Chapter 16
Darcy lay in the darkness of her bedchamber, the events of the last few days turning restlessly through her mind.
To the girls’ delight, the earl had called upon them twice more, first to take them through Hyde Park, and again earlier today, when he had taken them on a picnic upon Hampstead Heath.
Her sisters were enchanted. Darcy, however, remained wary.
She did not understand Lord Raine. The earl spoke of no permanence, gave no indication that he intended to claim them fully as part of his life, and yet he continued to appear—thoughtful, attentive, and generous with both his time and the pleasures he arranged for them.
It was a double-edged kindness. Already her sisters spoke as though he would remain, as though this new happiness might endure. And yet, Darcy often glimpsed the cool detachment in his eyes, the quiet indifference that lingered beneath his polite civility.
She feared what would happen to her sisters’ hearts and hopes when that indifference prevailed.
Ever since her mother fell ill shortly after the earl died, Darcy had borne sole responsibility for her mother and sisters.
The burden had lain heavily upon her shoulders, and she had borne it with grim resilience. Now, impossibly, it was gone.
A watery laugh slipped from her. For the first time in years, no immediate worry gnawed at her heart, and she wanted at once to scream, laugh, and cry. She felt both exhausted and strangely happy, as though a weight she had carried alone for too long had at last been eased.
At last, her sisters were secure. Each now possessed a marriage portion of ten thousand pounds, while Lord Raine had made separate provision for their education, clothing, and every necessity until they married.
Upon marriage, each sister would gain control of a portion of her settlement.
Should any of them remain unmarried at five-and-twenty, however, the entire sum would pass into her own management.
It was a fortune beyond anything Darcy had ever imagined.
And yet pain followed swiftly on the heels of that thought.
The man she had called father for so many years seemed to have given no thought to her future.
Darcy was painfully aware that now that her sisters were heiresses, she would no longer fit so easily within the fabric of their lives.
The earl would appoint a guardian—perhaps even assume the role himself—someone to oversee their fortunes and guide them toward a brighter, more refined future.
A raw, hollow sound escaped her. How could she cling to them?
How could she allow them to bear the burden of supporting her, when she was the eldest?
That would not do. In time, she would leave and forge a life apart from theirs.
Darcy would visit when she could, write as often as circumstances allowed, and take what comfort she might from those small connections.
Yet one fear had always lingered, quiet and unrelenting: that by bringing them to their brother, Darcy had set in motion the very thing she most dreaded, and they would one day be lost to her.
They would not be lost through neglect or unkindness, but because they would no longer belong to the same world.
Darcy swallowed, shifting restlessly upon the sheets, the ache of it settling deep within her heart.
She tried to force the thoughts from her mind and sat up, a soft breath escaping her in frustration.
It was most vexing that sleep still eluded her after such a long and pleasant day.
Hampstead Heath had been a stretch of lush, rolling green, the lawns soft beneath their feet, the air fresh and stirring in a way that seemed to ease burdens she had carried for far too long.
For a few precious hours, there had been no worry, only the simple pleasure of being together beneath an open sky.
The girls had been delighted. She could still hear Sarah’s laughter, bright and unrestrained, as the kite soared higher, its string trembling in her small hands.
Jane had watched with quiet concentration, offering thoughtful observations as though she might improve the very art of it, while dear, reserved Emelia had smiled in a way that transformed her entirely.
Their father had taught them such things.
Darcy had seen the moment it struck the earl.
A pause so slight another might have missed it, yet she had not.
Something had passed through his expression then—recognition, perhaps…
or memory. He had known it too; his father had taught him the same simple joy.
For a fleeting moment, they had shared something unspoken.
Darcy drew in a breath as her thoughts shifted, unbidden, to the memory of his presence and the way his dark blue gaze settled upon her when he believed she was unaware: steady, searching, and far too perceptive.
With a small sound of irritation, she pressed her fingers to her temple.
This would not do.
And yet, no matter how she tried to dismiss it, the memory lingered, warm, insistent, and wholly unwilling to be set aside.
Her fingers drifted absently over her skin as she closed her eyes, searching for that elusive sensation she had once discovered, the quiet, consuming pleasure that had overtaken her on that singular, wicked night.
She sought it again.
But it did not come. Frustration coiled within her, sharp and insistent.
With a soft, impatient sound, she pushed the sheets from her tangled legs.
A restless energy took hold of her then, something bordering on recklessness.
She could not remain here. The decision came with startling clarity.
She would go to Aphrodite as Red. There was no commission awaiting her hand this night, no painting to complete, and yet the pull was undeniable, insistent in a way she could neither reason with nor resist. There, she might speak to Sebastian in a manner she never could as Darcy.
Rebecca did not expect her that night, but she had said more than once that Darcy need only send a footman to St. James’s Street, and a discreet carriage would be dispatched. Darcy pushed herself from the bed, rang for a servant, hurried to her writing desk, turned up the lamp, and began her note.
An hour later, well after midnight, she returned to Aphrodite as Red.
The gown she wore was a daring shade of crimson, cut to flatter and entice, its fabric clinging where it pleased and flowing where it did not.
The mask—black and red—hid her identity but did nothing to conceal the awareness thrumming through her body. The wig completed the illusion.
Darcy had vanished beneath the mask; she was Red now.
Yet she felt more herself than she had all day.
I have lost all good sense. Aphrodite greeted her as it always did: with heat, laughter, and the low murmur of indulgence and invitation woven into every corner.
She moved deeper within, accepting a glass of champagne from a passing servant, the cool bite of it doing little to steady the restless energy coursing through her.
“Miss Red.”
Rebecca appeared at her side as though summoned by thought alone, her gaze keen, knowing. “I did not expect you this evening,” she said.
“I am not here to work,” Darcy replied, lifting the glass once more, if only to give her hands purpose. “Only to observe.”
Rebecca’s lips curved faintly. “Are you indeed?”
Darcy did not answer, nor did she need to, for even as she stood there, she felt that same compelling awareness glide over her skin, as though something unseen had marked her presence and turned its full attention upon her.
Her breath caught. And then she saw him.
Lord Raine moved through the crowd with the same effortless command she had come to associate with him, his gaze scanning with quiet purpose until, inevitably, it found her.
Her tongue felt suddenly heavy. A tremor passed through Darcy. Beside her, Rebecca smiled and slipped away without a word. He reached her within moments. His hand found her waist with unerring certainty, the warmth of his touch sending a sharp awareness through her entire body.
“You seem unsettled,” he murmured, guiding her forward before she could protest.
“I feel hollowed out by a loss that has not even happened. I wanted a distraction.”
“That I understand.” Sebastian did not press. “Do you wish to talk about it?”
“No.” Darcy swallowed hard, her composure cracking at the edges. “I did not come here to talk.”
A dark brow arched, and something shifted in his expression, curiosity perhaps, or recognition.
“There is a restlessness about you,” he murmured, “that I have not seen before.”
She flushed. He had sensed it. Of course he had.
A quiet, knowing sound brushed his throat. “Ah.”
Her heart lurched. “That sound informs me you’ve had a revelation, my lord.”
“You tried to pleasure yourself,” he said softly, “and found your own touch wanting.”
The heat at her throat deepened. How could he read her so easily from a single glance? Had he grown so adept in the arts of sin and indulgence? “I can only presume it is your rakish wickedness that would grant you such insight.”
“That is not a denial.”
Her breath faltered. Drat. She should have acted outraged instead of standing there feeling beguiled.
“Tell me,” he continued, his gaze lingering upon her, “did you think of me when you touched your pussy?”
Heat coiled low in Darcy’s belly at the provocative question.
“And where did you touch yourself, Red?” His eyes moved slowly over her, as though he could see beneath every layer of silk separating his gaze from her skin.
“Did you begin innocently enough? Your throat, perhaps. Your breasts. Did you discover how sensitive your nipples become beneath your own fingers?” His attention returned to her face.
“Or were you already too impatient for such diversions?”