He shook his head and waited for her to take her own cup. They lapsed into silence. What could he say? Was he really considering pressing his own mother for personal details of her marriage? Yet he couldn’t deny he wanted to know. He needed to understand why their relationship had been so miserable and why it had forced her to detach herself from them. Perhaps he hadn’t realised how frustrating the not knowing had been until Viola prompted him.
“How are you, Mother?”
“Well enough. I’ll be going to Kent soon.”
“Excellent.”
Eyeing the fragile blue and white cups, he gave in and reached for one. He didn’t need a drink and he had a long journey home but he had to do something.
“What is it, Dante?”
He glanced at his mother in surprise, his hand hovering over the cup. “Pardon?”
“I always knew when you were up to something. What is it?”
“I’m not up to something,” he protested, feeling all of seven years of age again. “Can’t a son visit with his mother without his motivations questioned?”
“You always were hard work.” She released a long smile. “I could never fathom why I had so many sons who refuse to behave properly. Most women would be thrilled to have so many boys but—”
“Not you,” he finished for her. Bitterness began to burn in his gut. This had been a mistake. What could he possibly learn from his mother? She was still as cold and as miserable as ever.
“Viola said you might wish to speak with me.” She lowered the cup to its saucer carefully. “You must understand, Dante, I love you. I have loved you from the moment you were placed in my arms. But—”
“Forgive me, Mother, but I find that very hard to believe.”
The dowager marchioness gave him a stern look—one that had him forgetting any ideas of storming out or spitting any more declarations at her.
“If you will let me finish. After Julian was born there was something...strange within me.” She motioned to her head. “The doctor said it was a depression of spirit or something similar. I could not connect with him, even though I knew I loved him. Then I conceived you. I hoped very much to conquer it, but it seems I could not. They tried many things to cure me, but it seems it is incurable. And so, with each of your brothers, it never improved.”
She placed the cup back on the table in the centre of the room. “Your father tried to understand but could not. Even I did not, so I hardly expected him to. The best thing for everyone was for me to stay away as much as possible.”
Dante shook his head as a numb sensation pervaded his body. Damn her for not explaining this sooner. And damn his father for driving her away. Why, if his wife was ever suffering so, he would not rest until they had found an answer.
“I cannot believe it was for the best.”
“Perhaps not, but an absent mother was better than an emotional, miserable one. The Cynfells do not weep and cry at every turn.”
He peered closer at his mother and realised she was indeed close to weeping. He gulped. “So this depression of spirit...it is still the same?”
“It has improved over the years. Lots of sunlight and fresh air helps.”
“You always said you went to the coast to accompany the countess.”
“Yes, well, can a mother not take trips without being questioned by her sons?”
“Have you told my brothers about this?”
His mother shook her head. “Only Julian, and only because Viola is persuasive. They do not need to know, Dante.”
“But—”
“I mean it. I will not have it being known that the Dowager Marchioness of Lockwood has lost her wits.”
Dante wasn’t sure he agreed, but he would let it rest for now. As far he knew, his brothers had not been so bothered by their mother’s absence. Perhaps because they did not attach themselves to women quite like he did.
Guilt jabbed him when his mother dabbed her nose and resumed her prim posture. He supposed he always blamed her for their terrible marriage, but in fact, it seemed his father was partly to blame too. He had never showed her the support she needed.
Just as he hadn’t with Josephine. Would he ever be able to make amends for his behaviour toward her?
Chapter Twelve
Josephine swallowed as she eyed the manor house. It didn’t matter that she spent much of her time socialising with the upper echelons of society now. The mere thought of meeting this rich man who was interested in purchasing more of her paintings made her stomach tumble over and over. She glanced at Diana who had agreed to accompany her, and her friend gave her an encouraging grin.
“Just think, if he likes your paintings, you will be able to earn enough money to rent a place in the country just like this.”
She studied the Tudor-style building with its long windows and turrets on each corner. She had always liked the idea of a grand home like this—a place to raise a family and paint quietly. Even her trips to the docks no longer inspired her now Dante was not living in London.
She hadn’t seen him in over five months now. Five long but busy months. Evelyn Cherwell the Duchess of Ardleigh, had taken a liking to one of her oil paintings after she had managed to persuade the manager at the local assembly hall to allow her to give talks on painting techniques. Before long, she had sold several of her paintings and had two more commissions. Now this Lord Hollingsworth had recently bought her favourite for a large sum and was interested in meeting with her to discuss more paintings for his new house.
Arm in arm, they made their way up the private road and stopped in front of the imposing dark wood doors. Iron studs ran up and down the wood and two large circular knockers sat on either side. She reached for the nearest and rapped it.
They waited.
“Maybe we should go in,” Diana whispered after several minutes of waiting. “He probably didn’t hear that.”
Checking her prim outfit of a ruby red skirt, a white yoked shirt, and matching jacket trimmed with floral patterns down the front, she nodded. She looked respectable and hopefully professional. The sort of woman a man could have confidence in.
“Come on then.” She twisted the old iron handle and winced when the door creaked open. He had to have heard that, surely?
But as they stepped inside the dimly lit interior, no one greeted them. The entrance hall looked as though it had not been touched since the sixteenth century—dark wood panelling, red tiled floors, and a chandelier hanging above with the remnants of candle wax creating white rivulets that looked like the stalactites one might find inside a cave. A lamp was lit on one of the two tables lining the hall, casting vague flickering light. Whoever had owned this place before this lord had clearly never installed gas lamps or perhaps hadn’t owned it before the discovery of electricity.
“Hello,” she called out. Two doors led off either side and there was another at the rear of the room. It seemed like a veritable maze. “What do we do?” she whispered to Diana.
“You go that way, and I shall go this way.” She pointed to the door to the right and scurried off before Josephine could protest. This poor man would be startled to find two young women running around his house.
With a sigh, she opened the door to the left and entered. She stilled at the sight of her painting hanging at the end of the room, just above a huge stone fireplace. The painting, which portrayed a young family on the hills of Hampshire, where she had grown up, brightened the dim room.
Josephine moved around the dining table that stretched along the length of the room and paused to view it. She smiled. This was how she’d imagined her paintings. Not hanging in a drawing room in London or in a gallery but in a family home.
“I wonder if he has a family,” she murmured to herself. She really knew nothing of this man.
“Not yet.”
She spun, her heart thumping wildly in her chest like a horse galloping out of control. “Dante!” He stepped out of the shadows to join her. “W-what are you doing here?”
His lips quirked into a tilted smile. “Welcome to Hollingsworth Hall.”
“Wait, you’re Lord Hollingsworth?”
He lifted a nonchalant shoulder.
“So all this, this fake name, was what...? A way to get me here alone?” A heavy ache began to pound in her chest. Her dreams of a wealthy patron were slowly dissolving, turning to dust much like the thin layer that covered the fireplace grate by her feet.
She stared at it, wondering what she should do. She still needed to find Diana. Whatever this game was, she didn’t want to play it. Did he not understand how hard it had been to do all this without him? There had been times when she had longed to go to him and tell him of all her successes. Yes, she had done this alone, but sometimes, just sometimes, she longed for someone to be at her side while she achieved these things.
Of course, nothing had changed. Dante Cynfell would never change.
Josephine tried to step past him but he moved in front of her. “Jo-Jo.”
That pet name physically wounded her. She felt it deep in her soul, scratching and tearing at her. How, after all this time, could she still love him?
She whirled away, intending to go around the table to escape. He snatched her wrist and pulled her to a halt. “Don’t be angry, Jo-Jo. I needed to see you, to—”
“To deceive me?” She couldn’t look him in the eyes. She’d wanted to do this alone, to succeed on her own, and here he was making a mockery of her dreams.
“To prove my love to you.”
Her heart, oh her silly little heart, bounded against her chest at those words. Love. Yes, that’s what she had wanted wasn’t it? But, no, it was too late. He couldn’t love her that much if he refused to marry her.
Weariness ate into her so when he released her wrist, she sagged onto one of the nearby chairs and propped her elbow on the table. The past eight months of her life had been so draining—exciting to be sure—but more work than she’d ever realised. More than anything, she wanted someone to share that with now. But not Dante. She just couldn’t do it again.
“Do you like the house?”
She scowled. From love to a house? What...? “Y-yes, it’s lovely.”
“Good. It was meant for Jasper when he turned eight and twenty.”
“Meant?”
“It’s mine now.”
“Yours?” she asked numbly, aware she likely sounded no brighter than a talking parrot.
“Yes. Jasper had little interest in a creaky old manor house so we did an exchange. He’ll have the London townhouse soon.”
Josephine paused to stare at the old wood of the table. She traced the scars in the surface and imagined the many Cynfell ancestors eating their meals and discussing business here. A family home for certain. So why would Dante—a man who thrived on being in the centre of high society—exchange his house for this one?
“Why did you exchange?” Even her voice sounded weary. The truth was, without Dante she was drained. Her mild side took over and she had no outlet, no way to express herself other than through art. She hadn’t realised how much Dante inspired her in life and in art.
A flicker of apprehension washed over his expression. She saw his throat bob. He took a step forward, stilled, and took another step. Slowly, he knelt in front of her and took her hand. She glanced down to see it shaking.
Then she realised both their hands were shaking. This wasn’t right. How could Dante be shaking?
“Jo-Jo...” He drew in a breath and pressed her fingers to his lips. She couldn’t help but gasp at the feeling of his warm mouth on her cold hand. “I asked for this house because the townhouse no longer appealed to me. I moved into it briefly and, frankly, it was dreary without you.”
He reached down to his coat and drew out a box. When he flicked it open to reveal a golden band set with emeralds, she put a hand to her mouth.
“Is this...?”
He nodded. “Marry me, Jo-Jo. I love you. I want to have a family. With you, and only you. I swear to you, whatever you want to do, I will support you. I will work hard for you. If I can help it, I will never leave you alone in bed again. I can’t enjoy anything without you, please—”
Josephine pressed a finger to his lips. “I wanted so much from life. To be known for my art and to have my name recognised. It’s hard being a mistress. It’s sometimes hard being a wife.”
He opened his mouth, but she pressed her finger harder.
“Being your mistress was never easy, and I think being your wife won’t be either. You are an infuriating man at times.” She drew in a breath. “But I love you, and I’m made of strong stuff.”
“Oh, I know you are.” He gripped her fingers tightly. “Does that mean you’ll marry me? That you’ll come and live here and paint and be my wife?”
Tears blurred her vision. She pressed her lips together and nodded. Through the blur, she saw him grin, and he retrieved the ring to slip it onto her finger. Josephine swiped her eyes and glanced at her finger. “It’s beautiful.”
“It was my mother’s.”
“I would have thought Viola had it.”
He shook his head. “Mother didn’t approve enough of Viola to hand it over at the time.”
“I’m not sure she’d approve of me either.”
“A successful artist as a daughter-in-law? I think Mother would be fairly content.” He swiped a thumb under her eye and stood to draw her into his arms. Dante hooked that thumb under her chin and lifted it so he could sweep a chaste kiss over her lips. “Thank you,” he murmured.
“For what?”
“For saying yes. For giving me another chance. For being you.”
“I didn’t actually say yes,” she said with a smile. She glanced around. “Oh poor Diana.”
“She’s probably enjoying tea and cakes in the drawing room.”
Josephine was tempted to tap his arm in admonition. “Diana knew?”
He nodded. “I wanted to make sure you came. Even Robbie Allen knew.”
“All this trouble...”
“I had to do it. Not just for you but for me. I had to prove to myself I was different too. I had to know I was good enough for you.”
“Oh, Dante, you are.” She gripped his face and kissed him. “You really are.”
“So that’s a yes, is it not?”
She nodded. “Yes.”
Josephine allowed herself to be swept away by his kiss. Yes. Yes to achieving her dreams. Yes to a life that would never be boring. Yes to life with Dante who was now the man she always knew he could become.
The End
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Other titles by Samantha Holt
Sinful Confessions (Cynfell Brothers Book 1)
Tempting His Mistress
Once Upon a Rake
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Copyright 2015 ©Samantha Holt
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organisations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Sinful Deeds (Cynfell Brothers Book 2) Page 9
