Good. He wanted it to be impossible to look away.
“Well?” His voice gruff. “Can I? Keep you?”
Her nod started small, a tiny shake of the head as she rolled her lips between her teeth, but it soon became a full-body thing as she rolled into him, wrapped her arms around him, and said into his chest, “Yes. Yes. Yes.”
“Good.” The word came out hoarse, gruff. The opposite of the lightness he felt inside, the brightness, as if this perfect day of a dying summer had leapt into his body. “Good.” He kissed the top of her head and held her tight, and they stayed there until the sun began its descent, and her stomach rumbled, then they returned to the house and to raised brows from their friends.
Friends? When he must make enemies of them? Dangerous thought that, one that felt like boulders in his belly. But he must do whatever it took to provide a life for her, to help her start her school. He’d wield his weapons wisely for those who needed it, including her.
“Gone a long time,” Pentshire said, bringing him a glass of wine.
Theo grunted and sipped the drink.
Pentshire pulled a square of paper from his pocket. “This came for you. From an address in Manchester.”
A letter. From Drew. Would it contain more of what he’d discovered here—nothing much to set the London gossips aflame—or would it contain the bit of information he was missing, the one that might sell his sketches for enough money to set up Cordelia’s school?
Nineteen
Cordelia bathed and dressed appropriately for meeting her lover, her future husband—in nothing but shift and wrapper. Even her toes she left unadorned and open to the hard floor. He liked her toes, the arch of her foot, her ankle. Sometimes he kissed and sometimes he tickled, and sometimes she did not know which one she preferred. She left her hair unplaited and streaming down her back as well. He liked that, too. Oh, how he liked it. And so did she, when he wound her tresses round his hand and tugged her closer. Made her a bit… melty.
His door was unlocked, as she’d known it would be, and she slipped inside. A small fire crackled in the grate, sputtering out. Had he lit it only for his bath? A hip tub sat abandoned nearby, water droplets darkening the floor around it. She had a bigger bath in London, and hopefully they could make excellent use of it upon their return.
Theo sat at the writing desk nearby, shirtless, hunched over, scribbling fiercely. He’d disappeared after their walk to the moat and his proposal, saying with excitement shining in his eyes that he had work to do. Kissing her hard, he’d then bounding up the steps and had not even come down for dinner.
She leaned against the door and watched him. He’d said today that love did not matter, that he admired her, wanted her. A bit of a sting, that, but not a fatal wound. She’d known as much. Still, she almost could not quite believe his words. His actions said differently, so she’d promised to marry a man who treated her like he loved her, even if he could never say the words. He had love in him. She knew that. He would not do the work he did if he did not. He would not try so diligently to help his family if he did not.
His inability to put the right words to his emotions would not be their most pressing problem. Money would be. Where to live. How to fund the school. How much easier this would be if she’d fallen in love with a rich man. She tried to imagine it. Saw only Theo but with more money. Well, that answered that question.
She crept up behind him on tiptoe. What did he work on? She liked his work, his sketches. They revealed a silly side to him she quite liked best of all. That little bit of himself he kept hidden, going so far as to sign another name to his drawings. She got to see it, though. She got to know it,him, as few others did.
She slipped her arms around him, rested her head on his shoulder. “Good evening.” She kissed the tip of his ear.
He kissed her briefly, but drinking fully, before returning to his work. His hands were splattered with ink, and he was outlining a pencil drawing.
“What is that?” she asked, studying the sketch.
“It’s going to buy the house for your school, and it’s going to make my career.” His voice was as hard as his drawing was meticulous. He moved his hand slowly with each pen stroke, curving the ink into the exact right shapes.
“What—who—is it supposed to be of?” She didn’t immediately recognize the people, only one of them fully inked in.
He placed the pen down and yanked a piece of creased paper from the very edge of the desk, handed it to her. “Read this. It’s from Drew. That governess of his shared some interesting information with him that she said I could have. The reason she left.”
“Oh?” She roamed closer to the fire and read by its dim light. Each sentence churned her gut sour. “Oh… No… They’re married? Miss Mires and Pentshire…?” Unbelievable.
He joined her by the fire, leaning an arm against the mantel and ruffling the hand of his other arm through his hair. He nodded, his lips a hard-pressed line. “Oh, yes. The Earl of Pentshire married a dairy maid.”
“But… but why are they hiding it?” She folded the letter and put it on the mantel, a curious buzzing in her fingertips. The paper, stark white in the shadows, winked at her like a snake bite. “He calls her Miss Mires, as does everyone else.”
Theo shrugged. “I can’t say. But I can guess.”
