Page 35 of A Virgin for the Rakish Duke (Romancing a Rake #3)

“No, thanks, old chap!” he said, mimicking Simon's false bonhomie, “I think that ownership of an Opera House is, perhaps, not for me after all. Good luck in luring forward another partner, though, eh?”

He slapped Simon's shoulder in a comradely gesture, rocking the other man on his feet.

“I will not say that you were wrong about how Harriet and I met. But I will say that no one else knows, so if it becomes public knowledge, I will know precisely where it came from. Won't I?”

Simon's jaw worked soundlessly.

“And, God as my witness, I will rain down vengeance the likes you have never imagined in the unlikely event such a revelation might come to light... Linwood ,” Jeremy finished, stepping closer to emphasize the disparity in height between them.

“El… Eloise knows,” Simon stammered.

“Then keep her in line, old boy,” Jeremy patted his shoulder once more.

He started for the door, flinging it open, and was halfway to the front door when he heard hurried footsteps behind him.

“I think you should reconsider!” Simon cried out.

“Nothing to reconsider. Easiest decision of my life,” Jeremy replied as the door was opened for him by a footman.

He strode out of the house and felt as though he were a new man.

The old obsessions fell away like a discarded coat that no longer fitted properly.

He felt light. Everywhere he looked, his eye picked out color, shade, and shapes.

He saw pictures as his eye framed the vistas of the city, saw the faces of passersby, felt the urge to stop them and draw them.

It was as though the artist in him was now fully awake after being forced to sleep, deep in his mind.

Now that part of him stretched and marveled at the world around him, wanting to capture it.

To create. Part of him was afraid, yes, deathly afraid.

Afraid that he would prove incompetent, a failure.

That he would be the first Penhaligon in a long time to fail, to be forgotten.

He suppressed the fear as he boarded his carriage and gave the destination to his driver.

“Straight back to Penhaligon, then change horses, and we will leave as soon as possible for Oaksgrove.”

He sat back in the carriage, thoughts already full of Harriet.

He smiled, already thinking of how he would like to arrange her for a portrait.

He felt alive and more awake than he had felt in a very long time.

Reaching beneath the seat, he withdrew his great-grandfather’s box, containing the basic utensils for creating art.

Taking out a sheet of paper and balancing it against the lid of the box, he began to draw with a charcoal pencil, sketching out the first image that came to his mind.

As London fell away, the floor of the carriage became carpeted in paper. Each bore the same image, presented in many different forms. Some were complete pictures, carefully shaded. Some were sketches, bare lines that had been abandoned before the image they were intended to depict could take shape.

That image was of Harriet.

Jeremy had run out of supplies before the journey to Penhaligon was complete.

He watched the countryside roll by, recognizing familiar landmarks as he drew closer to home.

More than once, he lifted his hand to rap the roof to order his driver to head directly for Oaksgrove.

Each time, though, he thought better of it, lowering his hand and deciding it would be preferable by far to arrive at Oaksgrove refreshed.

Besides, the very anticipation of seeing Harriet and finally being able to be completely open about his feelings for her was almost as pleasurable as seeing her would be.

When the carriage arrived before Penhaligon, Jeremy bounded from it and strode to the house, through the front door, and halfway across the entrance hall before he stopped.

Atkins was walking towards him, a serious expression on his face.

Jeremy felt a frisson of disquiet, seeing in the old retainer the signs of news that he knew his master would not like.

“Your Grace, you have a visitor,” Atkins said.

“Who?” Jeremy asked.

“One who is known to you, Your Grace,” the butler answered, looking uncomfortable by the second.

“Enough with the riddles, Atkins. Who?” Jeremy demanded.

“ Hullo, Jeremy .”

It was a woman’s voice, and it came from above Atkins, where the stairs turned. Jeremy looked up. Two women were descending towards him. Atkins stepped aside to let them pass by.

“Florence?” Jeremy exclaimed, recognizing the first.

She had lustrous brown hair, worked in curls, and a heart-shaped face with full lips and a button nose.

Her beauty was marred by a frown of anxiety across her brow, worry alive in her eyes.

The other woman carried a bundle in her arms and was dressed in plain black.

The bundle stirred, and the sound of a fretful child reached Jeremy.

“I am sorry to come back into your life in this manner. There is someone I would like you to meet,” Florence said, gesturing to the woman who carried the bundle.

It was a child, of course. The nursemaid handed it to Florence, who beamed down at it, parting swaddling clothes as she descended the remainder of the stairs and approached Jeremy.

“Your son, Jeremy,” she smiled widely, “ our son.”