Page 105 of The Work of Art

“I don’t believe it. You were far too somber and dignified to—”

“To behave like a besotted fool?”

Hope swelled in her breast, warm and bright. “Is that what you were?”

“Yes.” Arthur gathered her up in his arms. “It’s what I still am.” And he lowered his mouth to hers and kissed her.

Arthur had stretched those blissful moments in Philly’s bed out for as long as he could, all the while knowing that the sweet and tender affection she’d lavished upon him was shortly going to come to an abrupt, and possibly very unhappy, end.

At breakfast, he was going to tell her everything about the Duke of Moreland.

He’d made the decision during the seemingly endless hours of her unconsciousness, realizing then that if only she’d known the truth, she would never have wandered off onto the estate alone. It didn’t matter in the end that it was Hyperion who had harmed her and not some evil henchman of the duke. The fact remained that his silence had put Philly in danger. He’d vowed that if, by some miracle, she came back to him, he would confess all to her—the consequences be damned.

After taking his leave of Philly so that she could perform her morning toilette, he’d retreated to his own room to put himself in order. He’d washed, shaved and changed into a fresh suit of clothes.

When he returned, Philly met him at the connecting door, dressed in a long-sleeved India muslin morning gown with an amber ribbon sash. She’d insisted on having a bath before breakfast so she could wash the dried blood out of her hair. Her long tresses were still damp, tumbling over her shoulders in a mass of wild curls.

“You must be dreadfully tired after staying up all night with me,” she said as he helped her to her seat at the small table the servants had laid in her room.

He sat down opposite her, watching as she began to preside over their intimate breakfast with the same elegance of manner in which she presided over the dinner table and the tea tray. She seemed all that was feminine and beautiful, and he wondered, not for the first time, how the devil a man like him had ever won her.

“I didn’t stay up all night, my love,” he answered. “In fact, I slept very soundly for quite a few hours. In your bed.”

Her hand froze in the act of pouring out his coffee. She caught herself just before it spilled over, returning the coffeepot to its place on the table and fixing him with a wide, hopeful gaze. “Oh, did you really?”

He nodded. It was hard to tease her when she looked at him that way. In truth it was hard to say or do much of anything at all.

“It must have been quite accidental,” she said.

“So it was.”

“And…is it an accident you intend to repeat?”

Arthur seriously doubted whether he’d ever have the fortitude to sleep away from her again. “You have an exceedingly comfortable bed, my dear. Perhaps I’ll sleep awhile there again tonight.” He paused, adding, “If I’m invited.”

Her mouth quirked. “How absurd you are. You’re always welcome in my bed, and well you know it.”

For the briefest moment, Arthur wondered how wrong it would be to postpone telling her about Moreland, but no sooner had he begun to consider it than it struck him, rather forcibly, that to prolong the inevitable would only compound his crime.

He could put it off no longer. “I hope you’ll still feel that way after what I have to tell you.”

Philly was buttering a piece of bread while her dogs looked on with expressions of shameless longing. A hint of a smile played on her lips. “Ah. I suppose you’re about to restrict my movements to the house or some other such act of domestic tyranny.”

“No, indeed.”

She lowered her knife, raising her eyes to his in enquiry. “Good gracious, Arthur, you haven’t got it into your head to sell Hyperion, have you? I told you it wasn’t his fault, and that if—”

“Don’t distress yourself. I’ve no intention of selling Hyperion, temperamental brute that he is. What I must say to you is in the way of being a confession.”

And then, before he could lose his nerve, Arthur proceeded to do just that.

He confessed.

It all came out in a succession of clear, concise sentences—rather as if he were making a report to a superior officer. He told her of the sinister reputation Moreland had earned as a collector of rare and valuable objects, his infamous obsession with those items that were one of a kind, and of the legendary stories of his vengeance. He told her all he knew about the death of Molly Cartwright. He told her about the wager in the betting book, the anonymous note that had come to Heywood House, and Sara’s report that the duke had spoken of leaving Philly to her fate. Last of all, he talked of the snare that had been dug on the riding path through the elms. A snare that had undoubtedly been placed there to injure or even kill her.

Philly listened to him, never once interrupting as he recounted all the things he’d been keeping from her, and when he’d finished, she responded to him with silence. Ominous, wretched silence.

Arthur looked at her from across the small table, searching her face with growing anxiety. Her hair had been damp when they first sat down near the fire. Now it was dry. How much time had passed? Minutes? An hour? It felt like an age.