by Andrew Grey
Table of Contents
Blurb
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Epilogue
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Copyright
Redeeming the Stepbrother
By Andrew Grey
A Tale from St. Giles
Family can be a blessing and a curse, but for artist Florian, it’s a nightmare he longs to escape.
As chief designer for Bartholomew Porcelain Studio, Florian specializes in painting birds. He also watches them in the wild to distract himself from his short-tempered mother, at least temporarily. Florian’s heart is too soft to leave his stepsister, Ella, to suffer alone. Still, he can’t help dreaming about one day finding happiness and love.
When Count Dieter von Hollenbach arrives in town to visit a friend and present an award, he isn’t looking for romance. Then again, he doesn’t expect someone as perfect as Florian to come into his life. To make sure Florian is all he seems and that their connection is genuine, Dieter keeps his title to himself.
But he isn’t the only one with a secret.
At a masquerade ball to celebrate the award, some of the masks fall away, but those that remain in place could destroy the love beginning to grow between them.
To Lynn, who came up with the title months before I started writing this story. From there, the rest was easy. :)
Chapter 1
THE RICH vibrancy of a red wing, the cool blue-black of a bird’s eyes—these were things I noticed in great detail and then recreated over and over again. I loved birds. My favorite birthday present of all time was a pair of binoculars my stepfather gave me before he died. He noticed I was a bird-watcher and gave me one of the most important tools of my hobby.
I was never one of those guys who counted the birds or tried to be the first to identify an encroachment of a new species. I watched because I always wondered what it would be like to be one. I used to lie on my back in the grass and wonder what it would be like to be able to soar over the ground, with nothing to stop me from flying away to a happier place. One where I’d have some control over my own life and would be free to go, do, and be whatever I wanted. Free to be the person I felt I was born to be, the one who knew no limits to his imagination. That was what I saw in the birds that flew overhead as I lay on the ground, staring up at the sky.
“Shoot.” I put my brush back in the pot and closed my eyes. I had to clear my head or I was going to make a mistake and ruin a piece I’d already spent hours on. I needed to concentrate on the bird, not on the crap inside my head. Daydreaming would get me nowhere—certainly not any closer to finishing the vase I had on my worktable, or the dozen more porcelain blanks sitting on the bench along the side of my work area, waiting for me to apply the paint to bring the additional birds in my head to life.
“Everything okay, Florian?” Dante Bartholomew asked from the doorway of my area.
I almost dropped the vase I’d been working on in surprise. Dante never came down here. Hell, in the six years I’d been a designer for Bartholomew Porcelain Studio, I’d only ever seen the man on a few occasions, and he’d never spoken to me. Dante had been a known recluse for years, running the business from his huge mansion on the hill.
“Yes, Mr. Bartholomew.” I breathed deeply to calm my now-racing heart. What had I done to warrant a visit from the big boss? I’d worked here since I was sixteen years old and had had only limited contact with the man who owned the studio. “I was daydreaming a little. I’m sorry.” I reminded myself to focus on my work—that’s what I was being paid to do.
Dante entered my area and pulled up a stool. “We won another award for the studio,” he said with a smile. “I don’t know the details yet, but apparently someone is being sent to present the award in a few weeks. I wanted to be the one to tell you that the Gold Medal Par Excellence is in part due to your work. They singled out the examples we provided of your unique birds as being among the reasons for the award.” Dante smiled brightly.
“Thank you.” Over the years, the studio had won a number of awards for my work, and they hung on the wall behind me or in the hallway outside.
Dante stood to come closer, examining the vase I was working on. “That’s extraordinary. The bird actually looks like it’s thinking.”
The vase showed an unusual scene. While others’ pieces depicted cardinals or bluebirds. Mine depicted an owl with a predatory gleam in its eye, scanning the area below for its next meal. I hadn’t shown the meal portion, but I hoped that would give the piece intensity.
“They’re intelligent creatures,” I answered. I lowered my gaze, starting to get nervous with him watching me. There was no way I was going to be able to work with a shaking hand. Dante was this gorgeous hunk of man… well, Dante was probably more of a stud, at least in my fertile imagination. Of course, he was taken, and seemed happily so, judging by the light in his eyes, which had grown in intensity over the last year. I was happy for Dante and Beau. They seemed to be good together, if what the town gossips passed around was any indication. “Is there something else I can do for you?”
“No. I was just admiring the piece. I’ll let you go back to work.”
Dante turned and left. I watched him go with a slight amount of envy for Beau running through my veins. Not that I’d ever had the guts to approach Dante for anything at all. Still, it didn’t stop me from wishing I had a Dante in my life. I snorted out loud and then rolled my eyes. That was about as likely to happen as the owl I was painting coming to life and flying away.
“What did Mr. Bartholomew want?” Hattie asked as she buzzed into my work area. She was a floralist, painting amazing flowers with incredible precision.
“The studio won another award. He was really happy.” There was no need to go into anything about my own work. The entire studio, everyone, worked hard to produce amazing pieces, and I didn’t want to be singled out, since it hurt others’ feelings. I saw that plenty at home and didn’t want that sort of thing here in my oasis of calm and quiet, where the artisans got along. “For all of us.”
“That’s really nice of him. Did he say anything else?” Hattie plopped herself onto the same stool Dante had used.
“Not really. It was nice of him to stop by and say something, though.” I picked up the vase I’d been working on and turned my attention to it, hoping Hattie would go back to her own work. But before I was able to clear my mind, my phone dinged and then rang. I groaned and carefully set the vase on the worktable before answering it. I hated these calls because they only wasted my time.
“I don’t know how much more of this I can take,” my mother began as soon as I said hello. “Your sister did it again. She doesn’t listen and never does what I tell her. All I asked was that she clean up the kitchen, and she ignored me again.” My mother was way too dramatic for words. My father used to say she was crazy, before he left her and us. My stepfather had more patience with her, and she was better with him… until he passed away. Now she was pretty much out of control, and I tried to stay under the radar—the only way to survive.
“I’m working. Just clean the kitchen yourself.” After all, she was the one who probably made the mess. Her sense of entitlement sometimes drove me crazy, but I was still living at home, so it was the price I had to pay. Sometimes life sucked.
&nb
sp; I got a deafening screech in return. “You don’t care what I have to do in order to keep this family together. Isabella… I don’t know what to do with her…. That girl….” She sputtered for a while, and I tuned her out, because it was the only way to get through all this. Let Mom run down until she become reasonable again. Mom and my stepsister were always at odds.
After a full minute of her talking nonstop, I managed to break in. “Just calm down and do what you have to do. I have to go back to work now.” I tried to be calm and hoped it would rub off on her. “I have to talk to my supervisor, and he’s on his way over.” I ended the call with a sigh.
“You lied to her,” Hattie said. “Not that I blame you. That woman is a real piece of work.” Hattie never hesitated to say what was on her mind. It was part of what I both liked and found trying at times. No one liked to have their shit placed in front of them.
“That’s my mother,” I cautioned.
Hattie rolled her eyes. She was in her late forties and was a fixture at Bartholomew Porcelain Works, of which the studio was a subsidiary. She’d been a decorator for over twenty years and knew everyone and everything about the entire town. “Even you have to admit your mother is a little unhinged. Now James, your stepfather, he was a dreamboat. I had my eye on him when I was in school, but he only seemed interested in Isabella’s mother. Carrie was beautiful and gentle—everyone loved her. I never heard Carrie say a bad word about anyone. Unlike your mother. That woman has the most devious mind and the sharpest tongue of anyone I’ve ever met.”
“Hattie…,” I growled.
She stood, glaring at me. “How many times has she turned that tongue and temper of hers on you?” Hattie leaned closer. “You’re a good boy, Florian, and you have a good heart. But you’re blind as a bat if you don’t see it. You know I’m right.”
I huffed, not wanting to hear nasty things about my family, even if they might be true. She was my mother, the only one I had….
“You should move out and find a place of your own. You’re twenty-two. It’s time you built a life for yourself.” Hattie slid off the stool. “A little distance and you’d see I’m right.” She turned and left.
I sighed, pushing all that drama out of my head, and looked back at the owl, whose huge eyes stared at me out of the porcelain. I picked up my brush, letting my consciousness sink into the job and away from the mess I knew would be waiting for me when I got home.
When I worked, I tended to lose track of time. At the studio I never watched the clock. Lunchtime happened when my stomach growled loudly enough to capture my attention, and I stopped working when the light from the huge windows that lined the walls faded and only the incandescent lighting remained.
I put the finishing touches on the owl, signed the bottom of the piece, and set the vase on the finished shelf to dry. It would then be glazed and sent for final finishing and packaged for shipment to a customer.
I stretched, hands raised high over my head, joints cracking in my neck and back. The pressure relief was glorious. I turned out the lights, grabbed my jacket, and headed out into the summer evening.
I wasn’t in the mood to go home and deal with my mother, so I drove out of town, heading south before taking a dirt-road turnoff that led to the Chesapeake Bay. I pulled to a stop next to a Mercedes, which was really strange, firstly because the car was so expensive and secondly because there was someone else here at all. I rarely met anyone out here. Still, I parked, got out, and went around to change into the boots I kept in the trunk. I grabbed my camera and binoculars, closed the trunk as quietly as I could, then headed to the waterfront.
This area was marshy during part of the year and I had to be careful where I walked so I didn’t sink into the muck, but it was perfect for birds of all kinds.
I wasn’t disappointed. I emerged from the tall reeds to spot a great blue heron about twenty feet away. It was beautiful, and I didn’t want to scare it, but I also wanted a picture. I had ideas for a series of works featuring the impressive bird—tall, statuesque, shining in the sunlight.
I slowly moved back into the reeds, lifted my camera to position it between the long grass stems, and began snapping pictures. It was stunning, and I’d gotten enough to be able to represent the detail I wanted when a splash startled the bird and it flew away, darting over the water.
“Scheisse,” a deep voice swore. I knew the word from my high school class as a version of “shit,” but wondered why I was hearing German. Another splash came, louder than the first, so I slowly worked my way forward to see what the trouble was.
“You scared the bird,” I scolded and then saw a man, taller than me. He had to be well over six feet and was dressed like someone out of a forties period movie, with a wool hat, a jacket complete with elbow patches, and puffy pants. His boots and legs stuck in the mud almost to his knees. An old pair of binoculars hung around his neck. I bit my lower lip to keep from laughing.
“Will you help me?” he asked, and I slowly made my way closer.
“Got yourself in a mess, didn’t you?” I was careful not to get caught in the same bog. “You have to feel before you step.” I managed to get close enough to take his hand. “Pull up one foot and try not to lose your boot.”
“I am.” He lifted his foot, the sucking sound loud in the stillness. He got the foot loose and stepped toward me.
“Hold on.” I bent down a bunch of the reeds. “Step on those.”
He did and got his other foot loose, though this time the mud nearly got his boot. It hung on his foot as he swung around, and he tugged it back on and stepped onto the grass.
“Come this way.” I led him through the reeds, back toward dry ground and the cars.
“I think you come here often,” he said, swatting cakes of mud off the knees of his pants.
I wondered if that was some German version of the old pickup line for a second, but tossed the thought away.
“Yes. I’m familiar with the area. I watch the birds so I can paint them.” I took a step onto solid ground, mud all the way up my boots but sparing my pants. Good. There would be hell to pay if my pants were caked with mud. “I’m Florian.”
“Dieter,” he said as he shook my extended hand.
I stomped my feet to get some of the mud off my boots. They would dry soon enough and the mud would flake off pretty easily. “On vacation I take it? Judging by the accent and all.”
“In a way.” Dieter pulled off his hat, exposing light blond hair down to his shoulders that would make a model green with envy. “I’m here on business and decided to take some time to see the sights.” He held up his binoculars. “I study birds back in Bavaria and wanted to get a look at some of yours here. I didn’t realize there would be hazards.” He smiled a little, and I relaxed. At least Dieter had a decent sense of humor to go along with an amazing smile and eyes the color of the sky. My cheeks heated as thoughts of what I’d like to do with his full pink lips went through my head.
“M-me neither,” I stammered, my brain suddenly switching off, my tongue too big for my mouth.
He walked toward his car, and I did my best not to stare at his backside, but failed miserably. And what a view I got for my troubles, especially when he opened the trunk and leaned over, his jacket rising up and the pants drawing tight around his butt. He pulled off the binoculars and stowed them in a case, then set his hat inside. He turned around, and I tried my best to look busy rather than watch him. Dieter leaned on the bumper to pull off his boots, then thumped them together to knock off some of the mud. He scraped off his pants and put on fresh shoes.
“Thank you for your help,” Dieter said as he headed for the driver’s door.
“You’re welcome.” I waved my hand, taking in the area. “This is the best spot for birds for miles. No one usually comes here. You just have to watch the mud, but otherwise it’s perfect. I can show you some spots just up that way where there are egrets and a family of snowy herons… sometime… if you like.” I blushed. I suddenly felt so stupid, una
ble to say what I wanted. I raced to my car, yanked open the door, and jumped inside. After backing out of the spot, I drove away as fast as I dared.
The ride home didn’t take too long. I went inside, and Mother started in on me as soon as I got in the door.
“Look at that mess,” Mother scolded. “You need to stop all that stupid bird shit and do something productive with your time.” She sat at the kitchen table in a pair of jeans and a red blouse, reading a book. She lifted her gaze to Isabella, who was at the sink doing dishes, before returning to her book. “Put the jeans in the washtub once you’ve changed so they can be rinsed out. Don’t put them in the washer. I don’t want mud in there again.” She never looked up at me. It was her usual behavior.
I went up to my room, changed, and brought the jeans back down. Once they were taken care of, I took a sandwich to my room and locked the door so Jeremy, Mother’s favorite and my perfect older brother, didn’t come in to cause trouble. We each had a talent, and that was definitely his. The jerk.
I put the plate and glass of water on my desk, then pulled out my paint kit and a blank canvas from the closet. I set up my small easel and got to work, brush in hand, mixing colors, letting my inner eye take over.
There were many things about my job that I loved. Painting birds in great detail as they flew, sat still, or stood in a pool of water—I enjoyed it. The work made me happy and I was good at it. I could actually make a living with my art. And I was proud of that. But it was what I did in this room, after work, alone—just me, the paint, and the canvas—that got my heart racing. At night, I painted men—nude, beautiful men, the ones who came to me in my head. And I had a vivid, wild, and sometimes naughty imagination. What always made me smile was that I sold my art on the internet. People paid me for the visual representations of my fantasies.
My mother and brother would have two fits and a hemorrhage, each, if they knew about my little side business, so I hid the canvases under my bed. After all these years, if I stacked them all up, my mattress would be six feet off the ground. Lots of pictures came to me. Not that it mattered, as I shipped most of them away, all over the world, and did it very quietly.
