Page 14 of My Fake Mistress
Julian searched his daughters face, his stomach heavy with disgrace. ‘It wasn’t like that at first, I was only trying to help. Carlson, did bloody Carlson tell you? It’s all his fault, all of it—’
Yvette held up a silencing hand. ‘Carlson has remained tight lipped. Typical bloody cad. I figured it out on my own.’
‘Because of the scene in the ballroom.’ He sounded like a confessing child, and he hated it.
Yvette laughed. ‘That confirmed my suspicions, but no. You are not as walled off as you think, at least not to me. She made you smile. Not only this weekend when I do not want to know what transpired, but from the first evening when we arrived. She lit you like a lantern. Not like the sun, or a candle, shining light onto you, but from within.’
Isn’t that why he had agreed to her slightly ridiculous plan? Because he liked being in her orbit? She was a woman who didn’t need anyone, but in her moment of vulnerability, she had come to him. It had flattered his sense of strength and self. In a world where he was slowly becoming obsolete, she’d given him a new sense of purpose.
‘Yvette, I… I want you to hang this, downstairs. Anywhere you like.’
Yvette straightened, her expression puzzled, her eyes narrowing in confusion, and maybe, also concern. Then she smiled, and with it, he felt the frostiness that had always been between them when Penelope was mentioned melt away. ‘Really? It won’t upset you?’
‘Maybe. But I can’t keep her locked up here. She’s not a ghost. She’s a memory.’
They sat in shared silence, finally comfortable, and with a crush, Julian realised the gift Blythe had given them. It wasn’t the painting cleaned and restored, but this moment, reconnecting with his daughter, passing into a new understanding. With a cinch in his heart, he realised that he’d released both of them. Penelope into the ether and Yvette into her future.
Yvette broke the silence first. ‘You should find her.’
Julian shook his head. ‘She has her career.’ He gestured helplessly at the painting. ‘Her skill should be out there in the world. I’d only hold her back. And your inheritance. What about the life you imagined?’
‘What about yours that you haven’t even dared to imagine?’ Yvette rose, took up her candle and slowly made her way to the door, where she paused. ‘There is more than one way to make a happy ending.’
‘She is half my age,’ he said, not liking the slight whine to his voice.
Yvette didn’t even look back as she left. ‘She is half of you.’
Chapter Six
Blythe’sheldbreathbeganto nip at her throat as she made the last stroke against the canvas. She dipped the brush into the water and swirled, before wiping the bristles on her apron and setting it, toe up to dry, in a small glass jar.
She leaned back against her chair and sighed. Perfect.
Lady Tate’s kittens had likely never looked better.
As she packed her containers and squeezed out her sponges, she tallied the hours she had spent working on Lady Tate’s collection that immortalised her beloved cats, those gone and the others that still sauntered around her home. Her uncle would have charged double what Blythe had quoted, but unlike him, she had no real reputation. And apart from being besotted with her feline’s, Lady Tate was a bit of a gossip, and if she was happy with Blythe’s work, she’d possibly recommend her to her friends.
Maybe that would be enough to keep her in accommodations and cleaning supplies.
‘I’m afraid I can’t help with this,’ a gruff voice sounded behind her. ‘Cats make me sneeze.’
It couldn’t be. But even after two weeks, his rough timbre was unmistakable to her ears, and no one else could send gooseflesh racing over her skin. Ithadto be him. ‘Julian.’ His name caught in her throat as she swivelled to find him. Black suit, gold cravat, his skin slightly flushed and his eyes bright. Did he ever look ruffled?
‘Lady Tate is an old friend. She let me in.’ He spun the brim of his top hat in his hands. ‘I searched for you at the gallery. Why aren’t you there?’
Blythe busied herself with packing up her kit. ‘Blythe is a common name for men too. They didn’t realise I was a woman. When they saw my uncle’s surname, they made an assumption. When they realised their error, well…’
Blythe swallowed the indignity of her dismissal before she had begun. The disappointment had sent her to bed for three days. It was only when her sadness had been replaced by anger, and hunger, that she had found the stamina to rise, make enquiries, and secure a little work.
‘But you are better than this.’ He waved his hand at the painting, slightly wincing at the gaudy colours. ‘You should be caring for Gentileschi’s. For DaVinci’s.’
‘These matter to Lady Tate. They make her happy.’ Blythe packed the last of her things into her case and closed the lid. ‘Why are you here?’
Julian twisted the hat in his hand slightly faster now, his grip closing and unclosing against it. ‘I want you, Blythe. Not for a night. For always.’
Her heart had been racing, but now it lurched hard, barely suspended in her chest. ‘You want me to be your wife?’
As the wordwifedropped from her lips, Julian’s expression tore. His features pained; she read the dilemma that coursed in him. If he married, his adored daughter would be demoted. She would move from heir apparent to presumptive, her life shifting from certain to tenuous, from future baroness in her own right to baron’s daughter. Because if he married, the possibility of a son to usurp Yvette’s inheritance would be ever present. It would taint all conversations and sour every interaction. Even a simpleHow are youwould become loaded.
