Page 47 of A Virgin for the Rakish Duke
“I do not know, but the fact that you can so readily accuse me is concerning. There must be trust between us for this arrangement to work. I am beginning to think it is over almost before it began.”
Jeremy growled, putting his chin atop his fist. He watched her from beneath lidded eyes.
“Why would you want to continue after the way I have spoken to you? Knowing of my distrust?”
Harriet stopped abruptly, and surprised herself that she could feel tears pricking at the corners of her eyes. She blinked them away rapidly, turning her head. But then the door opened to admit Atkins, and she had to turn away again. This brought her into the sight of Jeremy, so she threw a hand over her face and fled the room.
What am I doing? Why am I crying? Why do I feel so bereft, so devastated? I should be glad to be free of such a suspicious, objectionable man. I am not some empty-headed, silly girl to be so giddy over a handsome face.
She was dimly aware of her name being called, but it only spurred her to run harder. A staircase appeared in front ofher, and she took the stairs two at a time, lifting her skirts as she dashed. Heavy footsteps were following her, pounding on the creaking wood of the staircase below her heels. She rushed along a hallway and then a crossing passage. A door selected at random led her into a dusty storeroom filled with wooden shelves. Another door beyond led to a narrow way of stone that smelled of must and age.
By the time she found herself in a carpeted hallway with wood panels on the walls, she was thoroughly lost. A window showed that she was high above the gardens. Jane could be glimpsed far below, sitting on a bench and sniffing a flower she had picked.
Her own name was suddenly called from somewhere below—Jeremy's voice. She slowed to a walk, wondering how she could return to Jane without crossing the duke’s path. She picked a door at random. Stepping through, she found herself in a room lighter than the rest. It was painted white with a band of sky blue around the top of the walls. The windows were tall, flooding the room with golden sunlight.
The furniture was shrouded, but she could see that the nearest shape was a rocking horse. Uncovering it proved her right. Removing another shroud revealed a chest filled with wooden toys, then a shelf packed with stuffed animals.
A child's room. A nursery. Have there been any other children here besides Jeremy? Was this his playroom?
The insight into his past sluiced her anger and grief away. On the shelf among the stuffed animals was a leather-bound book onthe spine of which was Jeremy's name. It was written in a neat but clearly childlike hand. Taking it from the shelf, she opened it. On the first page was a bright, vibrant picture, painted in watercolors, she deduced, and depicting a house with a family standing before it.
The work of a child, certainly, but also one with some potential. Jeremy's work?
Turning the page revealed another picture, then another. Suddenly, there was only writing. Large, rounded letters, a crude attempt at calligraphy as though the author were imitating the writing of an adult before they'd been formally taught how to do it. She tried to make it out. It was a story, and before she knew it, she was sitting on a chair covered in its dustsheet, engrossed in the simple tale.
“More spying,Lady Harriet? Were the tears a disguise to give you full rein in exploring my house?”
Harriet peeked up to see Jeremy standing in the doorway. His voice was cold, his face closed off and tight.
“My father was a painter,” she murmured instead. “I learned much from him. There is potential here. Latent talent, I should say. And the stories are quite magical.”
She tried for a smile, wanting to convey her honest enthusiasm. Jeremy came into the room and put out his hand silently. Harriet sighed as she handed over the book. Abruptly, he gripped the first page and ripped it out, crumpling it in his fist.
“No!” Harriet squealed and leaped to her feet.
Jeremy was already destroying the next picture, and she fought to take it from him, succeeding only in tearing it beyond all repair. She grabbed for the book to prevent any more wanton destruction. Jeremy refused to let go, and they wrestled for it for a moment. Finally, she shoved him in the chest as hard as she could. His heel caught on the runner of the rocking horse, and he fell back, landing with a thud, with Harriet atop him.
Straddling him, she tore the book from his hands and held it beyond his reach.
“It is mine!” he snarled.
“It is too precious to be destroyed! This is the work of an innocent child with the whole world ahead of him. Why would you want to destroy that?”
“For the same reason I stowed it away up here! To forget about it. It serves only to remind me of the ways I tried to live up to my ancestors and failed! My great-grandfather, whose oils hang in St James' Palace. My grandfather, whose poetry takes its place in anthologies alongside Shakespeare and Milton. My father laughed when he saw the pictures. He scorned my attempts at literature. They are failures!”
Harriet gaped at him with naked incredulity.
“You… you were a child. How can they expect you to exceed your ancestors so young?”
“Achievement in my familyalwayscomes young,” Jeremy muttered back.
He let his body flop down to the floor, staring at the ceiling.
“Now you know. You have the weapons to destroy me if you choose. Do with them as you will.”
There was weariness in his voice, defeat. Harriet forgot her anger at him. She leaned over him, still straddling him. Their proximity in this position was enough to remind her of their last intimacy. That memory ignited a fire within her, but she tried not to think such thoughts. She studied his face. So noble and dignified. So handsome.
“What can I do?” she asked.