Chapter Four

PRESENT DAY

February 1815

When Henry entered Lady Huntington's ballroom, his mother on his arm, he knew he should be thinking about the ladies he had come there to court. With the decision to marry thrust upon him, that was his reason for attending.

Instead, all he could see was Louisa's face when she had told him he had risked everything of hers by letting her marry Bolton. Evidently the marriage had been more miserable than he ever could have envisaged. And he was to blame. At two-and-twenty, he had been certain there was nothing he could do; now he was certain he could have thought of something had he not been so aware of his own inadequacies.

He had spent nine years missing her beyond words. Now it seemed he would spend the rest of his life regretting ever turning her away.

He and his mother passed through the double doors into the adjoining rooms, hothouse flowers draped gaily around the pillars. Entire panels of the wall were painted with historical scenes, and everything had been gilded to within an inch of its life. This was a place where ladies captured their husbands, and gentlemen chose their wives the way a farmer might choose his filly: by watching their hair, their teeth, the manner of their walk, and considering what value they might have to bring to his estate.

Henry despised that this was what he was now compelled to do.

"Well!" his mother said, delighted at the sight of bobbing feathers, low-cut dresses and fluttering fans. This was a place in which she thrived.

He wished he could leave.

She tapped his arm with her fan, a slight frown interrupting her smile. "Now you must embrace this opportunity, Henry. None of your usual scowling in a corner. You must dance ."

"I have danced before," he said wryly, trying not to think about his last partner.

"Not since returning to London you haven't. Don't think I haven't noticed." She flicked open her fan. "How about Lady Phoebe Willoughby? She is newly out this year."

He barely spared her a glance, curbing his irritation with difficulty. "I have no interest in a schoolroom miss."

His mother sighed. "Very well. A lady in her second or third Season, then?"

He grunted his assent, allowing her to guide him through the room. The curtains were thick and velvety, a shade of deep blue that concealed shadows behind, and he thought he could hear giggling from that direction. Back rigid, he turned away.

"There is Miss Rebecca Crowley," his mother said. "How do you feel about red hair, dear?"

"Indifferent."

"What do you like, Henry?"

Louisa .

He ground his teeth against the rebellious thought and forced it away again. "I have no need for anything other than indifference, Mother, so long as she will consent to being my wife."

"Oh, my love." She patted his arm with an expression that seemed close to pain. "It's not so bad to fall in love, you know."

His family was unaware of his history with Louisa, and he had every intention of keeping it that way. "That is not the reason I'm looking to marry," he said impatiently.

She sighed. "I wish it were."

"Unfortunately, neither of us have much choice in the matter if we want to continue our current style of living." He nodded at Miss Rebecca Crowley, who was currently dancing. Her hair was indeed red, and already falling out of its curls. Her freckled face was flushed from exertion. Pretty, if not the current style, but he remained unmoved. "How large is her dowry?"

"Large enough."

"Mother."

"Ten thousand."

Irritation coursed through him, worsened by the indignity of his position. He'd always looked down on fortune hunters, and look what he had become. "That's not enough."

"Dearest, I'm certain we could—"

"Anything less than twenty would only scratch the surface."

His mother withdrew her hand from his arm. "I know your father—"

"We will not discuss the earl here, if you please."

Her mouth pursed in disapproval, but she merely said, "If your standards are so exacting, you give yourself little choice." She did not say the rest: that he would be lucky if one of those ladies would consent to marry him. There were richer, more eligible gentlemen available.

"Have we come here in vain, then?"

"I recommend you—"

"Allow me to be the one to decide on this." He huffed a short, bitter laugh. "Are there no unmarried ladies with a large enough dowry?"

"Well, yes. Most are I think already spoken for. But there is . . ." She sighed. "Miss Venetia Winton."

"Excellent. Now tell me why you were so reluctant to offer her name."

"She is . . . her family came into their fortune recently. Her father was a merchant , I believe." She said the word ‘merchant' as though it were dirty. "This is her third Season, and she is almost two-and-twenty."

"You have given me no reason not to consider her."

His mother gave him a look of pitying outrage. "She has not so much as been granted an Almack's voucher this Season, despite her mother applying for it not once but twice."

"Poor girl," he said with a flash of something approaching sympathy. "All the more reason to consider her."

"Henry! You are the Earl of Shrewsbury's eldest son."

"The destitute Earl of Shrewsbury's eldest son," he said with a self-deprecating smile. "Let us not deceive one another. My reasons for marriage are precisely the reasons why other young ladies might be reluctant to entertain my suit."

"She would be a countess!" His mother sniffed, and rare amusement crossed his face as he watched her. "That is no small honour, I assure you."

"No doubt my wife, whomever she may be, will not be insensible," he said, patting her hand with wry fondness. "Now, will you introduce us?"

"I had much rather not," his mother said, but she accepted his arm and directed him across the ballroom to where a tall, austere young lady stood watching the proceedings, an oddly impassive expression on her face.

Louisa snapped her fan closed as she strode into the ballroom, her head bare and warm air on her neck just above her pearls. Beside her, Caroline plucked a glass of champagne from a footman's tray and took a healthy sip. "What a squeeze," she said. "If my constitution were weaker, I would be tempted to faint."

"You have the constitution of an ox. I don't believe you've fainted in your life."

"I nearly fainted when my maid told me Augustus was finally dead. I thought he'd never go."

"A charming sentiment."

"I am habitually charming, darling." Caroline glanced at her. "Are you still angry with me?"

Louisa did not deign to answer, taking a drink of her own and sipping it, the bubbles fizzing the back of her throat.

"You admitted to me yourself that you had barely seen him since he came to England, but the Season is starting up now, you know, and you are bound to see him." Caroline glanced pointedly at Louisa's gown. "As you are well aware by the look of that dress."

Louisa looked down out of habit, though of course she knew what she was wearing. It was burgundy, a daring colour with an equally daring neckline that was on the very verge of scandalous, and she had not worn it because she expected to see Henry. "That's entirely beside the point."

"That is the point, darling. Don't lie to me. Now you've expressed how you feel, you want to make him painfully jealous. And what better way to make him wild for you?" She peered across the ballroom. "Is that him? He's so dreadfully handsome, don't you think? And oh—he's conversing with a lady."

Louisa told herself the lurch in her stomach was nothing more than hatred. Disgust at the thought of sharing a space with him again. Once had been bad enough. "Of course he is," she said with tolerable calm. "You were the one who told me he intended to marry."

"Yes, but he is talking with Miss Venetia Winton."

Louisa received her second unpleasant shock of the evening. There was nothing strictly wrong with Miss Winton, except being on the very edge of the ton , but Venetia was everything Louisa was not. She was quiet, colourless, quite possibly passionless. No doubt she would make a perfectly respectable wife with no aspirations other than to keep his home and bear his children.

The things Louisa had not wanted.

The thought irritated her. She wanted him to burn with frustrated lust for her, to crave her with no hope of satisfaction. Not seek out the very kind of woman she was not.

"Oh," she said tonelessly when Caroline was still watching her for a response.

"She's rich," Caroline continued, evidently enjoying herself immensely. "Although I've heard that's the only thing to recommend her."

Louisa summoned a flat smile. "You should not be so cruel."

"Would you like me to lure him away from her? I can put my assets to work." She gave a wicked, sparkling smile. No wonder she had so many lovers.

"If you think you can succeed, be my guest. But I warn you: not even your charms will be likely to succeed. He took a vow of celibacy. To remain chaste until marriage."

"Celibacy?" Caroline stared at her as though she had just grown three heads. "In this day and age? Whatever for?"

"Moral reasons, I'd imagine."

"Is he Puritan?"

"Not unless many things have changed since I last knew him." Which was, admittedly, distinctly possible.

"And yet you were in love with him?"

"A lamentable lapse in judgement, I assure you."

"No, what I meant to say is . . . you were in love with him and yet he still maintains his vow of chastity?"

"If you're asking whether I succeeded in seducing him, the answer is I did not."

"Did you try?"

"A little," Louisa confessed. "Not as much as I would have done if I'd known how he would reject me."

"Well, then," Caroline said, continuing to peer at him. "My estimation of the man has lowered considerably. Gentleman who care for nothing but their dreary honour are not worth knowing."

Honesty compelled Louisa to say, "I suspect he had some consideration for my honour, too."

"Oh, well, what does that matter? You should take another go at seducing him now, darling. Make him regret the day he ever slighted you."

"Be serious."

"I am. What better revenge could you conceive? When you were younger, you would not have had the charms you possess now. Nor the experience. The man wouldn't stand a chance."

For a moment, Louisa allowed herself to consider it. Time had beaten the pain of heartbreak into anger, the blacksmith of experience honing the emotion until it was as sharp as a blade. Not only had she been forced to relinquish her claim on Henry, but she had been forced to endure a miserable marriage to a man she detested. Compelled to compromise herself in a way that still horrified her.

She had been forced to compromise her art .

Revenge was certainly tempting. And there was a particular satisfaction that came from the idea of seducing him. And, as she considered it, imagined pushing him against the wall and placing his hands on her, imagined the way his breathing would change and his cock would strain against the material of his breeches, an answering heat bloomed inside her.

No, that was too dangerous an idea. She might hate him now, but her body still remembered what it was to want Henry Beaumont.

Caroline glanced over her shoulder and sighed. "Lord Peter's approaching," she said. One of her lovers, the second son of a duke. "I'll leave you or you'll be obliged to endure his conversation, which I can assure you is subpar. There is only one benefit to his company, and unfortunately this is not the place for it."

Louisa raised a hand in farewell and eased her way through the crowd. In her first few Seasons, she had felt less confident in her own company, but time, age, and the benefit of widowhood had blessed her with poise she could not have emulated as a girl. There was something to be said for marriage after all, if only after one's husband was dead.

As though compelled through thoughts of her husband, her gaze travelled to the large painting that sat in pride of place above the fireplace.

Several years ago, Lady Huntington had commissioned Lord Bolton to paint a portrait of her. Unbeknownst to poor Lady Bolton, Louisa had been the one to paint it, sat in a tiny room constructed entirely for the purpose of spying on the guests her husband entertained. While Lady Huntington had posed and Lord Bolton postured, Louisa sat in that cramped space and painted.

When it was done, Lord Bolton had delivered it personally, taking full credit.

It had not taken long for rumours of his skill to spread across London; even less time for his portraits to have become that Season's must-haves. Anyone who was anyone wanted a portrait by Lord Bolton.

Louisa had despised her husband with every breath in her body, but his fits of rage had convinced her that the easiest way to a life of harmony would be to acquiesce to his demands. Thus, she had continued to paint. Every few months, she would produce a new painting that the ton would fawn over, and if she ever balked, Lord Bolton would put his hand over her mouth and warn her to keep her silence or he would ruin her in every way he knew how.

He was not a clever man, her husband, but he was a sly one, and cruel, and she doubted not a bit that he would have followed through with his threats.

Bile rose in her throat at the sight of the portrait she had so unwillingly painted, and although she knew it was greatly admired, it appeared to her then as though it had been sketched in blood.

As though a shark scenting her open wound, Mr Knight appeared at her shoulder, a glass of champagne in his hand and a contemplative look in his cold eyes. "Lady Bolton," he said, handing her the glass. "What a delight to see you here."

Evidently he had not been humbled by her rejection. "Mr Knight," she said, accepting the champagne and looking from him to the golden liquid. "I trust you're well?"

"Perfectly." He nodded at the painting. "Admiring your husband's work?"

"He certainly has a way of making his presence known even beyond the grave," she said, and turned, looking for Caroline. "Pray excuse me."

"Wait one moment." He put a hand on her arm, but although the gesture was casual, the grip in his fingers was not. "I have something I would like to say."

She glanced down at his hand. "Release me or I will make sure you will never hold a pistol again."

"And to think Bolton said he never had any trouble with you." He chuckled, but the sound was devoid of humour. "You know, it's a shame it's come to this. I had hoped you would accept my suit."

He finally released her, and her hand trembled with repressed anger. She could toss the glass of champagne in his face or slap him, but that would mean making a scene, and she would rather not. "You have said nothing that leads me to think I will regret my decision."

"No? Perhaps not yet. But you will. You see, your husband confided a few things about your marriage."

Louisa's heart sank, although she kept her expression blandly contemptuous. Even years after his death, Bolton's skeletons continued to emerge from his past and chase into her future. "What a place of distinction you must have held," she mocked.

"Indeed." Mr Knight gave a cold smile as he leant closer, demanding her attention with obnoxious insistence. "In particular, he mentioned your talent with a brush. You truly are prolific, Lady Bolton. I must congratulate you on your success."

Dread lurched in her stomach, but she gave him a disdainful look. "I'm afraid I don't know your meaning."

"Oh, I know you do. And I've heard the Prince of Wales is particularly taken by a selection of erotic pieces you made." He tsked under his breath. "What would people say if they knew the things you'd painted under your husband's name?"

Louisa kept her expression blank, though panic and fury erupted in her chest. For three years, she had been content to let all the awful, degrading things she'd done settle in the past. She had thought that with Bolton's death, she would be free to escape it.

And now this man, whom she had thought a suitor—and who had attempted to marry her—knew her secret.

"I doubt anyone would believe you," she said contemptuously. "Now I believe this conversation is over."

He caught her wrist again, this time a good deal harder. "I was not done talking."

"Unhand me."

"Not until I've finished."

She raised her gaze to his face, letting her lip curl with all the derision she felt. "It takes a certain type of man to force his attentions on an unwilling female."

"It takes a certain type of stubborn, hot-headed female to snub the only man who knows her secret." His mouth twisted into a sneer. "We both know how disappointed Prinny would be to hear a mere woman painted some of his favourite pieces. When he discovers you and your husband have been making him look a fool—he will not take that kindly."

No, he would not. Weak men could never bear to be made to look foolish, and he would go out of his way to ruin her.

Likely he would succeed, too. Perhaps in time the scandal would be forgotten enough that she could return to London, but she would lose her friends, the respect of the ton . No one would want to associate with her again; she would be cast out as a disgrace. All the fortune in the world would not be enough to salvage her reputation.

Bad enough that she was a woman who painted with oils; bad enough that she had deceived everyone who had purchased a painting from Lord Bolton. But she had painted lewd acts. Ones that would shock even the most liberal-minded. She, a woman, whom the Royal Academy did not allow to paint from anatomy, had painted the nude form in a myriad of compromising positions.

Prinny would not let this die. She would have irrevocably made an enemy of the future king.

Long-forgotten fear spiralled through her. For five years of marriage, she had been afraid, and she had vowed never to let fear rule her life again. Yet here she was, her lungs stopping in her chest and cold dread passing through her body.

"You know that would be the reality as well as I do," Mr Knight said, his breath hot on her cheek, fingers almost painfully tight on her wrist. "This life you had cultivated for yourself would be over with a snap of my fingers. And not all the money in the world could prevent it."

For a moment, she was twenty-one again and helpless in the face of a man who wanted to control her. Then she blinked, and the illusion was gone. She was a matter of months away from thirty years old, and this was a man desperate enough to threaten her in a public place.

She tilted her head, fear receding enough that she could breathe and regain her calm. He had offered for her, and she had assumed it was for money, but she had never known he would be so very desperate.

I had hoped it would not come to this .

When Bolton had first introduced her to Knight, stating his intention of bringing him into polite Society, she had thought him familiar. And now, as he looked at her with an expression close to resignation, she had that sense again, her memory trying and failing to place him.

She dismissed the thought; now was not the time.

"I presume this is your attempt at blackmail," she said, and sipped her champagne. Clarity returned, and the panic was a mere dark feeling at the base of her stomach. "You must be in a lot of trouble. Did my husband lead you that far astray?"

"He has no relevance to this, save for the fact he told me about you and gave me the proof I needed."

"Which is?"

"Letters in his hand confessing to the whole." Knight glanced at the painting with an expression of indifference. "We were due to enter into a business arrangement together; I requested the letters as collateral. Naturally I had not expected him to die, but I still have them in my possession."

Of all the hard-headed things for Bolton to do. She clicked her tongue in irritation. No doubt he had thought that Knight, being sponsored by him, would be loyal enough to keep his secret.

A fool. She had been married to a fool.

"I see. Well, what's your price, Mr Knight? Are you going to demand I marry you after all?"

He frowned, discomfort passing across his face. No doubt he was expecting her to panic, or perhaps succumb to a fit of the vapours. But she was a woman who had survived a marriage designed to break her, and she would not crumble now.

And, now her faculties were returning, it occurred to her that few, if any, would believe that she was the true artist behind the paintings.

"No, not marriage," he said, regaining his composure. "True, that would have been easier had you not refused me, but you did." He lifted one shoulder in a lazy shrug. "My terms are this. You have until the end of the summer to pay me fifty thousand pounds. If you fail, I will publish my evidence and destroy your reputation." He gave a vicious smile. "What say you to that?"