Masked Desires (Unmasking Prometheus, #3)

by Bold, Diana

  Peace filled him, washing away the sorrow and confusion that ruled his days. Despite everything that had gone wrong between him and Anne, they’d at least done this right. Their children were healthy, happy, and beautiful. They were his reason for living.

  Meggie, the Irish nanny, hurried over to greet him. He sighed, wishing she hadn’t seen him standing there. He’d wanted a few more moments to watch them unobserved.

  “Good evening,” Meggie said, her blue eyes sparkling. “Have you come to read to the children?”

  She undoubtedly needed a break from his little angels, whom he knew were not always as angelic as they currently appeared.

  He smiled and pushed away from the door. “Take the rest of the day off, Meggie. I’ll see that the children get to bed.”

  “Thank you, sir!” she cried, looking as though she wanted to hug him.

  Chuckling, he shooed her away and then turned to his children, who were gathering around him expectantly, even Felicity, who held her tiny little arms up to him, looking so much like Anne that it broke his heart. Picking up the little blonde toddler, he smiled down at the older two. “Are you ready?”

  “Yes!” they both cried, dancing around with silly grins on their faces.

  Feeling a bit like the Pied Piper, he led them all out of the nursery and toward the stairs to the attic. They traipsed up, ending in the vast echoing space that he’d turned into his studio. Placing Felicity in the little pen filled with toys and blankets he’d made to contain her in the center, he then helped the other two prepare their own small easels and don painting smocks.

  The children loved to paint. Samuel, who was six, had a bit of artistic ability himself, while Hannah, who’d just turned four, simply loved getting her hands and clothes messy. She made grand sweeping swirls of color, which he absolutely adored.

  Once they were happily ensconced in their own work, he turned to his own easel, where he had been working on a portrait of Anne for weeks now. Somehow, he felt that if he could just get it right perhaps he could purge some of the guilt, grief, and regret he still felt at the very thought of her.

  It had been over a year now since he’d lost her, and he’d heard the whispers about how he needed to move on, how he was wallowing in his grief, making a spectacle of himself. People seemed to think that he should have shed all thoughts of his dead wife along with his mourning period.

  In all honesty, he wasn’t even certain he really missed her that much. They’d lived largely separate lives. She’d been all sweetness and light, and she’d never been able to understand the darkness inside of him. Their marriage had been typical of the society in which they lived, but he’d always wanted more. He’d foolishly thought her beauty was enough, that they’d somehow be able to build a life on the initial attraction he’d felt for her.

  But there had been no spark between them in the bedroom whatsoever. In fact, she’d made him feel that his need for her was wrong and unnatural. He’d soon grown tired of their perfunctory lovemaking sessions that had no purpose other than to provide children. Still, he’d promised to be faithful, and he’d done so, channeling all his desire and passion into his art.

  He glanced over toward the southeast corner of the room, where dozens of canvases were stacked haphazardly, all turned toward the wall. He’d painted as though possessed—vivid, disturbing images filled with death, fire, and blood. He’d escape to the attic after everyone had gone to bed, and Anne had begun to suspect he’d taken a mistress. He should have told her what he was really doing, but he’d been embarrassed. He’d known she’d never be able to grasp what drove him; it would only have worried her. She’d died thinking that he’d been unfaithful, and that haunted him.

  But he’d never gotten over the way that Winters had mocked him for his art. The bastard had destroyed some of his best work, called him names, and told him he had no talent. He’d never trusted anyone else enough to share his art with them. Even his brothers had only seen a small fraction of it.

  With a sigh, he turned away from the painting of Anne and positioned himself in front of a blank canvas instead. He experimented for several moments on his palette with reds and browns, until he realized he’d matched the color of Fiona Bohannan’s hair. With a frown, he stirred the brilliant auburn pigment around for a moment, then shrugged and turned toward the canvas...

  “Daddy!”

  Morgan startled and stared down at Hannah, who was looking up at him, her big blue eyes filled with consternation. “What’s wrong, sweetie?”

  “The baby is crying, and me and Samuel are hungry!” she whined. She stared past him at the painting he’d been working on. “Who are you painting? It’s not Mama!”

  He glanced back at the canvas, stunned to see how much of Fiona’s face he’d completed. How long had he been lost in his work? He glanced down at his pocket watch and saw that it had been at least two hours. No wonder they were hungry. They’d all missed dinner, and the baby certainly needed to be changed.

  Chagrined, he hurried to pick Felicity up, wondering how he’d let himself become so engrossed in his work. He’d never gotten lost like that when he was painting Anne.

  Chapter Four

  Roger Croft, the Earl of Winters, stepped off the ship onto the dock in London, a smile stretching his lips as he glanced around at the hustle and bustle. It was good to be back on English soil. He’d been gone for over a year, and he’d hated every moment of it.

  It had taken months for his small army of lawyers to work through the terrible legal tangle that had been created when he’d ordered two of his stepbrothers’ wives kidnapped. The stupid oafs he’d hired had pushed Morgan’s wife, Anne, down the stairs into the cellar where they’d been held. The bitch had been pregnant, and she hadn’t survived the fall. A ton of money in the right pockets had rightly proven that Roger had not been to blame. His lawyers had argued that he’d had no knowledge of the kidnapping and therefore, couldn’t be held responsible for what the men who worked for him had done. They’d had their own agenda, probably planned to ransom the women for money.

  So now, after all this time away, he’d finally been able to return home.

  A small retinue of huge, hard-looking men approached him, and the largest one stuck out a beefy hand. “Good to meet you, sir. I’m Mr. Phelps. I’ll be providing the security you require.”

  “Very good.” Roger nodded, well-pleased with the look of them. He knew that the moment his stepbrothers discovered he was back in England, they’d want nothing more than to finish the job they’d started. They would not rest until he was dead.

  Lucien, Adrian, and Morgan had ruined his life. They’d killed his father, forcing him to take on the role of earl far earlier than he was ready to do so, then Adrian had made it his mission in life to destroy Roger’s businesses by donning that stupid cape and mask and stealing his property and burning down his buildings. They’d deserved Anne’s death. He only wished that Vanessa had died as well.

  He’d heard that while he’d been gone, Lucien had married Serenity Pratt, the woman who’d borne his bastard child many years ago. His wonderful stepmama had been distraught over the thought of her oldest son, the heir, marrying so far beneath him. At her request, Roger had taken the baby and fostered him in one of his brothels, told Serenity the baby had died, and had made her believe that Lucien wanted nothing to do with her. She’d been working in his own house as a housekeeper when he’d left.

  He wasn’t certain how the two of them had come together again after all this time, and he seethed with anger that they’d somehow gotten their child back as well. He’d been convinced for quite some time that it had been that scarred monster Adrian who’d killed his father, but he’d recently changed his mind. It had to have been Lucien. Neither of the twins, at age fourteen, had been strong enough.

  As Mr. Phelps directed some of the other men to ensure his baggage was unloaded and secured in the coach, Roger followed two of the other men to the vehicle to wait for them. As he settled comfortably in
the seat, glad to be on solid land again, he sized up the men who were now at his disposal.

  He had big plans for his stepbrothers, and he did not doubt that these hired men would be instrumental in helping him carry them out.

  FIONA HAD JUST FINISHED helping Cook serve the children lunch when Bridget approached her in the dining room, looking nervous once again. “The gentleman, ma’am. Mr. Strathmore. He’s here again. In the parlor.”

  With an inward curse, Fiona looked across the huge dining room, where Molly stood with a few girls close to her own age. “Can you take Molly upstairs to her room and keep her occupied until he leaves?” she asked Bridget urgently. “It’s very important that he doesn’t talk to her.”

  To her credit, Bridget did not ask any questions. She’d been Adrian’s last rescue, and she’d been through hell before she’d arrived here, and her loyalty was absolute. Her eyes widened, and then she nodded abruptly. “Of course, ma’am. You can count on me.”

  Fiona gave her a quick smile. “I never doubted it.”

  As soon as Bridget hurried Molly out of the room, Fiona strode toward the parlor. Wiping her sweaty hands on her skirts, she once again had the fleeting thought that she was probably a mess. She could feel sticky tendrils of her wild hair sticking to her forehead, the heat of the ovens having caused her to perspire in a very unladylike way.

  With a sigh, she shook her head, wondering why she cared what Morgan Strathmore thought of her. They were worlds apart. He likely didn’t think of her at all, and if he did, he’d certainly never mistake her for a lady.

  But when she entered the room and he turned his ice-blue gaze on her, that frisson of desire and awareness she’d felt the other night rose within her again. He was a wildly attractive man, and she supposed her feelings for him were quite normal. That didn’t mean she had to act on them.

  Blinking, she realized that he’d done as he’d said and brought his children along. In his arms, he held a child of a year or so who could only be Felicity, and she regarded Fiona with wide blue eyes, a cloud of blonde curls around her chubby baby face. Fiona hadn’t seen Felicity since she was an infant, but she’d fallen completely in love with her during those weeks after her mother’s death when Mr. Strathmore had been so consumed with grief he hadn’t been able to bear the sight of the little girl.

  Another little blonde girl of three or four clung to one of his legs, and a dark-haired little boy of five or six stood just to his right, looking around in mingled fear and excitement.

  “You came,” Fiona said, a bit flummoxed. “I wasn’t certain you would.”

  He gave her a reproving look, then gestured toward the older children. “I hope you don’t mind that I’ve brought Hannah and Samuel along. I thought they’d enjoy playing with the other children.”

  “I don’t mind at all.” She gave the older children a wide smile, hoping to put them at ease. “We’ve just had lunch, and the rest of the children will be going outside to play in the garden for a while. Your children are welcome to join them.”

  Hannah and Samuel’s eyes lit up, and Fiona called for one of the older girls, Nan, to take them outside and keep an eye on them. Then she turned back to Mr. Strathmore. “May I hold Miss Felicity for a moment?”

  His arms tightened momentarily around the child, but then he relaxed and held Felicity out to her. Somewhat to her surprise, the little girl came willingly enough, looking up at her seriously, then reaching out a chubby hand to grab a handful of Fiona’s hair.

  “I think she likes your hair,” Morgan said, his voice a little rough. “You have lovely hair.”

  “Thank you.” Self-conscious, she raised a hand to her crazy auburn curls then dropped it quickly. “She’s a beautiful child. Is she doing well?”

  He nodded, then cleared his throat. “I never properly thanked you for all you did for me back then. I know I was... unbearable, so caught up in my own grief I didn’t think of anyone other than myself... and I’d like to apologize.” He shrugged awkwardly. “For not being a better father, for not coming for her sooner.”

  Fiona’s heart broke a little for him, and guilt surged through her for every unkind thought she’d ever had about the situation. Who was she to judge? She’d never loved anyone the way he obviously had, never endured such a loss. “Oh, Mr. Strathmore, it’s quite all right. I enjoyed having Felicity here, truly. And we all grieve in different ways.”

  “Well, it’s nice of you to say so, but I know how much you already have on your plate. And that’s why I’m here, I suppose. To try and give a little back.” He spread his hands wide as he glanced around. “I’m actually very good at mending things and making repairs. Is there anything you’d like me to take a look at?”

  She bit her lip, noticing for the first time that the clothes he was wearing, though still finely made, were probably his version of work clothes. A pair of buff trousers and a simple dark brown shirt. She couldn’t imagine that someone like him, someone who’d been born with a silver spoon in his mouth, could truly do the sort of rough labor that she needed to be done, but she decided to put him to the test.

  “Come with me,” she said, leading the way through the house toward the kitchen door. “The back stoop is a bit rickety. I worry that this second step will cave in someday. Do you think you could do something about it?”

  He stepped out, putting one foot on the step in question and stomping a few times. Then he nodded. “Do you have some tools and perhaps some more wood?”

  She gestured toward the shed at the back of the property. “If we did, it would be in there.” They’d once had a handyman, but he’d loved his liquor more than his job and had never been that dependable so she’d had to sack him. She’d hired another housemaid instead, but now she wasn’t sure that had been a good idea. The house was not that old, but the dozens of young occupants had wreaked considerable wear and tear on the building that seemed to need constant repairs.

  Mr. Strathmore reached for Felicity. “She can stay here with me.”

  “She’ll just be in your way,” Fiona said with a shake of her head. “We have a lovely nursery upstairs. I’ll take her up there with the other young ones, if you don’t mind.”

  “That would be fine,” he agreed, and she found herself unaccountably pleased that he’d once again trusted her with his daughter.

  With one last longing look at his strong back as he walked toward the shed, she turned and went back into the house, cooing softly to little Felicity. There was no point in getting used to the idea of having him around. She was sure that after he’d spent an afternoon here, proving whatever it was he seemed to feel he needed to prove, he would leave, and she’d never see or hear from him again.

  MORGAN COULDN’T REMEMBER the last time he’d had such an enjoyable afternoon. Not since Anne had died and probably not for a long time before that, if he was being honest. He easily fixed the back steps, then sought out his children to make sure they were doing all right. Hannah and Samuel were having the time of their lives playing with the other children in the large garden, squealing and laughing in delight, and Felicity was napping peacefully in the nursery.

  Fiona had found him in the hallway and seemed surprised that he’d actually managed to fix the stairs. He’d seen the look in her eyes when he’d suggested it and knew she probably thought him quite useless. In her eyes, he was no doubt little more than a worthless playboy whose family name and wealth kept him from ever having had to learn how to take care of himself, let alone others. But he’d always enjoyed working with his hands, building things. It was simply a different form of art.

  His repair success seemed to ease some of her suspicion, and she obligingly gave him a whole list of things that needed repair. He’d completed half of them and had been working upstairs, securing the banister by some of the children’s rooms when he’d been struck with a marvelous idea. He’d done a little investigating, snooping around the children’s rooms a bit, his excitement growing as the idea took shape and form.

 
His steps surprisingly jaunty, he returned to Fiona’s office, once again finding her poring diligently over her ledgers.

  “The children’s rooms are quite comfortable,” he said, causing her to jump a little and glare at him.

  “I do my best to make them so,” she said a bit irritably.

  “Do you think perhaps that they could use some... color?” he suggested cautiously.

  “What do you mean?” she asked, crossing her arms and leaning back in her chair.

  “I’d like to paint some murals,” he told her, getting more excited by the minute. “Perhaps scenes from some of their favorite books. Or I could do animals for the boys and flowers for the girls...” He trailed off in embarrassment at the look of astonishment on her face. “I’m sorry. I just thought it might bring them some happiness.”

  Silence fell between them for a long moment, and he had no idea what she was thinking until those astonishing green eyes of hers suddenly welled with tears. She pushed out of her chair and crossed the distance between them, flinging her arms around him and hugging him tightly.

  He stiffened for a moment, realizing how long it had been since anyone except his children had touched him. But she was so soft and warm, the faint scent of lavender emanating from her hair, that he found himself embracing her back, lowering his face to press it against her soft auburn curls and breathing in deeply.

  “Thank you,” she said with a soft, breathy laugh, pulling away and staring up at him with mingled embarrassment and happiness. “I don’t know why I’m crying. It’s just been so long since I felt like anyone except me cared about these children in a real way. My staff is competent, but this is just a job for them. Not something they love. Doing something like that, making things beautiful for them, it would mean so much.”

  He let her go reluctantly and forced a smile, feeling as though she was giving him more credit than he deserved. “I’d be happy to do it.”