Page 24 of A Duke's Lustful Portrait
“Oh, she was. More than you’ll know. We were close, her and I. She wasn’t my daughter by birth, of course, though she became my daughter in every other sense. I miss her every day. I only wish you could have had the opportunity to meet her.”
Arabella felt that familiar pinch in her heart, a mixture of guilt, resentment, and sadness. Priscilla had done a wonderful job in raising her, but not having a mother had affected her when she was a child. Now, she couldn’t help feeling responsible for her death—she gave up her life to give Arabella life, after all.
“Me too,” she replied, blinking away the emotion. “Me too.”
As they fell into silence, Arabella added touches of blue and white to the river, depicting the gentle, undulating ripples of the water. Her grandmother leant forward and poured the tea, the sound of it tinkling into the cup filling Arabella with the sense of the running river. She took in a long, deep breath, enjoying the sensation of the world around her.
If only life could always be like this.
Priscilla sat back in her chair, the teacup cradled in her hands as she watched the world wake up. Birds dipped and swam in the wispy clouds, and from the other side of the house, they could hear the cockerel crowing. The household would be full of activity soon, the rest of the servants waking and beginning their work. The sun, already warm, beat down on Arabella’s cheeks, and she closed her eyes, drinking it in.
“I’ve become somewhat friendly with your father’s chamberlain of late,” Priscilla said, still looking out at the landscape.
Arabella started, pulled from her dreamlike reverie by the incongruousness of her grandmother’s words.
Whatever does she mean?
“Have you?” she asked, entirely unsure where this conversation was leading. Had her grandmother taken a lover as her father so often did? No, of course not. She shook her head at such a ridiculous notion, cursing herself for allowing her father’s behaviour to taint her view of others.
“Mr Wilson. Yes. He’s a lovely young man, and your father trusts him implicitly.”
“I-I see,” Arabella stuttered, not seeing anything at all.
She had met Mr. Wilson, of course. He was a large part of their household. She had never really spoken to him much, though. He was far too distracted with the affairs of the house, and her father had always warned her off fraternizing with the staff.
Priscilla returned to silence, though Arabella could sense her mind working. Arabella added a drop of water to the sky, watching the colours blend and meld.
“He holds the keys to the coffers, Arabella.”
“He does?”
“He does,” Priscilla replied before sipping her tea.
“Oh.”
Arabella continued to paint, not daring to look at her grandmother, but emotion snaked up her back—fear, anxiety, and perhaps just a little excitement. She’d heard her grandmother talk of the coffers before and what their access could do for them. But she couldn’t—wouldn’t—allow herself to believe. Not yet. Not until they were certain.
Escape from her father and the Lord’s Society had been on Arabella’s mind ever since that first season she painted for him. She still dreamed of escape, of disappearing to France to live her own life, but now, when she thought of it, her mind went to one place—her infatuation with the Duke of Ravenswood.
If she were to leave, especially under a cloud, she would never see him again. But even she knew this stain was not real, not true. She barely knew the man, let alone had a relationship with him. His loss was nothing compared to what she would gain—freedom, happiness, a life of her own.
It is only an infatuation, Arabella. Nothing more.
When Priscilla spoke again, it was softly, quietly, and Arabella held her breath as the words sank in.
“I believe he will help us, Arabella. With a little persuasion.”
Chapter 13
Sebastian had not been able to stop himself from fidgeting all day. He’d spent far longer than normal on his dress, fussing with the cravat or how his tailcoat hung. He’d demanded a close shave from his valet, his sideburns trimmed, and his hair carefully combed. He’d had the maids buff up his top hat and polish his boots, and he’d spent at least thirty minutes staring at his teeth in the looking glass.
He couldn’t for the life of him work out what was wrong with him. He couldn’t remember any other time when he’d been so restless and unable to settle. His bubbling nerves made him jump around, popping and dancing to their tune. It was no better even now, as he stood at the great door of Westment Manor, his mind jumping back to the membership ceremony and all the ritual it beheld.
“Pull yourself together, man,” he snapped at himself as his carriage moved away, the gravel crunching beneath the wheels.
He couldn’t even work outwhyhe was nervous. He had a meticulous plan. He knew exactly what he intended to do—get close to Edward Sinclair to exact his revenge. He’d dreamed of it for years, for goodness’ sake! He was confident in what he was doing and why he was doing it, and he knew without doubt that justice and morality were on his side. And yet he’d spent the day fretful and uneasy. Why?
Lady Arabella.
