by Mary Balogh
She loved to watch him paint even more than she loved watching him play the pianoforte. With the latter, he very quickly entered a world of his own, where the music flowed effortlessly. At his easel he had to labor more. He frowned and muttered profanities as much as he was absorbed in his task.
But finally he finished. He cleaned his brush and spoke.
“Well,” he said, “I suppose you have been sneaking peeks every time I leave the house.”
“I have not!” she said indignantly. “The very idea, Jocelyn! Just because it is something you would undoubtedly do.”
“Not if my word were given,” he said. “Besides, I would never need to sneak peeks. I would boldly look. Come and see it, then. See if you like yourself.”
“It is finished?” He had given no indication that he was nearing the end. She threaded her needle through the cloth and jumped to her feet.
“Come and discover the truth of my claim that I merely dabble,” he said, shrugging as if he did not care what her verdict was, and busying himself with the task of cleaning his palette.
Jane was almost afraid to look then, afraid that indeed she would find an inferior product about which she would have to be tactful. Though he would tear her to pieces, she knew, if she were less than brutally honest.
Her first impression was that he had flattered her. She sat at her work, every line of her body elegantly arched. Her face was in profile. She looked industrious and absorbed by what she was doing. But she never saw herself thus, of course. In reality it was a good likeness, she supposed. She flushed with pleasure.
Her second impression was that the likeness or otherwise of the portrait was really not the point. She was not looking at a canvas produced merely so that the sitter might exclaim at the flattering likeness. She was gazing at something—something more.
The colors were brighter than she had expected, though when she looked critically she could see that they were accurate. But there was something else. She frowned. She did not know what it was. She had never been a connoisseur of art.
“Well?” There were impatience and a world of hauteur in his voice. And a thread of anxiety too? “Did I not make you beautiful enough, Jane? Are you not flattered?”
“Where …?” She frowned again. She did not know quite what it was she wished to ask. “Where does the light come from?”
That was it. The painting was an excellent portrait. It was colorful and tasteful. But it was more than just a painting. It had life. And there was light in it, though she was not quite sure what she meant by that. Of course it had light. It was a vivid daytime scene.
“Ah,” he said softly, “have I done it then, Jane? Have I really captured it? The essence of you? The light is coming from you. It is the effect you have on your surroundings.”
But how had he done it?
“You are disappointed,” he said.
She turned to him and shook her head. “I suppose,” she said, “you never had an art master. It would not have been allowed for a future Duke of Tresham. Jocelyn, you are a man in every sense that you think important. You must dare to be more fully a man as you have been in this room this week. You have an amazing talent as a musician, an awesome talent as a painter. You must continue to use them even when I am gone. For your own sake as much as that of the world.”
It was typical of him, of course, to choose to comment on a very small point.
“You are going to leave me, then, Jane?” he asked. “Go to greener pastures, perhaps? To someone who can teach you new tricks?”
She recognized the source of the insult. He was embarrassed by her earnest praise.
“Why should I leave you,” she asked briskly, “when the terms of the contract are so favorable to me provided you are the one who does the leaving?”
“As I will inevitably do, of course,” he said, regarding her through narrowed eyes. “There is usually a week or two of total infatuation, Jane, followed by a few more weeks of dwindling interest before a final severance of the relationship. How long have I been totally besotted with you now?”
“I would like to have time to practice skills other than just embroidery,” she said, returning to her chair and folding her silk threads to put away in her workbag. “The garden needs more work. There are all those books to be read. And there is much writing I wish to do. I daresay that once your interest dwindles, I shall find my days richer and filled to overflowing with any number of congenial activities.”
He chuckled softly. “I thought,” he said, “we were not supposed to quarrel in this room, Jane.”
“I thought,” she replied tartly, “the Duke of Tresham was not to be brought into the room. I thought we had agreed not to allow him over the threshold, nasty, arrogant man. The very idea of telling me when I might expect to find your interest in me waning and how long I might expect to enjoy your wearying favors after that. Come here looking as if you believe you are doing me a favor, Jocelyn, and you will be leaving faster than you arrived, believe me. I have to consent, remember, before you so much as touch me.”
“You like the portrait, then?” he asked meekly.
She set down her workbag and looked at him, exasperated.
“Must you always try to hurt me when you feel most vulnerable?” she asked. “I love it. I love it because you painted it and because it will remind me of this week. But I suspect that if I knew more about painting I would love it too because it is great art. I believe it is, Jocelyn. But you would have to ask an expert. Is the painting mine? To keep? Forever?”
“If you want it, Jane,” he said. “Do you?”
“Of course I want it. You had better go now or you will be late for your dinner.”
“Dinner?” He frowned, then appeared to remember. “Oh, dinner. To hell with it. I shall stay here and dine with you, Jane.”
One more evening of her month to hug to herself.
THEY DRANK TEA AFTER dinner and he read to her from Mansfield Park while she sat relaxed in her chair. But after that they sat in companionable silence until he started talking about his boyhood again, as he had done for the past two evenings. Having started, it seemed he could not stop.
“I believe you should go back, Jocelyn,” she said when he paused. “I believe you need to go back.”
“To Acton?” he said. “Never! Only for my own funeral.”
“But you speak of it with love,” she said. “How old were you when you left?”
“Sixteen,” he told her. “I swore I would never go back. I never have, except for two funerals.”
“You must have still been at school,” she said.
“Yes.”
She did not ask the question. That was so like Jane. She would not pry. But the question might as well have been shouted out. She sat quietly and receptively. Jane, to whom he had opened so much of himself in the past week.
“You do not want to know, Jane,” he told her.
“I think perhaps,” she said, “you need to tell.”
That was all she said. He gazed into the fire and remembered the initiation. The moment at which he had become his father. And his grandfather. A true Dudley. A man.
“I was sixteen and in love,” he said. “With a neighbor’s fourteen-year-old daughter. We swore undying love and fidelity. I even managed to get her alone once and kissed her—on the lips. For all of three seconds. It was very serious, Jane.”
“It is not always wise to mock our younger selves,” she said, responding to his tone of irony as if she were an octogenarian. “Love is as serious and painful a business to the young as it is to older people. More so. There is so much more innocence.”
“My father got wind of it and became apprehensive,” he said. “Though doubtless if he had waited I would have been sighing over some other maiden two or three months later. It is not in the nature of a Dudley to be constant in love, Jane—or even in lust, for that matter.”
“He separated you?” she asked.
“There is a cottage.” He set his head bac
k and closed his eyes. “I mentioned it to you before, Jane. With its inhabitant, an indigent female relative ten years my senior.”
“Yes,” she said.
“There was a pool not far from her cottage,” he said. “Idyllic, Jane. At the foot of the hills, green with the reflections of trees, loud with birdsong, secluded. I used to go there often in the summer to bathe rather than frolic in the lake closer to the house. She was there one day before me, bathing, wearing only a thin shift.”
Jane said nothing when he paused.
“She was suitably flustered,” he said, “as she came out of the pool, looking as if she wore nothing at all. And then she laughed and joked and was charming. Can you picture it, Jane? The accomplished, well-endowed courtesan and the ignorant, virgin youth? That first time we did not even make it back to the cottage. We rutted on the grass beside the pool. I discovered what went where and what happened when it was in deep enough. I do believe all was accomplished inside thirty seconds. I thought myself one devil of a dashing fellow.”
Jane’s eyes were closed, he noticed when he opened his own.
“She was my first obsession.” He chuckled. “The day after that I went to the cottage, and the day after that again. I labored mightily on that last occasion, having quickly learned that I could make the pleasure last considerably longer than thirty seconds. I was proud and exhausted when I was finally finished demonstrating my prowess. And then she started to talk, Jane, in a very normal, very amused voice.
“ ‘He is an apt pupil and shows enormous promise,’ she said. ‘Soon he will be teaching me tricks.’ And then before I could get my head up to discover what the devil she was talking about, another voice, Jane. My father’s. Coming from the doorway of the bedchamber behind me.
“ ‘You have done very nicely, Phoebe,’ he said. ‘He was bucking lustily enough between your thighs.’ He laughed when I jumped off the bed on the opposite side from my clothes as if I had been scalded. He was standing with one shoulder propped against the doorway as if he had been there for some time. He had, of course, been watching and assessing my performance, probably exchanging winks and leers with his mistress. ‘No need for embarrassment,’ he told me. ‘Every man ought to be deflowered by an expert. My father arranged it for me; I have arranged it for you. There is no one more expert than Phoebe, though today is your last with her, my boy. She is off-limits as of this moment. I cannot have my son sowing his oats in my woman, can I, now?’ ”
“Oh,” Jane said softly, bringing Jocelyn’s mind back to the present with a jolt.
“I gathered my clothes up and ran out of the cottage,” he said, “without even stopping to dress first. I needed to vomit. Partly because my father had watched something so terribly private. Partly because it was his mistress with whom I had been dallying, and he had planned it all. I had not known until then that he even had mistresses. I had assumed he and my mother were faithful to each other. There was never anyone more naïve than my boyhood self, Jane.”
“Poor boy,” she said quietly.
“I was not even allowed to vomit in peace.” He laughed harshly. “My father had brought someone riding with him—his neighbor, father of the girl I fancied myself in love with. And out strode my father on my heels to share the joke in all its lurid details. He wanted to take us both to the village inn to toast my newly acquired manhood with a glass of ale. I told him he could go to hell, and I repeated the invitation at greater length when we were at home later. I left Acton the next day.”
“And for this you have felt guilt ever since?” Jane asked. He discovered suddenly that she had got up from her place and crossed in front of the hearth to stand before his chair. Before he realized what she was about to do, she sat on his lap and burrowed there until her head was on his shoulder. His arms closed about her in sheer reflex action.
“It felt like incest,” he said. “She was my father’s whore, Jane.”
“You were at the mercy of a ruthless man on one hand and a practiced courtesan on the other,” she told him. “It was not your fault.”
“I was in love with an innocent young girl,” he said. “And yet I spared her not one thought as I rutted with a woman ten years my senior whom I thought to be a relative. I learned one valuable lesson from the experience, though, Jane. I was my father’s son through and through. I am my father’s son.”
“Jocelyn,” she said, “you were sixteen. No matter who you were, you would have had to be superhuman—or subhuman—to resist such a powerful temptation. You must not blame yourself. Not any longer. Those events did not prove that you have a depraved nature. Far from it.”
“It took me a few years longer to prove that,” he said.
“Jocelyn.” He could feel her fingers playing with a button on his waistcoat. “Tell me something. Someday in the future when you have a son, will you ever do that to him? Initiate him with one of your own mistresses?”
He drew breath slowly and imagined it—the precious human who would be his son, product of his seed, and the woman with whom he would slake his appetites rather than remain true to his wife. Coming together, performing while he watched.
“I would sooner tear out my heart,” he said. “My nonexistent heart.”
“Then you are not your father,” she said, “or your grandfather. You are yourself. You were a sensitive, artistic, romantic boy, who had been repressed and was finally cruelly seduced. That is all, Jocelyn. You have allowed your life to be stunted by those events. But there is much life left to you. Forgive yourself.”
“I lost my father on that day,” he said. “I lost my mother soon after, once I had arrived in London and learned the truth about her.”
“Yes,” she said sadly. “But forgive them too, Jocelyn. They were products of their own upbringing and experience. Who knows what demons they carried around inside them? Parents are not just parents. They are people too. Weak like all the rest of us.”
His fingers were playing with her hair. “What made you so wise?”
She did not answer for a while. “It is always easier to look at someone else’s life and see its pattern,” she said, “especially when one cares.”
“Do you care about me, then, Jane?” he asked, kissing the top of her head. “Even now you know those most sordid of all details about my past?”
“Yes, Jocelyn,” she said. “I care.”
They were the words that finally broke his reserve. He did not even realize he was weeping until he felt wet drops drip onto her hair and his chest heaved convulsively. He froze in horror. But she would not let him push her away. She wrapped her free arm about his neck and burrowed deeper. And so he sobbed and hiccuped ignominiously with her in his arms and then had to search for a handkerchief to blow his nose.
“Dammit, Jane,” he said. “Dammit.”
“Tell me,” she said. “Do you have any kindly memories of your father? Anything at all?”
Hardly! But when he thought about it, he could remember his father teaching him to ride his first pony and playing cricket with him and Ferdinand.
“He used to play cricket with us,” he said, “when we were young enough to saw at the air with our bats and hurl the ball all of six inches ahead when bowling. It must have been as exciting for him as watching grass grow.”
“Remember those times,” she said. “Find more memories like that. He was not a monster, Jocelyn. He was not a pleasant man either. I do not believe I would have liked him. But he was not a monster, for all that. He was simply a man. And even when he betrayed you, he thought somehow that he was doing something necessary for your education.”
He kissed the top of her head again, and they lapsed into silence.
He could not quite believe that he had relived those memories at last. Aloud. In the hearing of a woman. His mistress, no less. But it felt strangely good to have spoken. Those ghastly, sordid events seemed less dreadful when put into words. He seemed less dreadful. Even his father did.
He felt peaceful.
�
��Skeletons are dreadful things to have in our past, Jane,” he said at last. “I do not suppose you have any, do you?”
“No,” she said after such a long silence that he thought she was not going to answer at all. “None.”
“Come to bed?” he asked her with a sigh almost of total contentment. “Just to sleep, Jane? If I remember correctly, we were rather energetically busy most of last night. Shall we just sleep tonight?”
“Yes,” she said.
He almost chuckled aloud. He was going to bed with his mistress.
To sleep.
His father would turn over in his grave.
18
OCELYN WENT STRAIGHT HOME THE FOLLOWING morning, as he usually did, to bathe and shave and change before sallying forth to his clubs and engaging in his other morning activities. But Hawkins was waiting for him as he crossed the threshold, bursting with important information. Mr. Quincy wanted a word with his grace. At his earliest convenience.
“Send him to the library in half an hour,” Jocelyn said as he made his way to the stairs. “And send Barnard up to me. Warn him that I feel no burning need of his personal company, Hawkins. Suggest to him that I will need hot water and my shaving gear.”
Michael Quincy stepped into the library thirty minutes later. Jocelyn was already there.
“Well?” He looked at his secretary with raised eyebrows. “Some crisis at Acton, Michael?”
“There is a person, your grace,” his secretary explained. “He is in the kitchen and has been there for two hours. He refuses to go away.”
Jocelyn raised his eyebrows and clasped his hands at his back. “Indeed?” he said. “Do I not employ enough footmen to pick up this—this person and toss him out? Am I expected to do it myself? Is this why the matter has been brought to my attention?”
“He is asking about Miss Ingleby, your grace,” Quincy explained.
Jocelyn went very still. “About Miss Ingleby?”
