5

After Arabella recounted the story of her voyeuristic night, the duke got up without a word. She watched him expectantly.

He poured them each a glass of port, and then set about feeding another log into the fire.

She could not tell if he was angry. She could not tell what he was. "Do you ... believe me, Your Grace?"

Instead of answering, he asked, "Is it why you ran?"

She flushed, looked down at her hands. "The truth is ... what I saw in the back room had nothing to do with it." She struggled for the right words. "It is difficult to describe how ... exhilarated I felt, to be in a studio, working alongside artists."

She flicked him a look, expecting to see dubiousness, impatience. But he seemed to be listening. So she continued. "I mean to say serious ones. Artists are everywhere, painting miniatures and dog portraits for the rich. But these were devoted. In that studio, they serve the gods of beauty and honesty. No flattery—they paint with a hard, intimate eye. They reveal themselves in their work. Some of it so brutal or sensual, a lady is never meant to see such images in her lifetime. Among them ... I felt so much myself . In a way that I cannot say I ever do at balls and dinners and the opera. That version of me feels very much a mask."

"You don't wish to marry. Have a family."

"It's not that. I have always wanted children. But I cannot abide the thought of it, at the expense of all the rest of me."

"And so . . . Paris," he said, with what might have been disdain.

"Yes, Paris." She would not apologize.

"Is there someone there for you?"

"I told you, I have no lover. I've never had a lover."

"So then, you run toward ... some general notion of life among the eccentrics and madmen?"

"Monsieur Allard and I have spoken a few times," she said. "He has, from the start, claimed to see something in my work." She caught the disdainful angle of the duke's eyebrow and snapped, "He has never made an advance. He may be thoroughly French, but he is an artist first, and a teacher, and he has treated me with more respect that I ever dreamed a female painter could receive." She exhaled, hearing the quaver in her own voice. Then, more measured, continued. "He has a studio in Paris. As with the one in London, classes are open to women."

"What kind of women?" He asked, cuttingly.

"Well. Not like me, obviously," she said, matching his tone. "Models, shopgirls. Whores." No sense telling truth by half-measure. They'd been talented, the women she met that night. Their drawings were good. She found she had no judgment at all about what they did with the remainder of their time. People did all sorts of things to survive. "A few women have made names for themselves as artists in Paris. The French are more modern than we are. It's not easy, certainly, but it is not impossible."

"But in the meantime, you would—what, acquire a profession?"

"If you looked through my bag you know I have a letter. I thought I might become a governess."

"A governess," he repeated. As though she said she might become a cocker spaniel.

She'd had enough of his superior, dubious tone. "I assure you, I know exactly what I am about, Your Grace," she said, anger flaring. "It is no small thing, to give up one's place in the world, one's home and family and all the comforts, for something far more difficult and unknown. But that is exactly what I wish to do."

He said nothing for a long moment.

"You would leave society forever," he finally said.

"Yes."

And she had the sense that for the first time, he truly saw her.

His voice was softer when he spoke again. "Innocent young women who run away to foreign lands don't always end up governesses," he said.

"I know. I can take care of myself. I can find respectable work. And no work I can imagine, respectable or otherwise, would be as distressing to me as the thought of never becoming what I could be."

He tilted his head. "Do you really think," he asked, lethally quiet, "that I would not have let you paint?"

"Kittens. Grassy hills. A lake. Fruit," she shot back. "I want to paint real life—and I want to do it with the intensity and veracity allowed my male contemporaries. Not to mention, I want to paint subject matter women are not meant to know exists until their wedding night. And that, a lady cannot ever do. The shame would destroy her entire family." She took a shaky breath. "So there you have it. I am contented to abandon my place because in truth, I am no lady. I am something that does not fit, something scandalous, wrong, perhaps mad. The logistics of making a new life may be daunting, but leaving behind the one to which I was born was easy."

She fought tears. Why had she bothered to share any of it? Blackflint had caught her. It was done. Her chance was gone. He would take her back to her father, who would lock her in her room till the wedding, with nothing to do but hear him through the walls, raging at the staff and throwing glasses. She and the duke would be married exactly as planned. He did not care about her, so why would he care what she wanted? He'd put an heir in her belly, then ship her off to charming nowhere. He'd live in the city, do exactly as he pleased every second of the day, sleep with beautiful courtesans every night, forget Arabella even existed.

The duke sat beside her. He looked particularly fearsome this close, the white scar on his cheek raised and angry.

"Miss Denton."

"Yes." Her voice was small.

"Consider our engagement broken," he said. "You are free to go."

She couldn't have heard him right.

But . . . he had said it.

"I do not relish the thought of you alone in Paris, surrounded by artists." The duke said artists the same way he might cutpurses. " But I cannot abandon my conviction that your life is your own."

She was beyond surprised. She was stunned.

One corner of his mouth quirked up, seeing her struggle to absorb what he'd just given her. "I mean what I say, I assure you." Then, more serious, he added, "I may be cold. But I would not see a woman's spirit crushed."

She realized she was still on the verge of tears. Drew a breath to compose herself. "I am truly sorry, Your Grace, for the trouble I have caused you."

He sighed. "I believe you have saved me from far greater trouble." He leaned back on his arms, crossed his legs in front of him. The firelight flickered over the exposed skin at his open collar. How had she missed how beautiful he was before? Was it possible that a scar and a patch of black silk would distract her from all that muscular grace, the power that seemed to emanate from his body when he sat perfectly still?

"I will tell you, Miss Denton. Now that I know what I know of you ... I am glad that we will not be wed." He didn't sound like he was trying to insult her. He sounded ... contemplative. "We will discuss arrangements in the morning, once the rain lets up." It was still pounding the roof and showed no sign of abating. "And then you will go."

"I don't know what to say but thank you. For allowing me to—"

"I am going to do more than allow it. I am going to help you."

He reached a hand out to her then, but seemed to catch himself. He let his hand drop. "I have connections in Paris who will help you with employment. I will give you any additional monies you might need. And I will wish you good fortune in your new life."

She took that in, overwhelmed.

"You are staring," he finally said.

You are not what people believe you are, she thought. "You did not kill your wife," were the words that fell from her mouth.

He coughed in surprise. She felt her cheeks flame. "Forgive me—it's the port, and the—the night, I did not mean to—"

"Let me know you've been convinced I am a murderer?" She could not tell if he was angry. "What was in your mind, I wonder at the moment you accepted my proposal, knowing the last one had been—throttled? Stabbed through the heart? Is there an agreed-upon wife-dispatching method or is each rumor bespoke?"

Arabella struggled for words that wouldn't make it all worse. He let the awkward silence spin out for a moment, before finally allowing himself an amused smile. "Don't fret, Miss Denton, I'm not offended in the least," he said. "Would you like to hear the truth?"

She nodded.

"I've encouraged the rumors, in my way. Helpful to be feared, in many situations. And it very effectively stopped people from speaking insipidly of my late wife. Murderers are rarely forced to endure condolences." He gave a shake of his head. "But no, I did not. Nor did I kill a man in a duel. Though I suppose I could if the situation demanded it." He threw her a dry look. "You believed it all, did you? That easily fooled by a scarred face?"

She wanted to protest, but she found herself at a loss. "I am an idiot, I suppose," she said.

"Yes."

He just looked at her then, for a long moment.

"You should go to bed," he finally said, brusque now. "I'll sleep here by the fire. Come daylight, we will finalize arrangements. Good night."

"Good night, Your Grace."

But she did not want to move from this spot. Not yet.

He was staring into the fire now, in his own thoughts. She realized she was looking at his shoulders. Remembering them under her hands. She suddenly had the vivid impulse to touch them again. To slip her hand inside his shirt, feel the texture of his skin.

She could. He was right there. She could reach out a hand. She could ...

She could tell him the rest of it. The parts she'd barely told herself.

"Your Grace?"

"Nicholas, I suppose. Considering what's transpired, the formality feels a bit ironic," he said absently without looking up. "Nick."

"Nick, then." She liked the way it felt in her mouth. His name. "I will make one last confession. If you would hear it."

He flicked his eye to her, curious. Then away, to the fire. He nodded.

"After that night in the studio ... there was more than one reason I knew I was not suited to be a gentleman's wife. That any man who married me would be horrified."

He smiled a strange little smile—it almost looked like regret—and met her gaze. "That is hard for me to believe."

"Well, you have not been in a position to—to see me as I truly am."

"I had you naked on that bed two hours ago, when we arrived," he said. "You were insensible with cold, and I was far more concerned with the possibility of your death than the shape of your breasts. And yet, your body etched itself into my mind in considerable detail. I sincerely doubt I will ever forget how you truly are ." She felt herself flush with astonishment. "I assure you, Miss Denton. No man who sees you could find you horrifying."

She was too taken aback to speak.

He turned back to the fire, pensive now. "Go to bed."

It was tempting to do as he said. To lose her nerve.

But she found she wanted to tell him the truth, very badly.

"That night, in the back room, surrounded by ... all the things I drew, and so much more ..." She took a deep breath. "I was honest with you when I said I am entirely inexperienced in it. But ... "

She could see he was listening very intently. "But?" He echoed softly.

"I wanted to. Join in. Be—taken. And take. Something ... awoke in me. Something so voracious, it shocked me."

He was holding his body carefully still. "Why are you telling me this?"

"Because if we had wed, I would be hiding it from you. Afraid I'd disgust you."

He said nothing. Her heart was beating rabbit-fast in her throat. Good God, Arabella. Just say it. "But as it turns out, I will never be your wife. Our connection will be over in a matter of hours." A hint of humor crept into her voice. "I suddenly comprehend why men are so inclined toward taking a professional to bed. Part of the appeal must be that when it is done, they promptly depart." She shrugged, deadpan. "I suppose I am saying ... you are in just such a position, tonight. With me."

He threw her a sharp look. "You are no whore, Miss Denton."

"Arabella," she corrected. And she placed her hand on his leg.

He looked down at it. Then at her.

"Have a care, Arabella," he said quietly.

"I will do that, Nick." She began to slide her hand up his thigh. "But not tonight." She moved her hand over his breeches, to the bulge of his cock. She felt it stir under her hand, and she squeezed it lightly through the material.

He put his hand over hers, to stop her. But, she noticed, he did not move her hand away.

"Tonight is—well, the last night I shall be Arabella. It is my chance, you see. To know these things. If you would show me."

He stared at her, shocked. And then, with evident effort, said, "I ... am flattered. And well aware I haven't always been one tonight, but—I am a gentleman. I cannot—"

"I know. I know you would never do any of it with your fine lady wife." She laughed unsteadily. "But ... I want those things. I want to know. What ... what it all feels like." She noted that his breathing, though quiet, had grown uneven. "Just once. Just tonight."

She leaned close. "After all, we will never see each other again." And she kissed him.