Page 65 of A Duke's Lustful Portrait
He froze, waiting for Sinclair’s reply. He knew he shouldn’t have said it. He knew the time wasn’t right and that there was still work to be done if he wanted to ensure Sinclair never saw another day of freedom and sunlight. But he couldn’t stop himself. Sinclair spoke of his mother as if she were nothing, a piece of meat and no more. The heat and bile had risen from the depths of his belly, having so long lingered there, and all his composure was lost.
Sinclair looked at him closer, narrowing his eyes. “What on earth …” He trailed off, examining each of Sebastian’s features carefully, his head tilted this way and that. “Actually, you do look a little familiar. The slattern I punished had the same shade of hair and the shape of your face …”
Edward’s eyes widened with every word he said, realization dawning. Sebastian allowed him to examine his face.
“The eyes … Good Lord.” Sinclair’s mouth gaped open; Sebastian puffed his chest up. “Your eyes are similar to the slattern’s. It’s you! You’re the boy!”
“Thatslattern,” Sebastian growled, “was my mother. And you killed her!”
Sinclair stared, his eyes roving across Sebastian’s face, the shock still bubbling across his flesh. “But you’re—”
“I’m here for my revenge, Sinclair, and I promise you that I will get it.”
In a flash of panic, Sinclair came to his senses. He leapt to his feet, his chair clattering noisily to the floor. Sebastian mirrored him, his fists raised and ready. He didn’t even see the knife until it glinted in the lamplight, and by then, it was too late.
As Sinclair slashed at Sebastian’s cheek, Sebastian let out a howl of pain and shock. Sinclair jabbed again, but this time, Sebastian was too quick for him. He dodged out of the way, and without looking back, he ran from the room.
Chapter 31
Arabella had turned into a ghost of herself since that night at Sebastian’s home. She knew she had made the right decision, but part of her, deep down where she wouldn’t admit it, had thought he would come after her. She thought he would consider her more important than the Lord’s Society. She had thought he loved her. Now, all was lost, and she had no idea what to do next, where to turn.
Priscilla had, of course, done everything she could to pull Arabella out of her slump. They had gone for tea; they had visited friends. Priscilla even took her shopping for more paints and canvases, encouraging Arabella to paint the countryside scenes she so adored. But even that held no draw for her any longer. As she tried to paint the rolling hills and bright blue skies, all she felt was numbness.
“Perhaps it is for the best,” Priscilla said, pushing a needle into the handkerchief she was embroidering.
They were in the drawing room, Priscilla sewing next to a teapot. Arabella sat on the window seat, her knees hugged to her chest, and she stared aimlessly out the window. It was an uncharacteristically miserable day, summer temporarily on hold.
The skies were grey and thick with clouds, the windows pattered with fat raindrops. The wind buffeted the flowers in the garden, and Arabella couldn’t help feeling as if she were one of them, tugged and thrown until almost torn in two.
But, like them, I will survive this, too.
“Yes, perhaps,” she muttered.
“You’ll get over this, you know. Just as you recovered from what happened with Mr Heath. These things take time, but then we can move on to better things.”
What better things?
Arabella couldn’t imagine anything better than the lightness and brightness she had felt with Sebastian. If it weren’t him, then it would never be anyone. The situation was nothing like that with George. George had suffered the ultimate loss, paying a price for loving her, but he had never betrayed her. He had never chosen her father over her. Sebastian had.
And yet, I still love him.
She wanted to scream in frustration, her own heart turning against her mind. She knew she should hate Sebastian and be infuriated by him, yet she yearned for him. And every moment he did not come for her, another piece of her heart broke away. She doubted she would ever recover.
“Perhaps I shall grow old alone,” she said, her eyes on the flurry of leaves ripped from the trees. “Being a spinster is not so bad, I’m sure.”
Priscilla tutted, having pricked her finger with her needle. She raised her fingertip to her lips and sucked away the blood before answering. “Really, Arabella. You are being terribly dramatic. I am sure what you felt for the duke was strong, but it clearly was not meant to be. You cannot live your entire life mourning something you did not truly have in the first place!”
“You don’t understand,” Arabella muttered. She closed her eyes, letting the pain of it wash over her again.
Priscilla put her embroidery to one side and stared at Arabella in surprise. “My darling girl, you cannot honestly think that I do not understand the pain of loss. My husband—your grandfather—was my entire life, and I would give anything for just one more day with him, one more hour.”
Guilt twisted in Arabella’s gut, and she scrunched her face against the emotion. She turned to Priscilla, swinging her legs from the window seat. “I know, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean … I just …” She sighed. “I don’t know how to express what I’m feeling.”
Priscilla moved to join her granddaughter, her thin frame slotting into the space between Arabella and the wall.
“Of course you don’t. There are some feelings for which there are no words. I know you feel completely alone, and there won’t be a single ray of sunshine in your future. But that’s simply not the case, Arabella.
When your grandfather died, I did not give up. I mourned, yes, but I had a family to look after. I had you to care for. I understand love and loss, but I also understand resilience and recovery. And I know for a fact that you can understand those things, too.”
