Chapter 29
Darcy sat within the private chamber Rebecca had assigned to her at Aphrodite.
Several lamps and candles had been lit, their warm glow spilling across the chamber and gilding the canvases arranged upon easels at various stages of completion.
The faint scents of linseed oil and pigment lingered in the air as her brush moved with careful precision, though her thoughts possessed no such discipline.
Several days after replying to Sebastian, she had remained in the countryside, her heart laid bare by a foolish hope and a persistent, aching longing for a man who had so clearly put her from his mind.
How easily he had dismissed her place in his life.
A single letter, so courteous and painfully restrained in its phrasing, had shattered everything that had passed between them: the heat of his kisses, the ease of their laughter, the quiet intimacy of truly knowing one another, and that fragile, wondrous sense that she had stood upon the brink of something deeper than anything she had ever known.
Something beyond her limited experience, yet achingly, inexplicably beautiful.
Another week and a half had passed since she left her sisters beneath Lady Sutton’s capable guidance and secured a modest townhouse in Bloomsbury Square.
The neighborhood was respectable and comfortably removed from the ostentation of Mayfair, inhabited by prosperous merchants and members of the gentry who valued discretion.
Most importantly, the house had been acquired through Darcy’s own efforts.
She would live without charity and answer to no one.
She dipped her brush again and forced her attention toward the canvas. By arriving before Aphrodite opened fully for the evening and departing before Sebastian’s customary hour, she had thus far avoided him. She hoped to complete every commission Rebecca secured without once encountering him.
A soft knock sounded upon the door. “Enter,” Darcy called, setting her brush aside.
Rebecca entered with her customary assurance, followed by two ladies whose elegance and bearing proclaimed their rank before Darcy recognized the Duchess of Basil.
She rose at once and dropped into a curtsy. “Your Grace.”
The duchess crossed the room and took Darcy’s hand before she could complete the formality. “Please, let there be no stiffness between us. You must call me Elizabeth.”
Darcy straightened, disarmed by the warmth of her welcome. Elizabeth then gestured toward the lady beside her. “And this is my dear friend, the Countess of Radbourne.”
The countess inclined her head, amusement gleaming in her striking green eyes. “Agatha, if you please.”
“It is an honor to make your acquaintance,” Darcy said, still struggling to reconcile their rank with such easy familiarity.
“I wished to show Her Grace and Lady Radbourne your paintings,” Rebecca explained. “I am curious whether they evoke the forbidden longing and dangerous desire I intend them to inspire among the ladies of society.”
Darcy’s eyes widened as she realized that these elegant, exalted women were not merely aware of Aphrodite, but moved within its secret world.
Agatha laughed at her astonishment. “I once danced in the ballroom below upon a raised dais and auctioned my virginity to the highest bidder.”
“Goodness,” Darcy breathed. “You are a countess.”
“I was not a countess then,” Agatha replied with a saucy wink.
Darcy could scarcely reconcile the beautifully dressed woman before her with anyone daring enough to create such a spectacle. “I truly cannot imagine it.”
“It was quite memorable,” Agatha said, her brow lifting playfully, “and ended most satisfactorily. The gentleman I loved with my entire heart proved the victor.”
Elizabeth’s smile turned mischievous. “And I daresay you would swoon outright were I to recount how I came to an understanding with my duke.”
For one startled moment Darcy could only stare. Then laughter escaped her with a freedom she had not known in weeks, loosening the tension wound tightly through her chest. “I am shocked and yet thoroughly delighted.”
“That we are not insufferable prigs?” Agatha asked.
“Indeed,” Darcy admitted, still smiling.
Rebecca poured sherry and pressed a glass into each woman’s hand before settling upon the sofa. Elizabeth leaned forward to study the canvases. “These are extraordinary.”
Agatha examined one with a discerning eye. “Brilliant, truly. You have captured not merely the form, but the feeling. It is quite… evocative. The pleasure appears authentic rather than manufactured for the scene. Your understanding of it is unmistakable.”
Warmth climbed into Darcy’s cheeks. That understanding had been purchased in Sebastian’s arms, and the thought made her lower her gaze before quietly accepting the praise.
“Rebecca tells us you are seeking patrons,” Agatha continued, playful wickedness entering her voice. “I should very much like you to paint my portrait. Something decidedly improper, intended for my husband’s eyes alone. Pray do not insult me with a modest fee.”
Darcy laughed and agreed. Their conversation moved easily from future commissions to society gossip and even the present political climate.
She joined them with growing confidence, surprised by how readily their warmth drew her beyond the reserve she had carried into the room.
Yet when Elizabeth and Agatha spoke of their husbands with warmth and unguarded devotion, a deep and painful longing stirred within Darcy for a happiness she had never permitted herself to imagine for too long.
Rebecca regarded her with quiet perception. “You seem unhappy.”
Darcy shook her head too quickly. “No, I...” The denial failed. Tears rose with such sudden force that the room blurred before her, and she turned away, mortified by the collapse of a composure she had guarded for weeks.
The other ladies had removed their masks after the door closed, and Darcy now pulled off her own, unwilling to hide while her grief stood so plainly revealed.
Rebecca’s voice gentled. “Are you in love with Raine? Is he the cause of this distress?”
Elizabeth and Agatha drew soft breaths of surprise. They knew Sebastian, of course. Only weeks earlier, he had escorted Darcy to Elizabeth’s midnight ball.
Darcy went utterly still. “What do you mean?”
“Do you harbor tender feelings for the Earl of Raine?” Rebecca asked, watching her over the rim of her glass. “This troublesome matter of love is taking firm hold within my establishment. I may soon be obliged to open a discreet branch devoted entirely to matchmaking.”
“I do not know what I feel for him,” Darcy said, though the inadequacy of her words was apparent even to her. “Whatever it is, it cannot matter now.”
“Of course it matters,” Elizabeth replied gently. “Naming what you feel may grant you the clarity to decide how you will conduct yourself when you next encounter him.”
Darcy shook her head. “I have been careful to arrive early and leave before Lord Raine is accustomed to appearing.”
“You cannot avoid him indefinitely,” Rebecca said with practical calm.
“I have secured three patrons who desire more sensual portraits. It is far safer for you to undertake those commissions here than in private residences, where an overenthusiastic gentleman might exceed the liberties agreed upon and leave you to manage him alone.”
Darcy pressed trembling fingers against her chest.
“Though I have not seen Raine in a few weeks, he will return eventually. He might even be here tonight since the duke and Radbourne are also here,” Rebecca continued. “And since you came back from the country, you have seemed altered.
“Are my feelings so plainly visible?” she asked, her voice faltering despite her effort to steady it.
“Perhaps because we are acquainted with such feelings,” Elizabeth replied.
Darcy drew in a fragile breath. “When I see him again, will he look at me and know how completely I have been undone? Must I bear that knowledge in his eyes while he offers nothing but cold, courteous indifference?”
“You do love him,” Agatha said softly.
Darcy’s breath trembled. “My heart feels too full of him to contain what I feel, and yet impossibly hollow because he is no longer in my life. Whatever existed between us is over, and I do not know how to make myself accept it.”
The ladies remained silent, giving her the courage to continue.
“I shall never laugh with him again, nor feel his touch, nor press my lips to his.” Her voice weakened upon the final words.
Darcy closed her eyes for a moment, the ache within her sharpening with each word she allowed herself to speak aloud.
“It has been more than three weeks since I last saw him, yet he still comes to me in dreams as though he has no intention of releasing me, even there.”
A faint, broken laugh escaped her. “I wish only to forget him, because I cannot believe he suffers as I do. If he did, how could he have ended everything with one cold letter? Did I not deserve the dignity of hearing it from his own lips? Or was I truly of so little consequence to him? Am I foolish to be haunted by these questions?”
The words hung between them, painfully exposed.
Elizabeth moved first, sitting beside Darcy and enclosing her hand in a firm, reassuring clasp. “You are not foolish. You loved, and there is no shame in that.”
Agatha pressed a handkerchief into Darcy’s trembling fingers. “Men often pride themselves upon restraint precisely when feeling is required. His conduct does not prove he feels nothing. It proves only that he has chosen to behave as though he does.”
Rebecca refilled Darcy’s glass and placed it firmly in her hand. “Drink. Feel it fully, then decide what you intend to do with it.”
Darcy laughed weakly through her tears. Mortification mingled with unexpected relief as the grief she had hidden for weeks finally escaped.
She had not wept so openly since childhood, certainly not before women she scarcely knew, yet their expressions held no censure.
They remained with her, sometimes offering comfort and sometimes teasing her back toward laughter, until the sharpest edge of her pain softened into something she could endure.
The sherry warmed her and loosened a reserve she would ordinarily have guarded with far greater care.
When Darcy realized how freely she had spoken, embarrassment warmed her skin. “I fear I have made a spectacle of myself.”
“You have done nothing of the sort,” Elizabeth assured her.
“Indeed,” Agatha added with a smile. “You have merely proved yourself human.”
Darcy offered a small, grateful smile and pressed her fingers briefly to her temples. The mantel clock chimed, and she glanced toward it in alarm. “It is nearly nine.”
She rose and smoothed her gown, gathering the remnants of her composure. “I must take my leave.”
“I shall have the carriage brought round,” Rebecca said, though her thoughtful gaze lingered upon Darcy.
After offering each woman a quiet curtsy, Darcy turned toward the door.
Her heart felt lighter for having been heard, yet the question that had haunted her remained.
Why had Sebastian been so abrupt and so unfeeling?
She descended one flight from the private chambers to the second-floor corridor, her pulse still unsteady from everything she had revealed above.
Soft light gilded the passage, where discreet laughter and murmured conversation drifted from ladies and gentlemen moving between rooms.
If she lowered her gaze and maintained an unhurried pace, she might pass unnoticed.
She turned toward the staircase leading to the first floor, her fingers grazing the wall, and saw him.
Her heart struck violently against her ribs, the force of it stealing the breath from her lungs.
Sebastian stood only a few paces away, his tall, dark form unmistakable among the shifting figures.
For one wild instant she considered retreating, but it was already too late.
Do not see me, she silently pleaded. Not now, when she had only just pieced herself together. Not while tears still burned behind her eyes and sherry left a betraying warmth in her blood. Surely the people passing between them might spare her his notice.
His gaze met hers. The moment held, sharp and merciless.
Then he inclined his head with impeccable politeness, acknowledging her as he might any passing acquaintance of no particular consequence.
The polite gesture struck harder than a deliberate insult.
Her composure, so carefully reconstructed, faltered at once, cracking beneath the weight of that cool indifference.
Darcy could not summon even the ghost of a smile, but she forced herself forward, each step sustained by will alone.
As she passed him, she kept her gaze fixed ahead.
Then she saw his expression alter from the corner of her eye, his eyes widening as he finally passed closely enough to see her.
His hand closed around her arm. Before she could protest, Sebastian drew her into the shadow of a column, beyond the easy notice of those moving through the corridor.
“Who has hurt you?” His voice was low and controlled, with a dangerous stillness beneath it.
Darcy stared at him. “What?”
Sebastian lifted both hands to her face and cupped her cheeks, tilting her toward the light. His nearness was devastating. She felt the warmth of his breath and remembered with brutal clarity the pleasure of his mouth upon hers.
“You have been crying.” His gaze searched every inch of her face, his restraint tightening rather than concealing the violence of his concern. “Your eyes are red. Tell me who caused it.”
He brushed his thumb slowly across her cheek, as though tenderness remained his right.
The gentle caress ignited fury through Darcy’s grief. “You truly do not know?” she whispered.
Sebastian’s sudden stillness told her that he understood. He watched her with his disconcertingly steady gaze.
“You have no right to inquire into my affairs, my lord. Stop touching me. You surrendered that right.”
“Darcy...” He did not release her quickly enough.
She turned her head and sank her teeth into the firm muscle of his wrist. A muffled sound escaped him, but he made no attempt to pull away or defend himself.
He stood rigid beneath the force of her hurt and accepted every painful second of it as though he understood that he had earned far worse.
When Darcy released him, her breath came unevenly.
Sebastian lowered his hands and stepped back, his face stripped of its former composure.
She lifted her chin, turned from him, and walked away with measured steps while her heart thundered.
She did not look back. She did not need to.
Though she felt, with absolute certainty, that his gaze followed her—and perhaps the man himself—until she exited Aphrodite and entered the waiting carriage.