Page 87 of A Virgin for the Rakish Duke

“That is not to say that we will live as man and wife privately. I... cannot. Not so soon after...”

“After this other woman. The one you went chasing after the other day,” Florence groused, her tone hardening.

Jeremy looked at her sharply, and she burst into laughter.

“I know you, remember? I can tell when your eye has been drawn and by what. I am not jealous, as I know that... I am not jealous,” she repeated, stopping herself from saying something else, ears reddening.

Jeremy found himself wondering what else she had intended to say.

“Know what?” he asked.

“It does not matter. And I do not want to know who she is. It only matters that you are... Edward's father.”

Again, there had been a hesitation, and Florence had changed her words. Jeremy shook his head, trying to dislodge his suspicions. They did not matter. His duty was clear. As was his fate.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Jeremy watched his son with his nurse. The child made inarticulate but happy noises as the young woman smiled at him. He was in his crib and she, rocking it, gazing down at him with wonder and devotion. It was touching, and Jeremy wished he could feel the same emotions when he looked at the babe.

Can he sense that my smile is skin deep only? That I cannot summon any fatherly love or parental instinct. Have I spent so long treating love as an afterthought, a poor cousin to lust, that I have lost the capacity for it?

The nurse had the same dark eyes as Edward, and they seemed to be locked together, the infant following her every move as though she were his goddess.

He left the nursery without disturbing them, walking through the house to the room he had given over to art.

Harriet, you would be proud, though I doubt you have thought of me much in the last two weeks. Ralph will have you occupied with your marriage to your dashing French ambassador's son.

The room was on the highest floor of Penhaligon with tall windows in one wall and one in the ceiling. The floor was bare wood, and the walls were naked plaster. The room was decorated with nothing but natural light during the day and flickering shadows from the large fireplace at night.

An easel stood in the center of the room, and papers were scattered across the floor at random. Jeremy stopped as he stepped into the room. Too late he realized that the door was unlocked. It was his habit to keep it locked.

Florence was crouched, picking up the scattered paper, stacking them neatly in her hand, examining each one.

“We agreed that you would not be permitted in here,” Jeremy said, sternly.

Florence peeked at him over her shoulder, and he saw that her eyes were red-rimmed.

“I thought I could recreate our time together. When you loved me, or so I thought,” she said, brokenly.

“I did,” Jeremy affirmed.

She held up the papers.

“But no longer.”

“It is not required. Edward is what connects us. He is my duty.”

“I wanted more than that,” Florence muttered.

“You cannot have it,” Jeremy said, plainly.

“And I can see why. I know why you keep this room locked. I found another key in Atkins' rooms. I wanted to know what draws you here again and again. I could never persuade you to take up art again. I tried, but you refused. How did she do it?”

Every piece of paper she held, every piece on the floor and the canvases stacked around the room were all of the same subject.

Harriet.

Jeremy had tried to paint other things. To draw other things. He could not. Any other portrait transformed into her. Every other subject became incorporated into a picture of her.