Page 135 of The Duke Undone

“The larger paragraph is devoted to incoherent accusations.” He shook his head.

You children are my ruination. His father’s words no longer struck him as a prophecy, but as the pitiable invective of a bitter man who had lashed out instead of looking inward. Neither his father nor his mother determined his destiny. He didn’t bear the blame for their shattered lives. But his life, his commitments, his choices, his love—he fashioned these himself, bit by bit, every day.

The morning sun shone brighter, warm rays caressing his neck. Lucy was looking at him with peculiar understanding, as though she could read his thoughts.

He wanted to fashion his life with her. Live with her, fully.

“He’d come to fear Yardley.” He said it softly. “Mr. Purinton is confident that we’ll win at trial, pleading undue influence and suspicious circumstances. Neither codicil will stand. My father’s solicitors will turn on Yardley to protect their own reputations.”

His inheritance would be finalized. Due to George’s decease, he was his father’s principal beneficiary, all of the real estate devised to him, and the money as well, excepting Effie’s annuity, and a few small bequests to assorted pecuniary legatees and charities.

No trust. No conditions.

She kept watching him. He liked it, the feeling that she could see all of him, even the dark spots.

“There will be a scramble,” he said. “Everyone trying to exonerate himself and point the finger elsewhere. But for Yardley . . .” He shook his head. “There’s no way out. Undue influence is the least of it.”

He’d gone to Hampshire—a long journey for two nights, but he’d needed to interrogate the estate manager in person. Just as he’d suspected, the figures in Cruitshank’s ledgers didn’t match the figures Yardley had presented him. The rents in the village had gone up; Yardley was skimming the difference off the top.

“I’m charging him with embezzlement.” He smiled briefly. The freedom he’d won was public and ugly, and not without losses, but worth it all the same. He waved his hand, a gesture that took in the glasshouse, the back garden. His purgatory. “It’s over.”

Even in the brightening day, her face darkened.

“Over?” She tried to smile, an unfathomable hurt lurking in her eyes. Suddenly, he fathomed it. Lord, he was still a fool.

“I’m beginning again,” he said. “I want you with me. Not just there.” He glanced at the glasshouse. “Everywhere.”

He caught her hands and she grasped them, her fingers slippery with sweat. Suddenly, her smile was real. Huge. Heart-stopping.

“You didn’t destroy it,” she said. “You submitted it, my picture.”

Ah. Could it be? The Hanging Committee had made their decision, and it had been favorable. His breath caught.

“I couldn’t.” He laughed, the sound startling him. Surely, he hadn’t made a sound like that since he was a boy, a sound of unadulterated joy. “I’d already shattered a stained-glass window. I couldn’t put a blade or a flame to that canvas. Some talents are so great even boors and philistines can see them for what they are.”

“Anthony.” Her eyes searched his. “People will recognize your face.”

“My face?” he said wryly. He would never weary of her blushes. The way the blood rose to the surface of her skin, staining her cheeks, her throat, her breasts—that delicate movement captured his attention fully. Held it. “After the Summer Exhibition, all of London will recognize a good deal more than that.”

“You’ll be in the papers.” She looked uneasy.

“Good,” he said. “I hope I’m in every paper. Because you are getting the attention you deserve as an artist.”

“There will be talk . . .” She twined her fingers more tightly around his. “About . . .” She hesitated. “Us.”

“Us?” He repeated it, delighted. “I suppose so. Scandalous talk.”

She was staring at him, waiting for something. The pressure she exerted on his fingers was becoming painful. He raised his eyebrows.

“Count on me.” She cleared her throat. “That’s what you said. You said count on me. I wasn’t sure if I could. It felt dangerous. I didn’t want to lose myself . . .”

“Get sucked down into the bottomless pit? Understandable.” He exhaled. “You have a precious self. I will lift her up. As high as the moon.” He smiled. “Maybe I shouldn’t have said count on me.”

Her lips parted, a line forming between her brows.

“Count on us,” he said, pulling her closer. “Count on what we can do together.”

She smiled, wiggled her hand free, and stepped back, combing at her hair. The effort changed nothing. She still looked wild. Lovely. Rare. His heart hurt, it felt so full. She linked her fingers, and again, he had the impression that she was waiting.