Thus the theory of “youth as beauty” had been formed.
When years had passed and the effect had not worn off, Button was forced to admit that it was not simply youth, or even perfection of symmetry of jaw and cheekbone, although Cabot had that in shiploads.
It was, he decided in the end, simply the distilled Cabot-ness of Cabot. It was in the way he turned his head, in the way he lifted his hand, in the subtle casts of mist and storm cloud in his gray eyes, in his voice when he spoke only to Button—
All that ran through Button’s mind, as it often did, in the blink of an eye, in the span of a breath, so it was the merest moment before he twinkled a mischievous smile at his assistant as Cabot set down the tray on a special small table next to Button that he’d long go ordered Button not to use for anything else.
Button looked away from the graceful competence of Cabot’s long-fingered hands as his assistant arranged the tea set and spread his own hands wide with a confident expression. “Of course it will work! Why would it not?”
Cabot straightened and backed away a step from Button’s expansive gesture. They were both so bloody cautious …
“Because Elektra is special,” Cabot reminded him as he poured the tea. “Her life and her losses have taught her not just watchfulness, but suspicion. She sees around things. She has no patience with alleged coincidence and even less for the disastrous result of good intentions. If—when!—she sees through this—”
“She is but a child, Cabot!” Button laughed. “Truly intelligent and a manipulator-for-good after my own heart, but she is yet just a girl!”
Cabot gazed at him for a long moment. “Just because someone is young, does not make them an innocent, or an idiot. Just because someone has fewer years does not make them less of a person of substance and discernment.”
Button knew that Cabot was referring to himself as well as Elektra, but down that path lay danger to them both. So Button pretended, as he always did, that he had no idea of Cabot’s true feelings.
“I daresay that Miss Elektra would be quite alarmed to hear it. She does work so hard to convince the world that she is nothing more than a pretty face.”
He reached for the cup and saucer held in Cabot’s extended hand, knowing it would be prepared as perfectly as if he’d done it himself, if not better. Cabot made sure everything in Button’s life ran as smoothly as Chinese silk, the finely woven kind and not that nubby stuff from that inferior draper with the bushy mustache—
His fingertips stroked over Cabot’s warm ones, quite by accident, in taking hold of the saucer. He jerked his hand away, breathless and shocked at the potent yearning that swept through him. Swallowing hard, he tried to turn the spasmodic movement into a casual wave at the little table. “Just put it there. I’ll—I’ll have it in a moment.”
The dark flicker in Cabot’s beautiful eyes lasted no more than an instant, a shadow passing before a silvery light of a distant lantern, but it stabbed Button like an icicle to the heart. If only. If only he were younger. If only Cabot were older. If he ever thought he could actually make a brilliant, beautiful young man like Cabot happy—
No, he would not take his assistant’s gratitude and hero-worship as any more than it truly was. He would not take advantage of his position as mentor for his own satisfaction. Cabot was destined for greatness, perhaps even more so than himself! He would not hold him back. He would not hold him …
So he pretended not to see the pain and turned back to his blank sketchbook, hiding his pounding pulse and shortness of breath. “Now do let me concentrate, please. I must come up with some way to make the bodice of Mrs. Teagarden’s opera gown play nicely with Mrs. Teagarden’s bosom. A truly colossal task, I assure you!”
The tea tray rattled slightly and there came the merest brush of fabrics as Cabot turned away, but Cabot was a silently graceful person. Button carefully did not look up again until he was positive Cabot was gone. Then his gaze lingered on the empty doorway for far, far too long.
Chapter Seventeen
On the walk back to Worthington House, Aaron’s mind was filled with the story Cabot had told him.
I can’t give her what she needs.
He could only offer a title, attached to horrendous notoriety. She would honestly be better off with ordinary old Hastings than the publicly demonized Lord Aaron Arbogast. The marriage of a middling-high family member to someone of the lower classes might cause a whirl of gossip, but it would be short-lived. The new Mrs. Hastings, no matter who she’d once been, would fall from Society’s sight like a stone into a pond. Ripples, yes, but ripples fade with time.
As Lady Arbogast, or even as the Duchess of Arbodean, she would live the rest of her life under the magnifying glass of Society’s scrutiny. Everywhere she went, everywhere any of the Worthingtons went, people would turn their backs and whisper of poor Amelia Masterson, destroyed by Black Aaron, named after the tarnish on his vicious, depraved heart.
Aaron knew he’d never been forgotten. Even now, walking down a public London street, he kept his hat brim low and his eyes, quite properly as it happened, lowered. He dared not meet the gazes of any passersby on this fashionable street.
No, he could not do it to Elektra. He’d not realized it until this moment, but to ask it of any woman would be far too much. Not only would she be ostracized for the rest of her life, but so would her children.
His children.
God, he’d been so busy trying to turn himself about, to become the man he always should have been, to win back some semblance of approval in his grandfather’s eyes that it had never once occurred to him that he would never truly succeed.
To Society in general, he would always be Black Aaron, the monster.
And he could never, ever reveal the facts of what had truly happened to Miss Amelia Masterson.
However, he could, and would, take his tarnished self as far as he possibly could from the woman at his side.
Just as soon as he knew she was safe.
* * *
Aaron began with pinning down each brother individually.
“What is your sister about?” he asked Orion. “Why is she so mad to land a duke?”
Orion lifted his gaze from the pages of the weighty tome on his desk. From where Aaron was standing, he could see detailed drawings of parts better left beneath the skin.
“I have no idea. I assume she knows what she’s doing. She’s more intelligent than people think.”
That was all that was to be had from that source. Castor was next.
The green-eyed man shrugged. “She’s always been mad. I suppose she’s a beauty, so she’ll get by on that for a while. If she lands a title, she can stay as mad as she likes and no one will dare say boo to her.” Cas fidgeted, eager to check on his lovely wife. “If you ask me, she’d do better to act a bit more like a lady, like Miranda.”
Aaron regarded Cas’s back sourly as he walked off. From what he already knew of Elektra, she could convincingly play a queen if it suited her. Who did her brothers see when they looked at her?
He didn’t expect much response from Lysander, but asked anyway, being systematic. Zander surprised him greatly.
“She’s in battle.” Those three words seemed to come from some deep, strangled place within. Zander swallowed hard. “She’s … a champion.” Then he twitched slightly, shook himself, and walked away. Aaron stared after him with a frown.
Of course, it would be the maddest brother who understood her best of all.
I understand her. What does that say about me?
Then Aaron turned his gaze upon the eldest, Dade. If there was anyone who ought to be looking after Elektra, it was he. Aaron wasn’t going to leave her until he knew that someone—someone other than Zander the Undead!—knew what was truly happening inside that golden head of hers.
Someone who could help her, save her.
From herself.
He found Dade brooding in his study. The eldest Worthington looked up when Aaron entered, then frowned. “Yes, Hastings
?”
It occurred to Aaron that Dade always spoke to him as if he were a servant. Elektra called him “Mr. Hastings” as if he were a guest.
He found himself irked by Dade’s dismissive address, even though he himself called Hastings exactly that! For the first time, he wondered if that bothered Hastings—Mr. Hastings!—at all.
“It’s the miss, sir. Miss Elektra, I mean. She’s too thin.” It would do for a start.
Dade blinked in surprise. “That’s a tad on the personal side, don’t you think, Hastings? Not really your place, I’d say.”
Fortunately for Aaron, he was several rungs higher than Dade on the social ladder and therefore not in the slightest intimidated by such blather.
“Blather,” he informed Dade. “Sir.”
Dade’s eyebrows rose nearly to his hairline. “I beg your pardon?”
“I take it back,” Aaron went on. “You’re right, it ain’t my place, sir, because it’s your place. You’re the head of this madhouse. You don’t look after her properly, I’d say.”
Dade blinked, and surged to his feet in anger. Then he hesitated, doubt rising in his eyes, a look of regret crossing his face. He sank back into his seat and rubbed his eyes wearily. “I do try, you know. They are … unmanageable.”
“Oy, I’ll give you that, sir. A bigger bunch of maniacs were never born.”
Dade drew back. “I didn’t say that—”
“But that don’t excuse Miss Elektra not eatin’ proper.”
Dade frowned. “I cannot help it if my sister is vain—”
“Vain?” Aaron sputtered. Idiot! “You’re an idiot, sir! Your sister gives her meat to Miss Attie and her pudding to the expectant Mrs. Worthington because she fears they don’t eat well enough!”
Dade stared at Aaron, his expression dumbstruck. “That—that can’t be!”
Aaron folded his arms. “Then why did Miss Elektra tuck in like a farmhand on the road, then? And now she passes the roast meat right over her own plate and nibbles on bread and cheese? She’s afraid there isn’t enough to go around! All the while you louts eat like you’re preparin’ for your last battle.”
Dade paled, not in fury at Aaron’s tone, but in sudden realization. “That little idiot!” He rubbed his face with his hands. “It’s my fault.” He gazed at Aaron with guilty regret. “When she came to me for a dress allowance for her Season, I told her we barely had enough in the accounts to feed us all, much less throw away on fripperies that would be worn once and tossed aside.”
“But it ain’t true, is it?” Aaron scowled. “What’d you tell her that for?”
Dade blinked. “Because … well, she wanted dresses.” He spread his hands, as if that explained everything.
Aaron shook his head sadly. “You’re even more stupid than I thought, sir.” He folded his arms. “Dresses ain’t dresses! Dresses, for Miss Elektra, are weapons.”
Even as he said it, he realized that it was true in so many ways. It was just as Lysander had said. Everything Elektra wore, or said, or did, was all part of her battle for the great glory of the Worthington family’s future—for Attie’s future, specifically!
Dade only looked confused. Aaron let out a breath. “I’m sittin’ down, sir, because this is goin’ to take a while.”
* * *
“Cabot!”
The gown refurbishment for Miss Elektra had taken the greater part of Cabot’s day. He was already approaching punctuality. Any more delay and he would be late—and he was never late.
Even so, Cabot stopped his fast pace and turned reluctantly. He knew that voice, though he’d not seen his friend Garrett in more than a year.
Slender, stylish, and supercilious, that was Garrett.
Garrett had been valet … er, lady’s maid to Lady Alicia Lawrence before she had become the Duchess of Wyndham. Now Garrett served as chief gossipmonger and easily dismissed busybody … er, spy for that Liar’s Club lot that Button had once been part of.
Garrett approached Cabot with a smile and a toss of his perfectly coiffed blond hair. “Cabot, you’re looking very dapper today.”
Cabot refused to allow himself to be charmed. It was only sunlight. it was only hair. He did not smile back. “I always look dapper. It is my job. Dapper is what I do. What do you want, Garrett?”
Garrett smiled, not put out in the slightest by Cabot’s chilly greeting. That in itself was annoying. Everyone was put off by his aloofness. That was the point of aloofness, after all.
However, Garrett was a special case. He and Cabot had known each other long, long ago, when they’d both been street rats lurking on the edges of Bond Street, attracted by the fine togs and the possibilities available for a couple of handy pickpockets and petty thieves. Cabot had never been as deft as Garrett, but he’d been faster, so they’d both managed to stay ahead of the watch … at least, until Cabot had been caught by Button all those years ago.
Now Cabot was the assistant to the great Lementeur, gown designer to the rich and powerful and Garrett was little more than a snoop and a liar.
Well, a Liar, anyway. One of the that mingled pack of lords and louts that Button had once costumed for their forays into deception.
“How’s the club, then, Garrett?” He might as well find out, for Button would want to hear the latest. Garrett was an acute observer and remarkably detailed tattletale. Cabot looked forward to repeating all the tastiest bits of news to Button. It might make his master smile.
In his own mind, Cabot was not afraid to admit that he lived for that smile.
But Garrett had other things on his mind. An offer.
“I need to talk to you about something. It’s important. Come out with me, Cab. A wild night on the town, like the old days. There’s a rout at Weatherly’s, where there will not be single respectable soul in attendance. Or we can drink and dine at Mrs. Blythe’s. You know she adores us. We are so very decorative.”
Cabot remembered Mrs. Blythe very well. She ran a better-than-most establishment for naughty-minded toffs, but she treated her ladies well and her boys even better, so Cabot had no quarrel with the woman. In fact, she’d helped him out in the past, when he’d nearly run afoul of the law … but that was before Button.
Now he was an upright and proper citizen. He hadn’t even … well, it had been years, to be truthful. And the gleam in Garrett’s eye promised more than simply rambunctious companionship. Garrett was a generous and entertaining companion who was not inclined to get sentimental. If Cabot wanted to take the night off, Garrett would be the ideal playmate.
But how did one take the night off from love?
“I’ve duties to attend to,” Cabot said stiffly. Garrett looked a little hurt, but Cabot wasn’t too worried about his old friend. Garrett didn’t lack for companionship, and he wouldn’t stay hurt for longer than it took a squirrel to focus upon another nut.
Lucky Garrett.
It was the other offer, the stunning, outrageous, astounding offer, that he made next.
Cabot refused that one as well. He simply didn’t think no would be an acceptable answer, not to the man who made the offer.
“Your loss, mate,” Garrett informed him cheerfully. “You know where to find me if you change your mind.”
Garrett ambled off, replacing his hat on his head with, of course, a jaunty tilt. For a moment, just an instant, Cabot envied him fiercely. To be free, to walk away from the constant ache in his chest, to turn love from pain back into play.
However, he had a place in the world. He had work, and responsibilities. He had Button’s respect, and Button was obviously fond of him, in poor-orphan-boy sort of way.
Not precisely what Cabot had in mind.
Nevertheless, it was better than no Button at all.
Wasn’t it?
* * *
At Worthington House, Cabot found Hastings first. “Ah … sir. My master has a message for you.”
Then it was the violet silk for Miss Elektra.
Hours later, in her bedchamber, Elek
tra gave herself one final glance in the mirror. Cabot stood behind her, hair ribbons still trailing from one hand, a vial of scent held in the other.
“I think this is the best I can do,” Elektra tilted her head this way and that. “Do you think it is enough to win the Duke of Camberton’s attention?”
“If he isn’t looking at you, then he must be looking at me,” Cabot said flatly. “You make me wish I admired girls.”
Elektra turned to flash her dearest friend a delighted grin. “Cabot! That’s the nicest thing any man has ever said to me!”
Cabot lifted a brow. “Wouldn’t that send the eyebrows to the ceiling? You and I, stepping out together?”
Elektra’s grin faded. “What’s wrong? Something’s wrong.” She narrowed her eyes. “Tell me.”
Cabot turned away and let the ribbons drift from his lax fingers to the top of the dressing table. “I think I may be going to the palace. The Prince Regent needs another dresser. It seems he broke the last one.”
“Oh!” Elektra raised her hands to her cheeks in delight. Then, she let them fall. “Oh. Oh, dear.”
“I do believe those were my exact words upon receiving the offer. Well, nearly, for I might have added a few harmless expletives.”
Elektra bit her bottom lip. “Will you go? Will you truly leave him?”
Cabot turned back, but his gaze remained on his empty hand. “I believe the question is, will he let me refuse it? ‘For your own good’ and all that rubbish.”
“But … he needs you,” Elektra said delicately. “You know he does!”
“Does he?” Cabot looked up at last, and his lovely gray-mist eyes were the eyes of a man walking to the gallows. “Does he indeed?”
Elektra crossed her arms. We shall see about this!
Mr. Button was as dear to her as her own parents—but enough was enough! Her toe began to tap, rather in the fashion of her bossy older sister, Callie. When she realized it, she stilled the wayward foot, but forgot to erase the determined scowl from her features.
Cabot blinked and drew back slightly. “No.”
“No what?” Elektra was still thinking furiously. When she got through with Button and his ridiculous notions of right and wrong and—
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