Page 44 of The Villain
Yet, she’d loved the boy from the estate neighboring her family’s, had dreamed of becoming his wife more times than she could count. She’d almost surrendered her virtue to him and had come close to letting him compromise her the last time they’d seen each other. At the time, she’d told herself fear had driven her to refuse him, to pull her skirts down over her legs and run from him, whispering a tortured ‘I’m so sorry’ before retreating. She’d been young, afraid, inexperienced. At least, this was what she had told herself.
Could the truth be something far more unpalatable? That she had been waiting for someone who did not handle her like a delicate porcelain doll? Someone who challenged her, frightened her, excited her?
Shaking her head, she clenched her jaw, setting her fork onto her half-empty plate with a loud ‘clang’. No … he was wrong about her, had been from the moment they’d met. She was not some fragile thing he could easily break, nor was she the whore he had accused her of being, just because he’d managed to coax her body to climax with his rough handling. She was a woman who had fallen down on her luck for the time being and had found a way to set it all right. When her time had ended here, she would return home thirty thousand pounds richer … and perhaps wiser for having learned the truth about her family.
That decided, she took up her napkin and folded it, laying it beside her plate before quitting the room. She had grown far too restless to return to her chamber or to practice the harp. Nor did she believe she would find Adam in the gallery so they could spar together. So, she set off on a walk, hoping to explore parts of the castle she had not yet seen.
Adam had never told her she could not explore it on her own—only that she was forbidden to tread into the corridor adjacent to the one her room sat in. Of course, she realized it was because that wing of the palace was where Livvie had been ensconced. Now that she had made her presence known to Daphne, would Adam still want her to stay away?
Deciding to err on the side of caution, she went in the opposite direction. Passing Adam’s study, the library, music room, and other sitting rooms she had already seen, she moved deeper into the third arm of the quadrangle. In it, she found more sitting rooms, and several sets of double doors which led into a massive ballroom. She entered the space, finding it dusty and shuttered, meager light streaming through stained glass windows. The colorful beams illuminated white pillars and large, iron chandeliers which would give the room a gothic yet ethereal feel once lowered and lit. Smooth, veined tiles lined the floors, and a raised dais for an orchestra was flanked by more of the statuesque pillars.
Had soirées ever been hosted at Dunnottar? She would imagine that if this manor had a lady, she would throw open these doors and host extravagant balls. She would be able to see the potential in the cavernous space, perhaps even hosting gothic masquerades or Grecian-themed balls. A sudden image of herself seated in the center of the dais, draped in white silk and strumming the harp before a captive audience, sprung forth in her mind. Uncertain where such a thought had come from, she turned away from the ballroom, swiftly closing the doors she had thrown open to access the room. It had been a preposterous thought, one with no basis in reality. This place was her prison and would continue to be for another twenty days. No matter how beautiful, it would always be the lair of a monster.
Continuing to the end of the corridor, she found stairs winding up a tower that would give her access to the second level. She climbed them and entered another corridor, this one seemingly lined with more bedrooms. She opened the doors to discover her assumption had been right. The rooms were as beautifully decorated as her own, filled with heavy, old furniture that had been remarkably preserved, as well as modern finishes that blended in seamlessly.
The fifth room on the right struck her as being different from the others. Instead of heavy drapes, sheer white curtains covered the windows, allowing in far more light than the other chambers. A large canopy bed flaunted more of the same curtains, though these had been embroidered with delicate pink rosettes. A matching bedspread of pink damask was etched with white flowers while a bench resting at the foot of the bed had been upholstered in a matching fabric. An oak writing desk faced one of the windows, covered in scraps of paper that appeared to have been written on. As she drew closer, she realized they were actually charcoal drawings—of flowers, birds, people. They were quite good, better than anything she’d ever attempted.
“Livvie,” she whispered, reaching out to touch a drawing of a hummingbird drinking from the pistil of a flower.
Some instinct told Daphne this room belonged to her, that she had once filled this chamber with warmth, laughter, and creativity. An artist … and likely the person who had so loved the garden Adam had taken her to.
Glancing up from the drawing, she spotted a large shape in the corner, covered with a white sheet. She looked over her shoulder to ensure no one might be coming who would see her, then approached it. Dropping to her knees on the thick rug, she reached out to move the sheet aside—revealing the large object to be a cluster of paintings that had been stacked together against the wall.
The first one took her breath away—an incredible likeness of Adam. The gilded frame contained a portrait depicting him in sporty riding attire, a crop held over one shoulder. Though he did not smile, humor curved his lips and alit his eyes—which the painter had captured as being mostly green. If she did not know better, she might have thought it must be someone else—someone younger, and happier. Yet, the artist had gotten his hair right, and the slope of his brow and the ridge of his nose, the soft pillow of his mouth. Even the stubble that grew along his jaw had been perfectly translated to the canvas, adding a dangerous allure to the powerful body encased in an athlete’s riding wear.
She stared at the portrait for a long while, wondering what the younger, happier Adam had been like. A charmer, who the women of Scotland and London tripped over themselves trying to impress? A humorous fellow who could have rooms full of men in stitches with nothing but a well-timed joke? It was difficult to imagine; yet, the portrait proved a truth she could not deny. Adam had been irrevocably changed by the circumstances entangling her family with his.
Moving the heavy painting aside, she studied the next one—the image of a man who must surely be Adam’s father. The resemblance was really quite striking. The two men possessed the same dark hair and peculiar eyes. He wore an expression similar to the one she typically found upon Adam’s face—hard and implacable. An undeniable severity solidified his jaw and pinched his mouth into a tight line. Clearly a man of constant ill humor.
She pushed that one aside to reveal a woman, with golden hair and cheer dancing in her blue eyes. A beautiful young lady she did not recognize. Based upon the style of the portrait, it must be decades old—perhaps a likeness of Adam’s mother in her youth. Adam possessed none of her features, having inherited the whole of his aspect from his sire.
Daphne moved the painting aside, unveiling one that sent her heart spiraling up into her throat. The woman staring back at her possessed a flawless alabaster complexion, complemented by glossy black hair and innocent, brown doe eyes. She recognized the pert nose, lightly freckled cheeks, and rosebud mouth. Dressed in finery and portraying the flawless image of a young debutante, she called to mind a girl Daphne had met several Seasons ago.
“Lady Olivia Goodall,” she whispered, reaching out to touch the painting.
“Aye,” said Adam’s voice from the behind her, frightening her half out of her wits.
She gasped, leaping to her feet and spinning to find him lingering in the doorway, arms folded over his chest. His expression indicated neither anger nor disapproval; yet, she shivered beneath his stare all the same. Her skin prickled as if recalling what it felt like to be touched by him, her pulse racing as she fought the urge to run.
“She is a member of your family?” she asked, her mind spinning as she tried to recall what little she knew of the lady.
Daphne had been introduced to her at Almack’s—which she had attended on the arm of a man. A cousin, perhaps. The man had been forgettable … certainly not Adam.
“My sister,” he confirmed, nodding toward the painting. “Well … stepsister, to be precise.”
That would explain why the two shared no resemblance. It began to make sense—why Adam had taken Olivia’s ruination so personally, what Maeve had meant when she’d claimed all the residents of Dunnottar loved her.
“I remember her,” she whispered, the things she had forgotten now coming back to her in a rush. “We were introduced at Almack’s … she was a lovely young lady. All the men wanted to dance with her. Her dance card had been filled within an hour of arriving.”
“I know,” he replied, leaning one shoulder against the doorframe. “She wrote me countless letters detailing the events of her first Season. After having spent all her life here in Scotland, she found London to be quite exciting.”
Why had Adam remained behind while his young sister went off to enjoy the Season? One would think he’d chaperone her instead of a cousin. Where had their father been?
“I was away on the Continent,” he continued, as if having read her mind. “For my Grand Tour. My father thought it a frivolous waste of time. He thought anything not directly related to the earldom a waste of time. You see, he insisted the Callahan named carried with it bad luck. Countesses who die young, Earls who languish in their absence … a family line dwindled to almost nothing. After my mother’s death, he married Lady Edith, a young widow with a daughter just out of nappies. His second wife did not last half as long as my mother did, and before long, he found himself a widower saddled with two children.”
“I am so sorry,” she whispered, uncertain what else to say.
Adam snorted. “So was I … for Olivia’s sake, at least. I often think he was cold as a way to guard his heart from any more pain or loss. No matter what Livvie or I did, it was never enough to make him smile … never enough to make him love us.”
