Page 68 of Lady Diana's Lost Lord
Her nose twitched at the scent of mildew, and something else, something heavier, coarser—tallow, she thought. She’d grown accustomed to the smell of it, since tallow candles were all that had been available for purchase within the village Ben and Hannah had, until recently, called home. The odor was not quite fresh, but it hung in the air still, and she followed it down a corridor. There had been paintings here, once, she thought, given the faded paint surrounding the areas where she suspected grand frames had once been placed. Long gone, now—likely sold, if they could bring in even a bit of cash—except for one just at the end.
A portrait, she realized as she arrived before it. Man, woman, and child. A family portrait—Ben’sfamily. The artist had captured perfectly the awkward little boy she had once known; the wide dark eyes, the tousled hair, thegeneral air of discomfort, as if he had had to stop himself from diving for cover. He stood, half-concealed, behind the woman seated in a chair. Diana had never met her, this woman who could only be the late marchioness. She had a gentle, earnest face, lovingly rendered in oils that still glowed as if newly painted. A soft smile, a tiny crinkle about her eyes that suggested she and humor were old friends. Ben had gotten his coloring from her, received the warmth of her eyes, the auburn streaks in her hair. The man, the marquess, stood at her other side, one hand upon her shoulder, the other upon his son’s, and—oh. That was love, there, in the hint of a smile tucked within his cheek. Like as not he’d been directed to face the artist properly, and yet he’d been painted with his head half-turned, as if he could not resist the lure of them; his wife, his son. She could not recall ever having seen Ben’s father with an expression so soft, so tender.
Probably the marchioness had passed not long after this portrait had been painted. She had not been present during any of those childhood visits that Diana recalled, and she thought she certainly would have remembered this woman, who seemed, even in this lone painting hanging in an otherwise empty gallery, to be the beating heart of her family.
As if of its own accord, her finger drifted along the brilliant gold gilt of the frame, sweeping from one end to the other. The tip came away clean, utterly devoid of the dust that otherwise ran rampant throughout the house. Thoroughly polished by loving hands, even when everything else had been left to rot, this portrait alone had been given loving attention. A treasure; a memento of a time that had long passed and was cherished still.
She had never wondered before what exactly had brought this man to ruin. But now she knew—the marquess had died along with his wife. The heart of his family had stopped beating, and so had he, devolving into devastation one wretched, dismal year after another.
If this painting was so well kept, then the marquess could not be far. Probably he used just a few rooms within the massive manor house, and there was no reason to have them spread all about the sprawling residence. “Hello?” she called again as she turned a corner, peering down a hallway.
There, from a door just ahead to her left—a scrape of chair legs across a floor, a low muttering. The door flew open, and light spilled into the hallway, sparkling off of dust motes lingering in the air. “Who the hell are you, and what are you doing in my house?”
The surly tenor of the voice rebounded across the walls as a man staggered halfway into the corridor. Even in the weak light, Diana could see thatthose frills and flourishes that ought to have marked him as a gentleman—as an aristocrat—had been left off. He wore only a shirt and trousers; his greying hair was badly in need of a trim, and from the whiskers that flecked his chin and cheeks, she thought it had been days, if not weeks, since last he’d shaved. He wore no coat, no cravat, nor even any shoes or stockings. All traces of levity and kindness had long since faded from his face, and yet there was still enough of a resemblance for her to recognize the marquess he had once been in the wreck of a man he had become.
The years had changed him, marked him—weatheredhim, as the lack of care had done to his once-magnificent estate. He’d not even cared forhimself.
Some part of her had expected to face down a monster, to stand toe to toe with a fire-breathing dragon or a fearsome demon who lived only to inflict misery upon others. It had been so easy to imagine, when the consequences of his actions had been her heartbreak. But the image slipped away even as she tried to hold it, to grasp that righteous fury that had roiled inside her chest.
He wasn’t a monster at all.
He was only a man. A broken man, a flawed one. A man who had once desperately loved his wife. A man who loved her still. Could there be just a little of that love left for his son? Perhaps enough even for the little girl who could be a granddaughter to him?
Her father had never wanted to be any better than he had been, and now any hope of that was gone forever. But if this man could still love so deeply—deeply enough to polish his wife’s portrait so often that dust never had the chance to settle—perhaps his heart could still be changed.
It was just one foot in front of the other, crossing that scant distance to the door. Shoulders back, chin up—proud, confident, unassailably dignified. Diana paused just there before him, peered over his shoulder to the dingy little room that looked to be both study and bedchamber.
How did one rehabilitate a man like this, in circumstances such as these?
Probably best to start with an introduction.
She said, “My name is Diana Beaumont. I am your son’sfiancée.”
∞∞∞
There was nowhere to sit but the chair behind the desk, but that Diana left for the marquess. She did not mind standing for the purposes of this conversation. The marquess had to look up at her as he slouched in his chair, and it made her feel powerful.
“You needn’t have come in person,” he said, this man who had caused her so much misery. He rubbed at his temples as if to soothe himself of a headache. “If you wished to break off the engagement—”
“I don’t.” She could have laughed at the shock that passed over his features, the fear that settled into crevices worn into the surface of his skin. “Thatwasyour hope, was it not? That I would be moved to break it off? That you would not be compelled to return my dowry?”
The marquess cleared his throat and tugged at the rumpled collar of his shirt. “Anyone would have forgiven you for it,” he said. “You might have done it years and years ago. He’s kept you waiting—”
“In fact,youkept me waiting. You, with your plots and your schemes.” Diana stepped closer to the desk set between them, noted its age, the wear upon its once-grand surface. “I don’t intend to be kept waiting any longer. Which is why I have come to make certain demands of you. It would be in your best interest to capitulate to them at once.”
“Who are you to make demands of me?” the marquess blustered.
“The woman who will ruin you without a moment of hesitation if you cross me.” She let a smile slide over her face, baring as many teeth as she could manage. “I realize you have so very little,” she said. “I’ve seen your house, your estate. There is nothing much left worth taking of it. But I will take your very name if I must. I will drag you into court for the return of my dowry and destroy your legacy in perpetuity.”
“I haven’t got it,” he said, and a flush of humiliation rose to his cheeks. “If you’ve seen my estate, then you know that much.”
Diana pressed her palms down upon the desk and spoke clearly and precisely, in a voice that thrummed with her resolve. “I do know it. But my family has not-insignificant resources at our disposal, and my brothers will do whatever I ask of them. If that is to pursue a court case that will drag your good name—whatever is left of it—through the mud and humiliate you before your peers for however long it should go on, they will do it. And when we win, I will take everything from you. The land and house might be entailed, but I will take from you every stick of furniture, every ornament, every last farthing that crosses your palm from whatever rents you might still manage to collect. I will take the shirt from your back and the chair in which youpresently sit and this desk beneath my hands. If you think your life is painful now, let me assure you I will make it a thousand times worse than this. You will envy even beggars in the streets before I am done with you.”
She had shocked him into an incredulous silence, but then she hadpracticedthat speech, which she had altered only slightly with the new knowledge of how dire were his circumstances. A deliciously malevolent monologue that Lydia had deemed sufficiently terrifying. Probably she ought not to have enjoyed the pallor that washed the color from his face, but thus far he had earned only her enmity. Now—nowshe had to dangle before him the possibility of gaining her good will instead. The brandishing of the stick would certainly make the proffered carrot that much more appealing.
“Of course, I understand if that does not suit you,” she said, rising once more to her full height. It wasn’t so very tall, but she supposed she must seem monstrously large to him in this moment, when all of the power was held in the palm of her hand. “Ifyou choose to comply with my demands, then I will use those very resources at my disposal to restore you instead. Naturally, you won’t be permitted the sort of activities that have gotten you in this wretched mess, lest you let old habits ruin you anew,” she said, “but you will find yourself quite comfortably situated. Respectable once again.” She rolled her wrist in a delicate gesture toward him, as if offering him that very respect upon a silver salver. “I am offering you the choice between ruin and salvation.”
“What do you want of me?” he inquired tightly, as his throat worked in a long, hard swallow.
