Page 11 of The Rake’s Absolutely Devilish Reform (The Notorious Briarwoods #4)

O n days like this, it was difficult to believe that but fifteen years ago Priscilla had not had enough to eat, or enough coal to keep her warm, or clothes to cover her.

Her father had been industrious, but of course he had simply been a worker. Then suddenly, he had begun to change their lives. She still wasn’t entirely certain how he had made it happen. She’d been so small. But her father had clawed his way up from working in a mill to owning one, and then to owning several. And then he had become one of the wealthiest men in England, possibly the world.

He was clever.

He had always been clever. She knew that. But now her life was so far from those cold, dirty, unpleasant, and hard days when she had struggled to sleep some nights because hunger gnawed at her innards. The blankets had been so threadbare that only her mother’s arms had warmed her.

Those frightening days were so far gone that they felt as if they’d been a bad dream.

Now, she stood in the Royal Academy surveying paintings.

It was a dream of a different sort.

It was such a beautiful place. Works of art covered every surface, some of them very old, some of them brand new, and Trenty had taken it upon herself to educate Priscilla more this day. It was Trenty’s job to make certain that Priscilla was cultured, and it had been an uphill climb since she had been about thirteen years old. Her father had truly come into his wealth and had been determined to make a splash in the ton.

He was determined that his daughter would be the ambassador for him and completely transform the next generation of his family. It was the least she could do for her dear papa, for all he had done for her and her mother. So, she stared carefully at each painting, taking in as much as she could as Trenty waxed on about the brushstrokes, the subjects, the light and the dark.

She admired them all immensely.

A young man came in, spotted them, and noticed that they were looking at a painting of Venice.

“Do you like it?” he asked. The young man’s hair was dark and bouncy. He had a particularly flamboyant cravat and his coat was red. The question was asked with a certain sort of anticipation, as if her answer meant his life or death.

“Very much,” Trenty exclaimed. “Such vigor! Such life. It captures the city beautifully.”

“I am relieved to hear it,” the gentleman rushed. “I was most worried I could not bring its essence to canvas.”

“It is yours?” Trenty asked, all but beaming now as her mobcap danced upon her silver coiffure.

The young man nodded modestly, but he was clearly thrilled to meet someone who loved his work.

“How wonderful!” Trenty immediately began to bat her lashes. “Venice is the most romantic city in the world. It filled me with rapture. Every day was heaven.”

“I too adored Venice!” the young man returned passionately.

“Of course, you did,” Trenty trilled. “It is obvious in your painting.”

“Indeed, it was one of the happiest months of my life,” the young man confessed without hesitation or much discretion, but then he was an artist. “As I sat amongst the many canals, my spirit simply thrilled.”

“I had a similar experience myself,” Trenty said, “though I did not have the skill to set it down. I have only the ability to paint with watercolors, which I of course passed on to my young charge, Lady Priscilla.”

Priscilla gave a dutiful, quick curtsy.

“Lady Trentfield is an excellent teacher,” Priscilla said honestly. “Though my skill is nowhere near as excellent as hers. She’s actually quite the artist.”

The young man inclined his head as if in recognition of a fellow artist. “Of course watercolor is an important skill,” he said. “Now do tell me about your time in Venice.”

He extended his elbow to Trenty and began walking with her through the long hall and then into the next. She found herself alone for a moment, since Trenty was so engaged with recollections of happy days, and Priscilla rather welcomed it.

She could hear Trenty and the young man talking from the next room. Trenty’s high-pitched giggle echoed as she waxed on.

“You like the painting?” a voice said.

She jumped and whirled, catching sight of that ne’er-do-well, impossible fellow who caused her to feel things she absolutely should not feel.

“Lord Hector, I do like it,” she said tightly.

“But not me,” he said with a dramatic sigh as if her words wounded him beyond all repair.

She let out her own sigh. “Lord Hector, I think you know very well that I like you a great deal. It causes me consternation.”

“It should not,” he said softly. “Do not go against your own feelings.”

“Feelings are not to be trusted,” she pointed out as she swung her attention back to the painting she’d been observing. “Feelings can get you into a great deal of trouble.”

He frowned as he stood beside her and also contemplated the work. “I’ve never let my feelings get me into trouble.”

“Then you’re very lucky,” she said. “Now, I’m trying to educate myself. Shush.”

He let out a low laugh. “Did you just shush me?”

She cleared her throat. “It would seem so.”

He was silent for several moments, and she tried to study the scene which depicted Juliet at her balcony, her face upturned to the moonlight, professing her love for Romeo. Romeo stood below, transfixed by her.

The color and joy and hope in the painting did the most powerful things to her. Just as his nearness did. She could feel him standing there.

“It reminds me of you,” he whispered.

She snorted, turned to him, and folded her arms across her chest. “Don’t be a ruddy clod pole, ye…”

Her voice died off, and she had a moment of complete panic. She hadn’t spoken like that in years. Years. Even her northern accent had slipped back, making her voice lilt and skip certain sounds.

Lord Hector’s brows shot up. And then he smiled oh so slowly. “Clod pole, am I?”

“Now I’ve gone and done it,” she rushed. “I’ve let you see what I’m really like.”

His face softened. “I rather enjoy what you’re actually like. We should be ourselves if we can, Priscilla.”

She licked her lips. Panic still raced through her. No one in the ton had ever heard her speak like that. But oh the way he made her feel. Vulnerable, full of longing. As if her heart had been broken right open, ready to be brought to full life!

How did he do that? Did he do that to everyone, or was it something that happened only between them?

A voice deep within her whispered fiercely that it was the latter. But surely, she didn’t dare believe it. How could she have let him see so much of her!

“Cease, Priscilla,” he whispered. “I can see it on your face. You’re berating yourself, and I can’t have that. This is why you’re afraid of feelings and I’m not.”

She frowned. “I don’t understand.”

“You’re punishing yourself for being your true self. But you see, my mother has guided me in how to not allow myself to overly indulge any particular feeling. Especially self-criticism. She says it does no good. We live fully, we Briarwoods, but we do not wallow in anything or overindulge because my mother says that’s the quick path to illness. So we choose joy, not indulgence.”

She blinked. The very idea was beyond her. She didn’t even understand it really. Joy? She was happy and content and lucky, but the abandon with which all the Briarwoods seemed to live was beyond her, and surely they could only behave that way because of their wealth and the tenacity against all odds.

“Promise me you won’t tell,” she breathed.

“Tell what?” he asked, his eyes dancing, but at the same time there was no mockery there.

“You drive me to distraction, my lord.”

“I’m glad to hear it. It means I’m winning.”

“Winning what?” she demanded.

He cocked his head to the side. “You.”

She gasped even as her heart began to skip, traitorous thing that it was. It all but seemed to demand that she give in and let him win. “You came to see my father this morning.”

“I did,” he affirmed.

She swallowed. She was so at odds with herself. In all her life, she’d never been in such a state of contradiction. Duty versus desire. Self versus family. It was brutal. “And he made it clear to you that I would not choose you?”

He drew in a long breath, which caused his broad shoulders to stretch against his perfectly cut coat. “He did, but he also gave me leave to try. Will you give me leave to try?”

Try? She wanted to throw herself into his arms, but she was so afraid of being the fool! Oh dear God, he was so impossibly beautiful and interesting.

She studied him for a moment, then rushed, “You’re going to try to tempt me.”

His lips parted, and he shook his head. “I would not tempt you to anything that harmed you.”

“So you say,” she whispered.

“You don’t even know what you are denying yourself with me.”

She shrugged, though she did not feel blasé at all. “Ignorance is bliss, they say.”

“Ignorance is not bliss,” he countered quickly. “Ignorance leads to pain.”

“So, what would you have me do then?” she murmured, her body aching to lean towards his. “Embrace your education?”

“Wouldn’t you rather make an actual choice rather than one without information? Get to know me, Priscilla.”

She licked her lips. Dear God, he had a way with words, and she found herself leaning towards him. But she was afraid. Dear heaven, if she let him kiss her again, would she be lost? But she wanted that kiss, she wanted to get to know him. More than anything in the whole world. And if she did, surely she could take those memories out one day and remember that she had been adored by a rake.

“Is that a yes?” he whispered.

She nodded her head slightly. “I suppose it is, for I cannot admire willful ignorance.”

And then before she could say another word, before he could say another word, despite the fact that they were in the long gallery, he bent his head down and kissed her lips softly. The velvety touch sent waves of perfect harmony through her. ‘Twas as if their lips were meant to meet.

Just as before, she surrendered to his touch, to his kiss, as if her soul had been waiting for him always. She drank in that kiss, arching back, holding tightly to his arms.

But then bliss slipped away as it always did when her deep sense of duty raised its head. She gasped against his mouth and pulled back swiftly.

“You are kissing me in a public place!”

“Let us find a more private one,” he teased.

“You are the very devil, my lord! You know I cannot. Trenty is just in the other room, and we could be discovered at any moment.”

“And then you’ll be mine,” he teased.

She gaped at him. “You would not.”

“Of course I would not,” he assured quickly. “I have no wish to force you into anything. That would make me the worst of scoundrels, and I’m no scoundrel. I promise you that. Now, I simply wish for you to give in to what you truly want.”

“And what I want is you?” she asked, though she was fairly certain he was correct. What did she want? Him. Dear God. She did! Every bit of her sinew, her brain, her dratted heart! She wanted him.

He gazed down at her with a wisdom she found shocking for an apparent rake.

“Priscilla, I want you to know yourself. I want you to choose freely. And I don’t think you’re allowing yourself to. Now come,” he said. He offered her his arm. “Let me take you back to your chaperone so you will not think ill of me, and you will understand exactly what I am doing.”

“And what is that?” she asked, slipping her hand into the crook of his powerful arm. It took all her strength not to lean into him, savor his scent, and maintain a proper amount of space.

“I’m courting you properly and intensely because I want you to say yes to me before you pick Lord Fitzhubert.”

She arched a brow. “Very confident of you. He offers a great many things.”

“It’s true,” he said, his voice a low rumble. “He does. But I will offer you something more.”

“And what is that?” she queried as she dared to enjoy the feel of him supporting her as he walked beside her.

“Love,” he stated. “Love all around.”

She stumbled, grabbing hold of his arm with more vigor than she’d intended. “I-I beg your pardon?”

He gazed down at her and easily righted her as if it was the easiest thing, as if he was meant to be the one who always helped her find her feet.

“Fitzhubert knows nothing of love, Priscilla. He is cold. His family raised him to be cold. And you’ll spend the rest of your life alone with no one to love you or support you. He would expect heirs from you and for you to potentially run his house. He’ll take the fortune that you give him, but he will have no interest in you as a person. And when you go through the hard things in life, the difficulties, the tribulations? He will not shore you up. And he will not understand you.”

“And you will do all those things?” she breathed, transfixed by the conviction in his voice.

“Of course I will,” he said. “Because that’s what a Briarwood does, because that’s who I am, and that’s what a husband should always do for the woman he loves.”

She shook her head, perplexed. “How can you speak of love? You do not love me.”

“Ah,” he said. “Perhaps I do not. Not yet. But I know within my heart and in my soul that you make me feel as no one has ever done. And I shall not chance throwing that away.” He stopped, turned to her, and said with more passion, more purpose, more sincerity than she’d ever heard. “Do you understand? Life is short. Tomorrow I could die, and I would be a fool to throw you away. Life has brought you into my path. And I won’t ignore that. Do you truly think that meeting in the garden as I stumbled out of the window was by chance?” he asked. “No. That was the universe bringing us together and showing me what future was awaiting me. I like it well indeed.”

Then Lord Hector turned forward again and led her as if she was walking on clouds.

Dear heaven, he was a force. She could not deny it. And for a single moment, she wanted to throw herself into that force. But if she did, oh if she did, the consequences… They felt as if they could be hellish.

But perhaps… Perhaps heaven waited instead.