Page 69

“I didn’t play cards,” he said quietly. “But I went to Tyche. I must keep up appearances. Must keep up with my acquaintances and friends. I’m still a baron.”

“Barely,” she said as she put down her spoon. “Our London house on Vine Street got repossessed along with anything else of value that was left there. The only thing that keeps your title is Beckett Manor, but it’s falling apart without any hope of being repaired. And had it not been for me, you’d be begging on the streets now. Surely, now I deserve some gratitude from you along with respect, which is long overdue.”

He lowered his head, his shoulders stooping. “I didn’t intend to burn your house down, Penelope. It was an accident. I came to take the red leather folder, but I heard some footsteps, and as I turned, the lamp fell, and the papers in the study became engulfed by fire. I tried to put it out, but the more I tried, the more it spread. And so I ran.”

Penelope sighed. “You ran without alerting anyone, leaving people in mortal danger. My husband almost died. How many more need to suffer because of your selfishness, Papa?”

Papa nodded, his eyes watering. She’d never seen him like this. His eyes found hers, and they were so sad and so broken.

“You’re right, Penelope. You’re right. I did make many mistakes. What you’re wrong about is that I don’t respect you. I do. You’re a strong, kind, and talented woman, like your mama was. I am sorry I failed to see that, but I see it now. And I couldn’t be prouder.”

Penelope listened to the words she’d craved to hear for years. Had he told her that when she was growing up, when he saw her painting, she’d have been a much more confident woman. She would have started her education as an artist and perhaps even have sold paintings by now.

Hearing him say such things now did buoy her spirits. But, strangely, she didn’t need his approval to feel good about herself anymore. She was proud of herself, too. She’d never given up on her dream; she’d been ready to live it, and she had sacrificed it for him.

When all he ever was was selfish. She pitied him, in fact. He was supposed to be her father, protecting her and taking care of her, but he had ruined his life and almost ruined hers.

“You need to make amends for the harm you’ve done, Papa.”

“You’re right. I do.”

“Good.”

She needed to choose herself first. She had chosen Papa first when she’d agreed to marry Preston instead of running away and starting her life as an artist. And her papa had never chosen her.

But neither had Preston. He was still choosing vengeance over her.

And she wanted more. She wanted to be in a marriage where her husband put her needs and their love above all other considerations.

She wouldn’t settle for anything less.

28

Preston sat alone in his new house alone. It was empty. It was dark. The shutters on all the windows were shut as per his command three days ago, when the love of his life left him.

He sat on the floor of the room that was supposed to be Penelope’s studio with a bottle of brandy in his hand. His elbow was propped against his knee. A candle flickered, illuminating the watercolor paintings and two oil paintings that stood leaned against the opposite wall. The room still smelled like dust as it hadn’t been cleaned. It was also cold, since there were no servants to light the coal grates. And it was so quiet. No footsteps, no distant voices muffled by the walls and doors, no sign that there was another soul here.

He gazed at Penelope’s paintings—landscapes of Grandhampton Court with its lively forests, brooks, and rivers that meandered through the rolling hills. The house itself, the place where he’d been happy. Where his brother had been alive. She had such a talent for this. And the painting she had started where his whole family was there, including Spencer, made his heart shatter into a million little pieces once again.

As if it had ever been whole since she’d walked out.

He brought the bottle to his mouth and took several large gulps. More. More of this, to make himself numb, to make himself forget that he was the author of his own misfortune. Of his own unhappiness.

And yet, he couldn’t have done it otherwise.

He stared at Spencer’s oil portrait that Penelope had started back in Grandhampton Court from memory and using several other portraits of him that hung in the hall. There he was, his brother, so alive, with his black eyes glistening as he looked right at Preston. With his high cheekbones and his olive skin and that perfect bone structure. The fashionable, windswept haircut that so many dandies wore these days with long sideburns. Dark colors suited him, and the contrast of his perfectly white high cravat against the dark navy tailcoat was striking.

“Cheers, brother.” Preston raised his bottle an inch higher. “Devil, I miss you. Please, forgive me that I’ve fallen in love with her. I understand now why you did. I wish I hadn’t been so opposed to your marriage. I wish I’d had more sense to see that she’s a true gem. That there isn’t a selfish bone in her body. That she is genuine and pure and so, so kind.”

Spencer’s portrait didn’t reply. What would Spencer have said? Was there even a chance for a trace of forgiveness? Not only had Preston not protected his brother from death, he’d also married the woman his brother had loved. He’d taken Spencer’s home and his role as duke. He’d taken everything that once would have been Spencer’s, as though his brother’s death was to his advantage.

When the truth was that Preston would have been glad to meet death in his brother’s stead if it meant that Spencer could live a full and happy life.

But it was too late for that.

He drank more, then closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the wall. There was a large, gaping hole in his chest. But it wasn’t from Spencer’s absence. It was from missing his wife. The wife who now felt like as much a part of him as his hand or his leg.

Three days and he was a half-dead man. He had watched the servants pack the house and remove the furniture, and only an hour or so ago, they had left the house for Preston and his family to move in.