Chapter 19
Sprawled on her stomach, Daria made no attempt to hide her interest as she watched the entrance to the shared chambers she and Gregory occupied.
She wanted him here with her. Wanted to be in his arms—talking with him, laughing with him, making love with him—and why bother pretending otherwise?
Oh, she understood very well that flirtatious women played coy games.
But Daria had neither the patience, the inclination, nor the know-how to feign emotion.
It was a bothersome chore. Tedious, too—much like the way women were forced to don white lace gowns and stand—or, in her case, sit—like animals in a menagerie for the inspection of would-be patrons.
Gregory had made her feel things she had never known before. In that shop, in his carriage, in the corridor—wherever she found herself in his arms, she was undone.
She had learned that many women felt shame in lovemaking.
Such knowledge came from having a mother who encouraged free thought in her daughters.
And she had attended the Mismatch Society—where women spoke freely of what transpired behind chamber doors, and sometimes beyond them—only because she and her sisters had sought to coordinate a match between Clayton and his now-wife.
But no lesson given, no conversation shared, no literature read could capture what it truly felt like to be held by Gregory.
I’m flying.
That was how she had felt after Gregory pleasured her with his mouth. And it was how she still felt now—arms spread wide like a bird’s—nearly an hour later.
“I’m flying,” she murmured again, a smile curving her lips as she stretched her arms over the thick coverlet and lifted them, slow and playful, as though testing wings.
He was coming.
Daria knew he was.
He had said as much.
He had said as much.
Unlike the night before, he had shown Daria how much he desired her—not only with his body, but this time with his words. And she believed him.
She also knew that club business came first.
She was not resentful. Certainly not angry.
A wistful smile hovered on her lips. How tragic for her clever husband. The world had decided he was a shallow rake. Why, tragically, even his dearest friends—and one friend’s wife—believed it.
But shallow rakes did not build businesses. They did not pour hours, labor, and quiet devotion into such ventures. Nor were they wounded—deeply so—when a wife assumed them faithless.
Daria traced her finger over the silver-threaded pattern on the square before her.
He had the world fooled.
He had fooled her, too.
Her gaze caught on a single loosened thread in the fabric. Distractedly, she tried to pinch it between her nails.
Why maintain a facade? Unless he did not realize he wore one at all.
She caught the hair-thin strand, tugged—and lost it.
Daria sighed.
That, she thought, was among her greatest disappointments. Not in Gregory. In herself.
For she, too, was more than the world believed her to be.
A strange, awkward lady, fond of black and disinclined toward people.
And still—so much more.
She did not have a disinterest in people. She had a particular interest in sharing her life with the right people.
In the greatest of twists, she had married Gregory believing he would never—and could never—fall into that latter category.
And what did it mean for her heart to learn he was not the coldhearted rake she had taken him for? The man everyone took him to be.
Abandoning the silver strand, Daria rolled onto her back and stared at the mural above Gregory’s grand bed.
She went utterly still.
Motionless, she ran her eyes over the imagery.
Her heart stopped and then sped into a wild rhythm.
She’d spent so much time here wallowing.
Buried inside her own head, she’d missed even more.
Correcting another grave mistake, she scrambled onto her knees.
Falling onto her haunches, Daria took in every detail of the vibrant masterpiece overhead.
The lone woman amidst four kneeling men were portrayed not in forbidden acts like the paintings she’d averted her eyes when passing through the halls earlier.
The frieze-like Arcadian pastoral portrayed shepherds gathered around a tomb, a rendering of time’s passage.
A transient point where joy existed in death’s wake.
The small Latin letters marked upon the grave were too hard to see, but they were ones she’d already committed to memory when she’d first laid eyes upon it.
Needing to get closer, Daria got herself carefully to her feet. Slowly so as to not lose her balance on the feathery soft surface, she tilted her neck as far as it would bend to better take in the artwork centered above her husband’s rooms.
“Et in Arcadia ego,” she whispered.
Even in Arcadia, there am I.
Daria stared so long and unblinkingly at the image that her vision blurred and moisture squeaked from the corners. Restive, she scrubbed and blinked, trying to clear her eyes so that she might look longer. Until she simply stood there and let those tears flow as they need to so she might again see.
Daria stood there, eyes closed, until her legs tingled and the sensation numbed.
She tried again, squinting and then opening her eyes wide.
“Arcadia,” she whispered.
Just over a year into mourning her father at their family’s Derbyshire estate, she’d fought and rejected her mother’s attempts to venture into the world again.
Phineas to her, Lord Landon to everyone else, Clayton’s best friend, and Daria’s now brother-in-law, convinced her to join him on an outing.
Surrounded by only her family, each immersed in their own sorrow, she’d secretly rejoiced at being with someone who was not a Kearsley—at least not in blood.
He’d escorted Daria to Chatsworth House.
Although a shy child, she’d relished exploring everything and going anywhere and everywhere her Papa, Mama, and brother would take her.
That joy and comfort ceased to exist upon the viscount’s death.
She’d begged Landon to return her home. Pulled his sleeve hard over and over, she’d ripped the seams. Only after he’d held her close and met her harsh breathing with silence did she calm and allow him to escort her inside.
He’d squired Daria around visitors taking in the Duke of Devonshire’s collections.
Ancient coins. Carved Greek and Roman sculptures.
Past libraries. He’d quickened them along certain rooms. She’d caught enough of a glimpse on the passing way to note scandalous paintings and portraits of men and women in even more scandalous acts.
And then he’d stopped, bringing them to the quietest corner of Chatsworth.
A painting hung in that solitary space.
She’d looked questioningly to Lord Landon a moment before venturing closer.
She gazed forever at the painting. This painting.
“They reflect not on death, Daria.” The earl had rested a hand upon her shoulder and spoke quietly. “They reflect on their own mortality.”
“Their own mortality,” she whispered now as she’d whispered then.
And this, the solemn clarity of Nicolas Poussin’s greatest work should be the focal piece of Gregory’s inner sanctum?
Nothing about the Duke of Argyll was as it seemed.
And there was so much more to him than the color blue.
This room, these artifacts, were not the garish, wicked belongings of a frivolous rake.
They were…
“Are you climbing out of your skin in—”
Daria screamed, lost her footing, and went flying—like the bird she certainly wasn’t—only to land safe in the powerful hold of her husband’s arms.
With her head tipped back, she stared up at Gregory’s glorious visage, upside down. His dashing rogue’s grin revealed two rows of white teeth.
Her heart forgot its beat—and then, as though the organ sought to correct course, resumed at triple time.
“Your mural,” Daria whispered. The words cost her the touch of his lips. “I was studying your mural.”
“Never dare tell me that, little raven,” he purred. “After this morning,” He hooded his gaze. “And this afternoon, I have left you with nothing to occupy your thoughts but my furnishings.” Going onto his knees, his head bent toward hers.
“I must try harder, little raven.”
Or maybe it was that he sought to head off any topic that allowed a person too close.
Gregory lowered his lips once more.
It nearly cost her part of her soul, but Daria found the will to slither away.
Her husband’s lashes lowered.
“Very well, little raven.” With a lazy half-grin, he perched onto the edge of the bed.
He tapped the spot next to him. “Let us hear your questions and see if I can…” He moved a lust-filled gaze over Daria, his stare hotter than any touch.
“Satisfy you…” Her breath quickened as did her womb. “And your curiosity.”
This is how he kept people out. What an effective method for a man who sought barriers between himself and true human connection—a scandalous glance. A forbidden promise.
“How did you come by it?”
“I’ll have to ask my man of affairs.” He quirked an eyebrow. “Shall I fetch him?” Gregory headed for the pull.
“No! That will not be necess—”
The fire’s glow illuminated the droll twinkle in his eyes.
Feeling like a dolt, Daria dragged sharp nails along the sides of her thumb. “I’ve never been adept at picking up jokes,” she confessed—needlessly. Daria grimaced. “As you’ve already ascertained.”
Shadows played with the sharp plains of Gregory’s Grecian features, the fire’s glow softening the look he directed at her.
“What do you want to ask me, Daria?”
His gentleness threatened to unravel her.
This pivot between tender husband and hardened rake left her confounded.
Needing to move, to release the wild energy within, she moved nearer to the object of her fascination. Lifting a finger, she pointed at the Arcadian pastoral.
“How did you come by it?”
Feeling his eyes upon her, she let her arm fall quick.
His expression grew veiled.
She held her breath, needing his answer, doubtful he’d give it.
“I told you my—”
“Your man of affairs procured it, but who selected this piece?”
Understanding lit his eyes. “Ah.”
Daria wrinkled her brow. “Ah?”
With a sleek, lion-like grace, Gregory stalked over.
“You are wondering if some woman left her touches here.” Her husband slipped his hands into hers and drew them to his mouth.
“Worry not, love.” As he spoke, he touched each knuckle in a reverent kiss.
“No other woman has been granted entry to these chambers.” His eyes darkened. “Until you.”
His admission didn’t stir her heart the way it ought.
It merely drove home all the women who existed for Gregory outside this room.
Like a scab freshly peeled, the earlier wound upon her heart broke open.
“That isn’t what I meant,” she said, proud of her steady voice.
Gregory scrubbed the back of his neck, that telltale mark of his annoyance. “Some years back, I was visiting Chatsworth House.”
Her heart jumped high in her breast.
“I’m not much of a chap who favors the arts, little raven.” His eyes drifted over Daria with deliberate intent. “That is aside from a certain type of work.”
Daria wondered if he believed his easily tendered lie?
“You mean the naughty ones with naked men and women?”
Gregory’s mouth moved several times. “Uh…”
Had he been trying to scandalize her?
“That is what struck me, Gregory.” Daria lifted her gaze to the painting overhead. “If that is the manner of art you pref—”
“It is,” he blustered.
“Then I believe you’d have one of those wicked pieces commissioned and not a Nicolas Poussin.”