Chapter Nineteen
Watching the sisters argue, Lucian wondered, yet again, why he couldn’t have been born into a family that encouraged people like him and Lady Drusilla instead of always making them feel flighty and insignificant.
What would it be like, he wondered, to have a parent who supported who you were rather than who they wished you were?
“If I wasn’t so responsible, Sister, our parents might have decided we would wear only puce for the rest of our lives. Or that I might have made an excellent weaver and shipped me off to some Scottish sheep farm because Father wanted his own woolly sweater, and only one with yarn woven by a close relative would do.”
“Oh my,”
Lady Drusilla said in an admiring tone. “You have gotten quite creative. I will go suggest your weaving idea to Father.”
She leaned in to whisper in Lucian’s ear. “Show my sister some fun, will you? I know you want to.”
He froze, and she nudged him, then walked quickly away, leaving the two of them alone.
Had she spoken to her sister about . . . about any of what they were doing?
“What did she say to you?”
Lady Diantha asked.
“She said she wanted me to show you some fun.”
And now the unthinkable had happened: he could feel himself blushing as he spoke.
“If she only knew,”
Lady Diantha said, her own face turning pink.
“Are you . . . Have you?”
he attempted.
“No, I have not. You are entirely too compelling, my lord,”
she said, sounding aggravated. “I will need more alcove trysts, if you please.”
That shouldn’t make him so pleased, but it absolutely did.
Though, why shouldn’t it? The woman he’d just realized he loved wanted to spend more time kissing him. That was surely a good thing, wasn’t it?
Though the inevitable parting already hurt.
“Are you all right? Should I not have said that?”
she asked, awkwardly. “Is that not what you meant?”
“No, no, not at all, it is what I meant,”
he replied. He took her hand and tucked it into his arm. “I am just impressed by your asking for what you want. Isn’t that how we began in the first place? At Shammie’s wedding?”
“And commiserating about my mother’s deplorable taste in clothing.”
Both of them glanced over to where the earl and countess were listening raptly as Mr. Bishop spoke.
He was glad he had already cautioned Lady Diantha about Mr. Bishop’s schemes. While also engaging in scandalous behavior with her. Rather hypocritical of him, but at least he wasn’t trying to swindle anyone.
“I suppose we should go join them,”
she said, sounding reluctant.
“Or we could go to the Chamber of Horrors,”
he said, nodding toward a sign that indicated where the chamber was located.
“Oh, that sounds promising,”
she replied. “Though, do not be surprised if it is only an exhibition of my mother’s vast shawl collection.”
This was so unexpected he let out a startled laugh, and she joined in, both of them trying to suppress their giggles so as not to attract too much attention.
Her sister gave him an approving glance from across the room, and he smiled back at her. If Lady Drusilla had an inkling what her staid sister was getting up to at the British Museum, she would be quite impressed indeed.
They started toward the chamber, passing several English kings and queens, a few military men, and one of Oliver Cromwell in effigy as they went.
“Have you read anything about the chamber?” he asked.
“A bit,”
she replied. “Madame Tussaud brought them from France. I’ve heard that the waxwork of Robespierre is particularly frightful.”
“If you’d rather not go . . .” he began.
“Why? Are you going to tell me I’m too ladylike to see it?”
She was startled to hear herself being so . . . feisty. She usually preferred to remain in the background.
His eyebrows drew together. “Of course not. I would imagine you are intelligent enough to make your own decision on such things. I will admit myself to being somewhat trepidatious.”
She looked up at him as they continued walking.
“Why are you trepidatious? Chamber of Horrors is just a hyperbolic name.”
His expression was confused. “What does hyperbolic mean?”
He didn’t sound irked that she’d used a word he didn’t know, and he was regarding her with genuine curiosity.
She was not accustomed to that, not at all. So much so that she usually edited herself and her language so as to ensure everyone was more comfortable being with her.
But she’d relaxed with him. That was remarkable: she didn’t relax with anyone except for Drusilla, and even then she had to pull back sometimes for fear of engaging her sister’s reckless side.
But they’d shared so many confidences and opinions and had spent time together. All of that combined to make her feel comfortable with him, not trying to make herself comfortable for him.
That was startling to realize.
“Hyperbolic means exaggerated,”
she explained.
“Like I am the handsomest man in the world?”
he said, giving her a sly look.
She laughed. “Yes, if you believe that to be an exaggeration.”
“Not hyperbolic, then,”
he shot back.
No. Not hyperbolic. Because he was the handsomest man in the world to her, even though he was not someone she should even be thinking about in that way, what with being a charismatic charmer who likely dallied with all sorts of other people regularly.
She was the one who would have to solve this problem because, at the moment, all she wanted was him.
And that was not good, not with trying to forge her own future through the resolution of the factory business. Never mind that he had never mentioned the possibility of a longer term to their relationship. Such as it was.
Could he settle down in the first place? Did he even want to?
She couldn’t ask him. That would indicate far too much of her own wavering feelings about—well, about everything.
“What is hyperbolic about the name?” he asked.
“Well,”
she began, as they moved to the stairs leading down to the chamber, “it isn’t filled with horrors. Just the figures from the French Revolution. Hence Robespierre.”
They began to descend the staircase, her ahead of him. Conscious of him behind her, knowing that if she stopped and turned around—
No. She could not think like that. The whole point of system-cleansing was not to think like that.
Clearly, she needed to do some more system-cleansing.
Which was the most roundabout way of persuading herself that it would be the best thing if she could kiss him again.
Honestly. Her reasoning was far too similar to others in her family, who were likely to convince themselves that cold was hot, and vice versa.
At least he’d agreed that they needed to spend more time together doing those things. She wouldn’t have to suffer alone. Though if he was cured before she was—well, she wouldn’t think about that now.
“That makes me wonder,”
he said, as they reached the lower level. “Who would you choose for your own Chamber of Horrors? People who are infamous to you? People who might have personally hurt you?”
His voice was low and rough. As though it was something that made him emotional in some way.
She turned to look at him, a surprised expression on her face. She certainly would not have suspected that the charismatic charmer would have such dark thoughts.
Then again, she’d assumed things about him simply because he was a charismatic charmer. Perhaps there was more to him than just his appearance. And his wit. And the way he kissed. And—
“You haven’t answered,”
he said, after a moment. “Is it that there isn’t anybody you would choose, or that you are thinking about it?”
I’m thinking about you.
But not in an infamous way.
“Uh, I can’t think of anybody.”
He took her arm and looped it through his as they walked into the room. “That means, my lady, that either you are remarkably kind or you have not yet made any enemies.”
“Or I don’t recall famous villains from history,”
she shot back. “Perhaps Henry VIII. He had the temerity to marry all those women and behead the ones he grew tired of.”
He barked out a laugh. “Henry VIII? I would have thought Vlad the Impaler or Ivan the Terrible before poor Henry. Their villainy is in their names, after all.”
They stopped in front of the tableau depicting a deathly pale Marie Antoinette, her children kneeling in front of her. The waxwork was excellent in its details: her hair was intricately curled, and her children’s expressions were realistically frightened.
Diantha couldn’t help but feel a pang of sympathy for the children. They should not be included in any kind of horror situation.
“But Henry’s infamy was personal whim. There was no reason for him to kill his wives except that he was bored.”
“Boredom can make a man do terrible things,”
Lucian said. Reminding her of what she’d just been thinking about him—about constancy and interest and monogamy.
Diantha nodded toward the French queen. “One wonders if she was often bored. She did, it is said, so many outrageous, frivolous things. Perhaps she was just prevented from doing anything worthwhile because of who she was.”
“And she got killed for it.”
She made a noise of disapproval. “It is not that simple. But it makes one think, doesn’t it? Imagine how many people in their respective situations aren’t doing anything with their talent because of their situation.”
She fluttered her hand in the air. “Maybe there is a scullery maid out there somewhere who has a real talent for dressmaking. Or perhaps a duke’s son—”
she gave him a pointed look “—who might wish to do something other than be a duke’s son.” She gave a rueful snort. “Heaven knows I sometimes wish I was not an earl’s daughter. Life can be so constricting.”
“Constricting and boring, apparently,”
he agreed. “Though, you raise an intriguing point. I’ve recently been addressing that very problem of people not suiting their situations in my father’s household. It feels remarkably useful, even if it is not the most exciting of tasks.”
“What do you do to stave off boredom, my lord?”
she asked.
He gave her a lopsided smile. “I am never bored, my lady. My entire life is designed for that very purpose. Which is why,”
he said, his voice taking a harder edge, “my father, the duke, might be one of my infamous nominees.”
She was surprised to hear his normally suave tone shift into something more serious.
“I would say my family as well, but even though they make me want to scream sometimes, I do love them.”
Despite—or perhaps because of—their faults.
Had she ever thought like that before?
Hm.
She was doing far more thinking about herself since meeting him. Was that a good thing or a bad thing?
“What does your father do to deserve his infamy?”
she asked.
They were now in front of Robespierre, who looked suitably wicked.
“It sounds like I am ungrateful,”
Lord Lucian began. “But he doesn’t recognize what I am good at.”
“What are you good at?”
This conversation was going far more interesting places than she would have ever anticipated.
“That’s just the thing,”
he said, sounding frustrated. “Because my father is so focused on pinpointing what it is he doesn’t like about me, I haven’t had the opportunity to find out what I might like. The duke tries to force me into being more like my older brother. Or Mr. Bishop.”
He snorted. “His inviting the man to stay in London with us was a plan to get me to change my ways.” He met her gaze. “After all, Mr. Bishop is doing everything correctly, at least according to my father—starting a business, meeting new, influential people.” He nodded toward her. “People who are sensible, and—” he jerked his head up, as if to indicate the floor above them “—people who are not. But all are titled and wealthy.”
He had an edge of anger in his voice that seemed to go beyond mere resentment of an unwelcome guest.
“How does your father believe you’ve disappointed him?”
she asked in a soft voice.
He exhaled. “Well, he believes what everyone else seems to believe. That I have no interest in anyone beyond myself, that I am selfish and manipulative.”
He jerked his head upward again. “I am nothing like the person the duke wants me to emulate. I am far better.”
“You are.”
She knew that firsthand. He was kind and thoughtful and intelligent. He’d never pressed her; if anything, it had been her to always move first. He paid attention and made certain to ask for others’ opinions, a rarity among men, let alone noblemen.
He was the kind of person a woman could see herself with for the rest of her life.
A dangerous thought she needed to push away. Right now, she needed to let him know she didn’t believe any of that. That she saw him as well as he saw her.
She knew firsthand how it could hurt not to feel like you belonged in a family. She certainly never felt it to the same extent he clearly did, but she could sympathize, nonetheless.
“Thank you,”
he said, giving her a crooked smile.
Given his quicksilver, chaotic mind, it would be easy enough to distract him. “I think you know, as well as I, that I am hardly responsible. I wouldn’t be—”
and she made a vague gesture in the air between them to indicate their mutual cleansing, at which he laughed.
“I suppose not. Perhaps, Lady Diantha, you are more like me than you might imagine.”
Oh. The thought made her feel both terrified and exhilarated. Like being in his presence generally did.
“I wonder,”
he continued, his tone silky soft, “how we might tease the Lucian side of you into being?”
Nobody likes a coward, Diantha, she reminded herself.
“I imagine we can think of something,”
she replied, surprised to hear her own silky tone. “Perhaps tomorrow at the museum? Twelve o’clock?”
His eager nod made something flutter low in her belly.
And, she thought, perhaps he might discover more sides to himself through the exploration. Find something that would give him satisfaction, despite how his family felt about him.
Because she knew she was discovering things through being with him. She just hoped she wasn’t devastated when it all stopped.