Forever and a Duke

by Grace Burrowes

  “Perhaps a little later.” He tried to relax his expression. “Would you like to see where we will be living and working? The panels that have been prepared?” There, that was something that existed that he could show Beaumont. And the offer sounded professional. Accommodating, even. And perhaps another look at the panels would inspire something within him.

  “I would. Thank you.” Beaumont was watching him, an unreadable expression on his face.

  “This way then.” He didn’t wait to see if Beaumont was following but simply spun and headed toward the north transept, slipping through the heavy door at the end. He felt the cool air cut into his skin as he made his way along the edge of the building, though it abated as he entered what had been a sizable outbuilding at one time. Lisbon had claimed it and converted it into a live-in studio of sorts, the tall windows on the north side offering a consistent light and the hearth on the south end offering a consistent warmth against the drafts and damp. Someone had put a wide, blue rug in front of the hearth in what Flynn supposed was an attempt to make the space seem more homey, though the effort fell short. This wasn’t his home any more than any other temporary place he had ever stayed in his travels.

  There were two meager rooms off to the side that had been cleared out and furnished with a bed and a washstand each. Flynn had already claimed the one with the bigger bed, and now, given Beaumont’s youth, he felt perfectly justified.

  He glanced back to find that the boy had followed him as soundlessly as ever. “You can put your things in there,” Flynn said, gesturing at the remaining empty room. He saw Beaumont hesitate briefly before complying and reemerging. “Coal for the hearth can be taken from the church. There is a pail just outside. Meals can be taken anywhere you please. If my door is closed, I do not wish to be disturbed. Refrain from doing so.” Flynn wondered if that had come out somewhat rude, but he refused to be reduced to a nanny. “And if you have a pretty mot who catches your eye, please be so kind as to use her bed. Or a barn. Or anywhere else where I don’t need to endure the racket of a banging headboard. I will return the favor. Understood?”

  “Of course.” The boy had flushed a shade of crimson so intense it suggested that banging headboards would not ever disturb his sleep. Just as well.

  “Any other questions?”

  “Not at the moment, no,” Beaumont replied, his color slowly returning to normal as he looked past Flynn at the wood panels that had been secured against the far wall. Twin scaffolds had been assembled in preparation for the work, and long tables awaited supplies. The murals would be painted here, away from prying eyes, and then moved into position once they were complete.

  Flynn considered the towering blank surfaces before him. “Have you painted on wood before, Mr. Beaumont?”

  “I have,” came the polite reply. “Many times. Canvas was not always…available when I was learning.”

  Flynn eyed the boy as he moved forward past the scaffolding, running his hand over the smooth, sealed surface. Properly prepared canvas had rarely been available when Flynn was learning either. Paint had generally been begged, borrowed, or stolen. At least until his craft had managed to pay for itself.

  “Sealed oak,” Beaumont said without looking back.

  Flynn wasn’t sure if that was a question or not. “Yes,” he answered anyway.

  “Sufficiently aged?”

  “Yes. There is little chance of them warping.” At least the boy was asking the right questions. Perhaps he wasn’t completely clueless.

  Beaumont’s hand dropped, and he gazed upward, toward the rounded edges of the upper portion. “Soldier or savior?” he asked suddenly.

  “I beg your pardon?” Flynn moved a step closer.

  “St. Michael. Soldier or savior?”

  “I suppose it depends on the individual,” Flynn replied slowly. He saw Beaumont smile briefly as though he had found something amusing in his answer. “Why do you ask?” he demanded.

  “These panels will tell a story. I’m curious which one it is you intend to tell.”

  Flynn’s fingers tightened around the edges of his book. He had no idea. Which, he realized, was exactly the problem. Leave it to a bloody boy to put into words so succinctly what Flynn had been unable to. “I am assuming the clergy and the parishioners would like to see the savior.”

  “Hmm.”

  “You disagree.”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “But nor did you agree.”

  Beaumont turned from the panels and jammed his hands into the pockets of his baggy coat. “I think St. Michael is both. And should be painted as such.”

  Flynn’s lips thinned. “That sounds…cluttered.”

  “Cluttered?” Now it was Beaumont who looked unimpressed.

  “Yes, cluttered. Chaotic, slovenly, disorderly. Too much going on in a single space. These panels are meant to inspire. Not give the viewer a headache.”

  “Funny. I suspect someone said that to Michelangelo when he painted the Sistine Chapel,” Beaumont retorted. “Yet I might argue that it is that aspect which makes it inspiring. Every time you gaze upward, there is something new to be discovered.”

  Flynn felt the breath punched from his lungs and his jaw slacken. “You’ve been inside the Sistine Chapel.”

  He saw Beaumont still, something shifting warily behind those caramel eyes. “Yes.”

  “You studied in Italy?” Jealousy was turning like a double-bladed knife in his gut, and he hated himself for the reaction. He had never had a chance to escape the borders of England. See the works of the great Renaissance masters in all their glory—the Sistine Chapel in particular. It had been one of Flynn’s most desperate wishes since the day he had been told about it.

  “Not exactly.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means I was there.” Beaumont was being deliberately evasive.

  “Why?” Flynn closed the gap between them.

  “I was traveling with an aristocratic family,” the boy said after a long pause. “Italy was one of their annual destinations, and they had accompanied their son on a leg of his grand tour. I recorded their adventures. Places they went, things they did.”

  Flynn had never heard of the like. “What do you mean, recorded their adventures?”

  “A series of sketches, featuring each of them. Watercolors. Some more substantial paintings when we returned to England.” His eyes slid away.

  “Bloody hell.” Flynn knew the ridiculous excesses of the nobility, but this was beyond the pale. To pay to have an artist trail one around the Continent, sketching portraits and pictures all the while, was the height of narcissistic idiocy.

  And Flynn would have jumped at the chance to do it. A thousand times over, if it had meant he could see what Beaumont had.

  “I would paint them as opposites.”

  It took Flynn a moment to realize that Beaumont was talking about the panels again, deliberately changing the subject. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Opposites. Hope and despair. Love and hate.” The boy was watching him from beneath his tousled hair. “What do you think?”

  Flynn once again found himself scowling. “I don’t know. But what I do know is that this work must be compelling. Inspiring. Resplendent.”

  Charlie Beaumont sighed. “And what I’m telling you, Mr. Rutledge, is that to evoke emotion, an artist must paint emotion. Real sentiments and passions that others can relate to.” He paused. “Like your Madonna. Your use of color and perspective is lovely, the way you’ve mastered the light is impressive, but it is not those things that make that painting so riveting. Your Madonna positively radiates the unconditional love a mother might have for her child. She glows with the peace she has found in stopping time long enough to simply hold her son in her arms, safe and protected in that moment.”

  With horror, Flynn felt his throat suddenly thicken. Because when he’d created that portrait, it had been his mother’s face he had painted. A woman who had raised Flynn on her own, who had done wha
t she had to so that they both might survive. A woman who had loved Flynn unconditionally until the day she had died, even though he hadn’t been able to give her her greatest wish.

  “Are you really lecturing me on how to paint, Beaumont?” Flynn barked roughly because he couldn’t say any of that to this boy. Wouldn’t say any of that to Beaumont or anyone else for that matter. Ever. He could feel the weight of the boy’s gaze on him, and he resisted the urge to fidget. Dammit, what was wrong with him?

  “I’m not lecturing you on anything, Mr. Rutledge,” Beaumont finally said. “I’m…envying you, I think.”

  Rutledge made a rude noise. “For what?” he demanded. “You envy me that commission? I did it five years ago, and—”

  “I’m envying you that love. Whoever it was in your life who possessed a generous heart like that and allowed you to see what unconditional love truly looks like.”

  Flynn found himself staring at Beaumont, utterly unnerved and unable to find words. What the hell was happening? In a handful of sentences, Charlie Beaumont had obliterated the fortifications he had constructed between Flynn Rutledge the professional artist and Flynn Rutledge the man. Seen right through him with a terrifying accuracy. Seen parts of his past that no one else had.

  Beaumont abruptly turned. “I’m sorry if I’ve made you uncomfortable, Mr. Rutledge,” he said. “That was not my intention.”

  “I’m not uncomfortable,” Flynn snapped, lying through his teeth.

  “Oh. Then I’m glad.” Beaumont disappeared into his room and reemerged with his sketchbook.

  “Where are you going now, Mr. Beaumont?” Flynn asked with an edge to his voice.

  “To compose some ideas,” Beaumont replied politely.

  “And to capture buckets of emotion on those pages, I’m sure.” He was behaving like an ass but he couldn’t seem to find his equilibrium.

  Beaumont paused, silhouetted in the door frame against the winter-dulled grounds. “I certainly hope so, Mr. Rutledge,” he said, before closing the door behind him.

  Chapter 4

  When she first saw Flynn Rutledge with the light streaming through the windows turning his rich skin gold and his grey eyes silver, she had wondered if perhaps she had stumbled across the archangel she’d been charged to paint.

  He’d stood, unfolding his long limbs, and Charlotte had had to look up at him, half-expecting a pair of wings to unfold as well. He had a face of the sort that ancient artists had fawned over—a straight nose balanced by a strong jaw, a wide forehead over thick brows and deep-set eyes. He seemed impervious to the chilled air, his rough shirt sleeves shoved up to his elbows, revealing sandy-blond hair on lean, muscular forearms. The same shade of sandy hair fell over his forehead and ears in thick, careless waves. He was, quite possibly, the most handsome man Charlotte had ever seen in her life.

  And possibly, the most angry.

  She had known that her youthful appearance was bound to raise brows, and she had been prepared for the inevitable questions and doubt. What she hadn’t expected was the resentment and bitterness that seemed to roll off Rutledge in dark waves. If Charlotte had painted him as a color, he would be a ragged black slash across the canvas, crimson seeping from beneath the unhappy darkness. For a man who looked like an archangel on the outside, it seemed that he harbored more than a few demons within.

  Not that it was any of her business. This was a professional partnership, and she would work within its confines. His prickly, defensive response to her more personal comments had been noted. She would keep her distance and do absolutely nothing that might put this precious opportunity in peril. She didn’t need to be his friend; she didn’t need to be his confessor; she didn’t need to be anything other than pleasant, regardless of how he chose to act.

  In truth, it was probably best that Flynn Rutledge was so disagreeable. Not only because it made him less attractive, but because a disagreeable man could be handled. Managed. No differently than every other man in Charlotte’s life who had spent the duration of it telling her what she couldn’t do. What wasn’t possible or acceptable or practical. That was nothing she wasn’t used to.

  Though the uncomfortably close quarters she found herself in with Rutledge would take a bit more acclimation. When she had arrived, Mr. Lisbon had apologized, but the living arrangements had been set long before he’d known that Miss Hayward was sending Charlotte to be placed with him. He offered to find an alternate solution but warned her that, in his experience, such actions raised slews of suspicious questions neither one of them would care to answer. Charlotte had agreed.

  But the reality was far more intimidating. It had taken her a long time to fall asleep last night, something that she attributed to her new surroundings as much as she attributed it to the fact that she was cohabiting with an unfamiliar man.

  She continually reminded herself that Charlie Beaumont would think nothing of it. It wasn’t as though she were sharing a bunk with Rutledge. She was sharing a space with separate rooms and doors, and this would be perfectly acceptable—luxurious even—references to banging headboards and all.

  Before she’d emerged from her own room, she’d waited until she’d heard Rutledge leave. She’d made herself a cup of tea, wolfed down the remnants of last night’s bread, and then set to work. Rutledge hadn’t returned yet, and Charlotte found herself caught between a strange mix of impatience and unease. Perhaps he had—

  A draft of cold air announced his return. “You’ve been busy.”

  Charlotte’s hand froze over the last of her sketches before it continued, adjusting the paper to lie straight. “Good morning to you too, Mr. Rutledge.” She heard him shove the door shut and move farther into the room, pacing slowly around the circle of drawings she’d laid out, each capturing a part of the vision that had been gathering force deep in her imagination.

  “Soldier and savior,” he muttered as he made another lap.

  “Have I managed to convince you?” She kept her eyes on her sketches.

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “You didn’t disagree either,” Charlotte replied, hearing echoes of their conversation yesterday.

  Rutledge suddenly stopped, dropping to crouch in front of her.

  Charlotte glanced up at him and swallowed reflexively. He was wearing an overcoat today, the well-tailored fabric a snow-cloud grey, and she could feel the cold still clinging to it. His head was bent slightly, and Charlotte could see that his hair was damp from a recent wash, the ends plastered against his neck. The scent of his soap reached her, something that should be ordinary, but somehow, this unguarded closeness made it overwhelmingly intimate.

  “Is St. Michael tending a cooking fire here?” Rutledge asked abruptly, stabbing a finger at her drawing. And just like that, the intimacy vanished.

  “I beg your pardon?” Charlotte replied, taking care to keep her voice even.

  “Your soldier, your defender of heaven, your all-powerful leader of God’s army looks like he has no idea what to do with the sword in his grasp. He’s holding it like a poker—the way one does to stir hot coals. I’ve seen children on the street wield blades to defend a crust of moldy bread with more authority.”

  Charlotte bit back the instant and defensive retort that rose. Instead, she leaned forward, peering at the drawing. She had sketched St. Michael, rising above the writhing form of a flame-engulfed serpent, his sword drawn in triumph. Or at least what she had thought was triumph. Her lack of expertise on the handling of weapons was somewhat evident, she admitted.

  Rutledge stood, not waiting for her to respond. He moved to her other side and dropped into a crouch again, reaching for another drawing. This he held up, his eyes flinty in the light. It was her sketch of St. Michael descending toward a void of blackness, extending a hand to a soul reaching up. She’d spent a great deal of time on that one, feeling a deep kinship with both the angel and the soul being rescued. Proof that one could be reinvented. Saved from a prison of purgatory.

  “He’s not ten
ding a fire in that one either,” Charlotte said before she could think better of it. “Though I suppose one might argue that, if one were speaking in metaphors.”

  Grey eyes met hers over the top of the sketch. “This one is actually quite arresting.”

  “Oh.” Charlotte could feel herself blush all the way down to her toes at the unexpected praise, and she averted her eyes, shying away from his assessing gaze. “Thank you.”

  “Don’t thank me, Beaumont. Because while this one has merit, your other drawing is hopeless.” Rutledge rose and set the purgatory sketch aside on a low table.

  Charlotte scrambled to her feet. “You have something better then, Mr. Rutledge?” she asked, trying not to sound like a sulky child, but like a professional. Because in truth, she knew that her sketch of the avenging St. Michael had been less than inspiring.

  “Of course I do.” He retrieved a leather satchel from just inside the door and opened it, withdrawing what looked like his own bundle of sketches. He rifled through them until he found what he wanted. He set everything else aside on the end of the table except for a single drawing and then hesitated, a curious expression on his face.

  “Are you going to show it to me?” Charlotte asked as pleasantly as possible.

  “Yes.” He made no move to hand the sketch over.

  “Today? Or should I return next week?”

  Rutledge seemed to start. He set the drawing beside Charlotte’s purgatory sketch and stepped back. Charlotte eyed him, but he had turned his attention to the wood panels that still waited, silent and empty.

  Charlotte approached the table, her eyes falling on the drawing. “Oh,” she whispered. It had been executed in charcoal, the lines sure and deft as the image of an archangel rose up against a constellation of stars. This, however, was not the angel she had created, staring up at the heavens, clutching his sword. This seraph glared out from the page, his expression wild and fierce, convincing her he was prepared to fight to the death. He wielded a curved sword before him, raised in either defense or aggression—it was impossible to tell. A ragged cloth was draped over a shoulder and belted at the hips, displaying broad expanses of muscle, straining and flexing. It had elements that she had seen in works by Raphael and Reni, but the romanticism that softened the edges of those paintings was absent here. This was visceral and real and…violently emotional. And made her wonder just what Rutledge had drawn upon from within to create it.