Page 50 of A Duke's Lustful Portrait
He wondered then what his mother would think of him, of what he had become if she could see him now. The nobility and thetonhad been so far removed from their day-to-day lives that Sebastian had no idea how his mother felt about them.
He’d been so young when she was cruelly taken from him, still too young to see her as an adult, as a woman in her own right. Would she be proud of him? He hoped so. After all, she was the reason he had garnered so much success in life, albeit indirectly. He had spent his entire life determined to avenge her death, and that singular goal—along with a drop of luck—had led him to become the Dark Duke himself.
“Good Lord,” he said, smiling weakly. “That really would be an honour.”
He thought of those days after his mother’s death, when he was lost and wandering the streets. He had committed crimes that left him shame-faced, but it had been the only way he could survive.
Becoming a member of the notorious crime syndicate, The Gentlemen, when he was but seven years old had been both a blessing and a curse. He shuddered to think of the boy he was then, but those with no money could rarely afford morals, and The Gentlemen had looked after him, made him one of their own until he’d made that one fateful mistake.
“Except, of course,” Edward continued, pulling Sebastian back to the present, “there is still one final test to complete.”
“Very well,” Sebastian replied with an enforced brightness. “What is it?”
Edward wore that cold sneer that Sebastian still hadn’t grown used to. “It’s a task few men could handle, but I suspect you’ll be all right. I’d wager you’ve been something of a scoundrel in your past, which will have prepared you for such a test of loyalty.”
“Edward, let’s not be so coy about it. I can handle whatever it is you have to request of me. I am the Dark Duke, after all, remember?” He offered Edward a friendly chuckle, but Edward’s face darkened.
“Sebastian Ravenswood. To prove your loyalty to me and the Lord’s Society, you will be required to kill someone.”
Chapter 24
“I thought cerulean blue might be nice this time,” themodistesaid as she ran the tape measure around Arabella’s waist.
“Oh yes,” Priscilla enthused. “I do love you in blue, Arabella dear. It brings out the colour in your eyes.”
“I don’t care what colour I wear,” Arabella said with an excited squeal. “I’m only thrilled to be attending a ball!”
She stood on a low plinth, her arms in the air, while the modiste measured her yet again. She insisted on taking measurements for every gown, stating that each style required different figures. Arabella didn’t mind. It got her out of the house for a while and made her feel normal. She could just about pretend she was just like every other young lady her age.
The shop was a small one but perfectly formed. It was her favourite dress shop and had been her mother’s favourite before that. The dressmaker was the fourth generation in her family to have the shop, and she took her job very seriously. She was the most sought-after modiste in London, and she always gave Arabella her precious time—no doubt thanks to her father’s influence.
Along one wall were bolts of fabric in every shade and colour Arabella could imagine. Along another were accessories galore, from gloves to reticules and even a small display of hats from the local milliner.
Arabella looked out the window, the name of the shop painted in fine gold lettering adorning the glass. Beyond, she could see the busy London street, couples dashing across the cobblestones to avoid the summer showers, urchins running between legs in the hopes of swiping a purse or two.
Here, Arabella was not an artist nor a painter of salacious material. Here, she was just a young lady, starting out in life, maybe even looking for a husband. She was a member of theton,and as such, she belonged with these people.
If only that were true.
The modiste looked up at her and frowned. “By the number of gowns I have made for you, My Lady, I would have thought you attended balls every weekend!”
“Yes,” Priscilla jumped in quickly. “Of course she does, but this one is particularly special.”
“Ah.” The modiste nodded sagely, measuring the length of Arabella’s arms and noting down the number. “That must mean there’s someone special at this ball you wish to impress.” She smiled up at Arabella. “A certain gentleman, is it?”
“Yes,” Arabella replied, her cheeks hot with embarrassment. “That’s exactly it. A gentleman.”
“How exciting! Young lovers always have a certain flush to their cheeks, and if you don’t mind my saying so, My Lady, it’s quite evident in you. Now, I’ll just pop out the back and collect some samples. I have the most beautiful blue silk that I think you’ll adore.”
As the dressmaker scuttled out of the room, Priscilla rushed over to her granddaughter. “I know you are looking forward to this ball, Arabella, but you must remember to be careful! You don’t want to ruin your reputation by accidentally revealing your father’s way of life.”
Arabella knew there wasn’t much chance of that. There were rumours—of course, there were. But her father would cut them down as soon as they arose through threat, payment, or worse.
“I know, I’m sorry, Grandmother,” she replied, looking pleadingly at Priscilla. “But it’s so rare I get to attend arealball that I can barely contain myself!”
“I know,” Priscilla said, sharing her look of glee. “I must admit I’m rather looking forward to it myself. It does get ever so dull staying indoors all the time.”
“I’d rather that than the Lord’s Society,” Arabella muttered.
