Portrait of a Scotsman by Evie Dunmore

Chapter 29

Back in Drummuir, she was running out of glass plates, distilled water, and chemicals. She would have to pay another visit to St. Andrews to purchase more supplies before she could complete her project.

She had spent her last three plates on Anne holding her parasol, and she was washing said plates in the solution beneath the special red-light lamp in the side chamber. Her heart was beating as fast as though she were six years old again and unwrapping Christmas presents.

“Lucian,” she called. He was in the main room, poring over his tunnel map.

She heard the curtain rustle a moment later.

She refocused on the plate, where Anne’s face materialized below the solution’s surface like a ghost turning flesh.

“It’s perfect,” she said. “Look, just look!”

A strong arm wrapped around her middle from behind, and Lucian glanced over her shoulder.

“It’s good,” he said after a pause.

“Good? It’s marvelous!”

“It is very good,” he agreed. “But bows and parasols?”

“You are still grumpy about the parasol,” she said mildly.

“Och no,” he said. “But how will you rouse people’s pity if the bairns don’t look like miners’ children?”

She carefully placed the plate onto the table and pulled off her protective gloves. “I don’t want people’s pity,” she said. “Women like Rosie Fraser don’t want it, either.”

“I like that,” Lucian murmured. “It just isn’t what I had expected.”

She turned in his arms and looked up at him. “Do you think people who visit exhibitions in London don’t know that young children toiling in mines still exist?”

“We all know,” he replied.

“We all know,” she agreed. “Just as we all know that there are people forever bonded to the workhouse and children and elderly people starving on our street corners. But we have learned to ignore it most days—worse, to accept it—and you know what I think makes it rather too easy to do so?”

“Struggling from day to day in one’s own life,” Lucian suggested, “or not giving a damn.”

She shook her head. “Possibly, but another reason is that sometimes we look at fellow humans who suffer and see nothing like ourselves. It is too tempting to believe that hardship is something that only happens to others. The children at the corner are others. A lady who sees a miner’s girl, looking exactly like she envisions her, might feel pity. She will also feel quite safe in the knowledge this would never happen to her own little girl and she’ll remain quite unmoved beyond the pang of pity.”

“Whereas if the girl looks like her little girl …”

“Precisely.”

Lucian was quiet for a moment. “You truly believe that people can be moved to care, and trouble themselves with change, with such a soft touch?”

“Yes,” she said firmly. “I believe most people wish to do right by others.”

“Wish that I had your enthusiasm,” he murmured.

“You must have some of it,” she said. “Else you wouldn’t try to change the way of things.”

He laughed softly at that.

She laid her fingers against his chest, feeling for the beat of his heart.

He covered her hand with his. “Have you ever wondered why there’s been two Reform Acts by now, enfranchising more workingmen?” he asked. “While there’s been no concession for women who want the vote?”

“I have thought about it,” she said, wondering what it had to do with her photographs. “I think it is because people are used to men voting.”

“It’s because men are violent,” Lucian said, “and aren’t afraid to be violent. Parliament isn’t concerned with fairness, they just don’t want open bloodshed and bursting prisons. It’s why every time the mood turns proper ugly, a small concession is made to keep everyone sweet.”

“Don’t tell Lucie,” she said. “She will bring the canons.”

“Perhaps she should.”

She tugged at his lapel. “Are you discrediting my idea?”

“No,” he said after a pause. “I think it’s a very good idea. As long as one believes people are fundamentally good.”

“I do believe that,” she said. “I must.”

He raised a hand to her cheek and stroked softly with his knuckles. “One way or another, you’ll make quite a few people uncomfortable with your art, mo luaidh.”

She leaned into his touch. “I hope so.”

He looked like a thing of darkness with his brooding air and the red glow of the lamp spilling over his shadowed features.

“I should like to photograph you,” she said.

His mouth pulled into an ironic smile. “A study of a white knight, aye?”

“No,” she said, absently. “A portrait of a Scotsman.”

He chuckled to himself as he returned to his desk beyond the curtain.

She spent the evening working with a lack of focus, as Lucian’s quip about the white knight buzzed at the back of her mind like a pesky fly. She had hoped for a white knight not long ago, and for good reason: a Sir Galahad was pure and steadfast and could be counted on for noble conduct in all circumstances. Lucian … well, he was capable of goodness, but he would doubtlessly do something outrageous if he thought it necessary. Still she wanted him; a glimpse of his bare shoulders, an errant curl, or a flash of gray fire in his eyes, and she became weak in the knees. This was doubly dreadful for as long as she felt alone in this vulnerable position. Lucian desired her, but did he … care for her? Love and adore her? A white knight would have left no doubts; in the legends, they took on grueling tests to prove their love to their lady. Hattie wasn’t unreasonable; she would have settled for the more realistic version: a man who went down on one knee and asked with a tremble in his voice whether she would be his wife. His ring would have sealed his devotion. She had a ring. A golden reminder that the man who held sway over her heart had tricked her.

As she readied herself for bed that night, she knew what she had to ask of Lucian to assuage the nagging anxiety that dogged her steps these days. When he joined her under the covers with an intent expression she now knew all too well, she stayed his advance with a hand to his chest.

He gave her a searching look, and her heart was in her throat. How tempting, to just indulge in the pleasure he was offering …

“I must ask you something,” she said.

His eyes became alert. “What is it?”

Her breathing became shallow. “It is about the Earl of Rutland.”

And icy wind seemed to blast through the room.

“What of him?” Lucian asked coolly. Beneath her palm, his chest had turned hard like rock.

She swallowed. “Is he the last man on your list?”

“What is it to you?”

“You must know that calling in his debts would not endear you to society,” she ventured.

“What is it to you?” he repeated. His eyes were onyx, black and impenetrable.

How dark he was inside! This, this was precisely why she had to address the matter.

“I was thinking you should let him go,” she blurted. “I would very much like for you to let him go.”

He was looking at her as though she were a stranger. “You surprise me.”

“I sense a terrible mood in you whenever his name is mentioned, whenever you think of him,” she said. “It worries me, it does. You have plans that require a rehabilitation of your reputation, and our marriage shall only advance your standing so far. Besides, it can’t be good for your health. Or your soul.”

“My … soul,” he said, astonished.

She nodded. “Grudges are a weight the grudge holder carries, and you already carry so much.” And she would rather he felt free. Free to love her, and safe, safe for her to love him back.

“A grudge!” Lucian thawed from his sudden rigidity. “Right now, I have men in possibly unsafe tunnels he asked them to dig into the northern shelf,” he said. “And you don’t know what else he has done.”

“I don’t need to know what he has done,” she said, “for no man’s character should determine your character.”

“Too late,” he said. “He owned the mine where I worked. He owned much of me.”

At her shocked intake of breath, his cold expression suffused with a dash of pity. Presumptuous girl, said that face, don’t ask for things you know nothing about. A thick lump formed in her throat. When Lucian wore this face, she knew men had reason to fear him. How very little she knew of him yet.

“Since you have plans for which you need to be in the good graces of society …”

He gave an annoyed shake. “Harriet. Are you so naïve to believe the good men win? No. I don’t need to let Rutland off the hook anytime soon.”

Naïve.She scrambled to refocus. “I can’t fathom the injustices to which he has subjected you, but I understand your hatred for him is at odds with your plans. And I understand his wife is unwell. And your anger frightens me.”

“You’re changing your narrative, love,” he said, not sounding loving. “What is it, concern for my plans, my health, his wife, or your feelings?”

Her reply congealed in her mouth. What was it, indeed? But wasn’t it self-evident that he shouldn’t torture people?

“Must you make him pay more?” she said. “Even if it costs you a wider success?”

“I can do both,” Lucian said. “Am I not allowed satisfaction?”

“I worry,” she whispered. “I worry it shall not satisfy you the way you hope.”

His eyes became vacant, as though he wasn’t seeing her at all. “You don’t know what you are asking,” he finally said.

Something crumpled inside her chest. Hope? Her self-esteem? Her gaze dropped as her composure slipped.

Lucian touched her chin and made her face him. His face was unreadable. “It would mean a lot to you?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said, reflexively.

He released her. He stretched out on the mattress and stared at the dark ceiling with his jaw clenched and struggled terribly with himself for long minutes, which made her want to squirm on the spot. But it had been a good and necessary request.

When he raised his head again, a cool glitter shone in his eyes. “All right,” he said. “I’ll try.”

A weight lifted off her whole being, and the sudden lightness left her disoriented. He was trying. Trying for her. “Thank you,” she murmured.

“I’ll try,” he repeated.

He did not make love to her that night. It was she who approached him in the morning, with a shy hand and her eyes closed, uncertain whether he would respond. He was on top of her very swiftly, coaxing her to look at him, and when she did, his face was his own again and etched with tender greed. She wrapped her legs around his hips and urged him closer.

Though oblivious of the fact, Mr. Matthews had become their guardian of decent conduct, with his presence preventing them from spending their days in bed. Good manners demanded they share meals with him at the regular times, which forced structure upon their newly married life.

Matthews always joined them looking very well groomed and dressed and made conversation about the happenings in London. It was how she learned that her sister Mina’s engagement had been announced in “the very best spot” in the Times, which shocked her. She hadn’t cared to inform her family about her whereabouts after her father’s betrayal, but hearing the engagement news from a third party hurt. She missed her siblings. She missed her friends. Mr. Matthews turned into the harbinger of realities she did not yet care for, and she’d breathe a sigh of relief to see him return to London.

“Mr. Matthews is so well informed about society gossip,” she told Lucian when she lay sprawled across his chest later.

“He’s aristocracy,” Lucian said. “He makes a point of being interested in society.”

She was aghast. “He’s a lord?”

“No, youngest son of a baron, but fallen on hard times. Secretly, he thinks my current position in the world is an abomination.”

She nestled more closely against him. “You could be kinder to him,” she suggested.

“I’m as kind as I can be. I suspect he’s done some bad gambling in my absence.”

“I admit I’m slightly relieved to see him leave,” she confessed. “I can’t shake the feeling that he has been scrutinizing me ever since he arrived.” She smiled. “He probably thinks you are a barbaric ravisher and I suffer in your clutches.”

Unexpectedly, her banter hit a mark deep inside him—she felt him flinch beneath her palm. She glanced up and found his expression was tense.

“I would never hurt you that way,” he said. “You must know that.”

She gave him a confused smile. “I know.”

The tension in him didn’t ease. She cradled his jaw in her small hand. “You are my dark knight,” she said. “My cruel prince. And I’m not nearly as scared of you as you would like me to be.”

“I don’t want you scared at all,” he said, annoyed. “If I’m too demanding—tell me so. I can’t read minds.”

“Is something the matter?”

“No.”

She felt his fingers in her hair, stroking absently while something turned and twisted inside his chest.

“My mother,” he finally said. “Sometimes,” he tried again, “sometimes I can’t be certain whether she much liked the man who fathered me.”

She pressed a tender kiss to his ribs. “She loved you very much,” she said.

“How would you know?” His tone was defensive. She still heard the flimsy, reluctant flicker of hope, and her heart ached for him.

“Because you said she loved the sun most of all,” she murmured. “And she named you Lucian.”

His eyes narrowed to dark slits.

“Lucian means light, or light bringer,” she said gently. “Don’t you know that?”

He lay perfectly quiet for a moment.

“I suppose,” he said. “I just never …” He gave a hoarse laugh. “My sister’s name, Sorcha … it means light, too. She definitely loved wee Sorcha. Christ. I just never made the connection.” His chest shook with a silent chuckle. “You’re brilliant,” he then said, his eyes shiny with unfamiliar mirth. “I’m a dunce.”

Her smile faded, because he wasn’t a dunce, he was wickedly clever. That he hadn’t seen the connection was owed to how he instinctively felt about himself. Unlovable. The realization made her breathless with protective anger.

He pulled her up to bring their mouths level and kissed her. “Thanks,” he murmured against her lips, so softly she barely caught it.

“My mind is funny like that,” she said. Flitting around and cobbling seemingly unfitting things together only to blurt them out loud. Lucian’s arms locked around her and squeezed hard enough to make her squeak. “Your mind’s bloody brilliant,” he repeated firmly, and now it made her glow as warmly as a good loving. Almost as good as an I love you. He still had not said the three words, but he had given up Rutland for her, and she clung—yes, clung—to that as a token of his love.

His wife had morphed from miserable bride into a bewitchingly enthusiastic companion, both in and outside the bedchamber, and it made Lucian nervous. The pleasure between them came at a cost. The urge to please her forced his hand, no matter how outrageous her demands—see the matter of Rutland, the whoreson. Naturally, she had sniffed out what mattered to him the most and had fixated on it. I’ll try, he had said, for it had felt impossible to promise her anything less. That wasn’t all. She demanded more, that he share of himself, not explicitly, but he had noticed she was especially receptive when he did, so he tried. Talking of himself felt rusty and cumbersome, like operating outdated machinery, and sometimes a vent broke and he couldn’t stop blabbing. One by one, she drew secrets from him.

Last night, she had asked if he had truly purchased his first properties from the proceeds of the antiques shop sale on Leicester Square. “It was part of the budget,” he had said, his fingers playing over her hip, trying and failing to distract her. So he had admitted to stealing valuables from posh houses, and that he had been boxing for money in East London for a while, too. And when she hadn’t fled the bed after those revelations, he told her about Renwick, the noise-sensitive artist she had met on their first day. “He came to Graham’s shop to collect some old chest,” he had said, “and in passing, he pointed out that one of the Louis XIV tables was a forgery. Now, Graham, the owner, who was a decent fellow, had been really troubled that his own keen eye hadn’t spotted it.”

Lucian had noticed things about Renwick instead: the man’s gaunt cheeks and scuffed boots, that his shirt had been turned inside out and was still dirty. The look of a man who might be interested in making coin. “I followed Renwick through the alleys and made him a proposition. If one could recognize a well-done forgery, just like that, one could probably tell how to create really well-done forgeries, too.” During the negotiation, he had understood Renwick’s problem: the man had no notion how to interact with fellow men, was blunt to the point of rudeness, and had no patience for business affairs. He had been sent down from the best art school in Florence despite his remarkable artistic talents. “His rudeness didn’t bother me because he was always right on the facts. He wasn’t even keen on coin; he liked making excellent forgeries and having clueless toffs pay for them.”

As an artist herself, Harriet had disapproved, but then she had pressed herself against him and fallen asleep with her sweet head resting on his shoulder. It seemed the shagging fogged her brain as much as it clouded his. It had to be the shagging that made him so careless, so eager. Admitting that he was madly, brutally, in love with her would open Pandora’s box; it would hold him somewhat accountable to his promise about Rutland, for once, even when the promise had been vague. Besides. Everyone he loved was eventually lost to him.

This night, she was curled up by his side and playing with the silvery scars that snaked across his abdomen. She was tracing, kissing, gently nipping. “It’s from the girdle, isn’t it,” she had asked a while ago, “from pulling the tubs?” He had confirmed it and had explained that they had ponies to do the pulling these days. He hadn’t told her about how the girdle had caused him blisters that would hurt like hell before they broke, how the harness would stick and his shirt would be blood soaked by the end of every shift, over and over, until the tender boyish skin had hardened enough to stand it well most days. Something told him that she knew; she made a point of lavishing attention on these ruined parts of him, as though she were trying to kiss them better …. He didn’t particularly enjoy it; he wasn’t a bairn with a scraped knee.

She flicked her soft tongue a few inches below his navel, and his nerves lit with awareness. All right, so he enjoyed some of it.

“You’ll be flat on your back again if you keep doing that,” he murmured.

Another flick. Cheeky chit.

“When you kiss me,” he heard her say, “down between my legs …”

He raised his head. “Yes?”

Her eyes were hazy with erotic mischief. “Is it something a man would enjoy, too?”

“Can’t you tell?”

She rolled onto her side and rested her chin in her palm. “I meant when he receives it.”

A white roar filled his head.

“It’s considered a perversion,” he then said.

“But would it please you?”

“Yes. But it’s not something one would ask from a wife.” He added this with reluctance.

She rested her hand high up on his thigh. “If a wife were to want to do it,” she whispered, “would a husband think very badly of her?”

His mouth was dry. The pause stretched long enough to make her eager expression falter.

“No,” he said. “He would buy her a castle.”

Her brows rose. “A castle.”

“Wherever she wanted.”

She came to her knees and bent over him, and the loose strands of her hair trailed over his sensitive parts. His fingers dug into the mattress.

She paused. “Lucian,” she said sweetly.

“Yes?” His cock was so heavy it ached.

Her gaze locked with his. “Why don’t you raise your arms above your head.”

He tensed. This was not his usual way; he very much preferred to do the doing. While he deliberated, she lowered her head, and the first silky-wet touch of her mouth sent a bolt of heat straight to his spine.

“All right.” He raised his arms above his head.

She licked, the way she had felt him do it to her.

He glanced at her, and the picture of her small hand wrapped around him incinerated his shaky attempt at restraint. “Take me in your mouth,” he said, his voice breaking. “Then suck, up and down. Use your hand, too.”

When she did, he moaned and saw stars. He hadn’t expected to feel this particular sensation again. He hadn’t expected to indulge in any of his inclinations again, and yet there she was, wanting him rough, and the next day, putting her mouth on him …. And it was different. Not just because he surrendered, but because it was her mouth, her hands, her sighs. One by one, his muscles relaxed. His mind emptied. For the first time in his life, he gave all of himself up to tenderness.

A while later he lay flushed and panting in the sheets. He felt undone, rearranged, as if something solid inside him had broken open, as though a storm were howling over the exposed plain of his soul. It hurt.

Harriet was sitting back on her heels and surveyed him with the satisfied expression of a cat presiding over its latest kill. “As for the castle,” she said, “I should like a quaint, pretty one. Preferably in Tuscany.”

He nodded. He’d give her anything.

She laughed. “I jest.” She kept touching her fingertips to her lips, smiling as though she liked the feel of it. “I enjoyed it,” she said. “Truly, I did.”

“I wasn’t jesting,” he said. “Tuscany it is.”

Anything for her, if it kept her looking at him as though she loved him, too.

Or so he thought.