The Artist and the Rake Read online

  “No. I don’t think so.” She huddled in the corner, wrapping protective arms around herself. “I will never be ready for that.” Tears flooded her eyes and she swallowed a few times. “But I want to. I know that sounds contradictory, but I’ve always wanted love. A husband. A home. Children. But…”

  Not easily dissuaded, he smiled. “I am a patient man, Lizbeth. I’m not going anywhere. And as I said, when you’re ready.”

  She looked out the window at the darkness. Like the darkness that resided in her soul. Would she ever be ready? Was she to remain unmarried and unloved for the rest of her life? No loving husband, or snug little house like the one she was raised in? No children? The horrible people who had kidnapped her would then win. Would she allow that?

  She wiped the tears from her cheeks and looked into his quiet and steady eyes. “Will you…help me?”

  Chapter 11

  Two days after Lizbeth and Marcus retrieved her belongings from Mrs. O’Leary’s house, Lizbeth started on the first painting since she’d been kidnapped. When she’d been a tenant at the boarding house, Mrs. O’Leary had allowed her time to paint during the day, after her work for the day was finished, but that piece, along with all her other artwork, had not been in the storage room, so it was time to start something new.

  She’d been thrilled to see her art supplies were among her belongings in the box they’d brought back, though. Adding those to the few she was able to buy with her earnings from the bookstore gave her enough for a new start.

  Addie had graciously moved Lizbeth’s bedchamber to another one where the light was much better. She set up her easel and began to assemble her paints when there was a light knock on her door.

  She rose from the floor where she’d been sorting things out and opened the door. At first, she thought she’d imagined the sound because no one was there. Then a little boy appeared, who had apparently been standing away from the door.

  Michael, - Addie’s stepson had the cutest little face, perpetually smiling. She’d seen him about, but never really spent time with him. Since he was deaf, there really was no way for her to communicate with him, but she decided there were some movements that he would understand.

  She bent down and smiled at him. He smiled back. She stood and waved toward the room. “Would you like to come in?”

  He nodded and followed her into the room. He looked around, then walked over to her easel and paint supplies. He turned back and smiled again, then pointed to his chest.

  “Do you paint?” She twirled her hand around as if painting.

  Again, he must have understood her because he nodded. He turned back to the easel she had set up and ran his little fingers over the canvas.

  All of a sudden, Lizbeth had a vision of her younger brother, Eli doing the same exact thing when he was about Michael’s age. She’d been starting a new painting and Eli loved to watch her paint.

  A total surprise to her parents when they’d learned Eli was on the way, the boy had been fifteen years younger than her.

  Michael turned to her and she swore she saw Eli’s visage. Something must have shown on her face because Michael frowned, then came over to her and hugged her around her legs. She collapsed to the floor and pulled Michael onto her lap. She wrapped her arms around his little body and cried.

  She cried for the young boy who was taken by influenza before he even got a chance to grow up. She cried for her life that was ripped out from under her, not once, but twice. She began to rock Michael as the tears continued to fall. He reached around her and patted her on the back with his little hand, which only made her cry harder.

  He smelled like a little boy. Sugar cookies, bath soap, chocolate, all the smells Eli carried with him.

  The door to her room, which she hadn’t closed all the way, swung open. “Michael? What are you doing here?” Marcus’s soft voice cut through her grief. She let Michael go and wiped her cheeks with her palms.

  Marcus walked over to her and picked Michael up, set him on his feet and then extended his hand to Lizbeth. She took his hand and stood.

  “What’s wrong? Did Michael do something to upset you? We’ve been looking for him.”

  Lizbeth shook her head. “No. All Michael did was be himself.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  She took a deep breath and looked up at Marcus. “For a moment he reminded me of my youngest brother, Eli, who died from influenza.”

  “Ah.” Marcus reached out and enfolded her into his arms. He rocked her gently as she continued to cry. There was no panic now. Marcus was holding her like a friend, with no expected return. He was comfortable and comforting. She clung to him like a beacon in a storm.

  “He was so young. He never got a chance to grow up.” She leaned back and looked at him. “It was so unfair. It should have been me, instead of him.”

  Marcus squeezed her. “No, sweeting. If Eli had been the only one to survive, he would have been all alone. You, all alone, survived, but he would not have.”

  She used the heels of her hands to wipe her eyes. “Yes. I’m afraid that’s true.”

  Lizbeth looked down at Michael who stared up at her with a frown. “I think I might have scared the poor boy.”

  Marcus lifted Michael in his arms, then made a few motions with his fingers and the boy smiled. Michael turned to Lizbeth and patted her on the shoulder. New tears came, but she fought them this time.

  “Do you know sign language?” she asked.

  “I’ve learned a little, enough that I can help Michael in a crisis.”

  Lizbeth laughed. “And this is a crisis?”

  Marcus shifted Michael in his arms and placed his arm around Lizbeth’s shoulders, putting her against him. “It was to you.”

  All the tears had brought on a fine headache, along with a loss of interest in the painting she was about to start. What she needed was to get out of the house. A walk, perhaps. “Are you in the mood for a walk?”

  “I am always interested in a walk with you. Let me return Michael to his nanny who was about to put him down for a nap when she noticed he was missing. We can walk a few streets to a little tea shop on Milsom Street. If you are hungry, we can take tea.”

  “That sounds wonderful. Just let me see what I can do to fix the damage all those tears caused.”

  Marcus placed his knuckle under her chin and raised her head. “You look just fine the way you are. Beautiful.”

  “I think we already agreed you are a liar.”

  Marcus walked toward the door, still carrying Michael. “I will await you downstairs in the drawing room.”

  Lizbeth changed from the dress she was wearing which was much more suited to painting than for a stroll about town. She chose a pale green walking suit with black piping, with a matching hat, both items compliments of Lady Berkshire who claimed she would never fit into her clothes after the baby came and would have a great time spending his lordship’s money on a new wardrobe.

  Once she rinsed her face and applied a cold cloth to her eyes, she felt much better. The headache was even beginning to recede. She looked in the mirror and her spirits rose. She looked pretty. Almost happy. That frequently happened to her once she had a good cry. It was as if letting out all the bad humors helped.

  On a whim, she picked up the parasol that matched the walking suit and made her way downstairs. It was neither raining nor sunny, but the parasol completed the outfit.

  Marcus stood as she entered the drawing room. “Miss Davenport, you are truly a vision in loveliness.” He bowed and she made a curtsey. Then they both laughed.

  Although she hated to cover up the lovely outfit, it was much too cold for a walk without her cape. Marcus took the garment from Penrose and set it on her shoulders. Then he extended his elbow and they left the house.

  * * *

  Marcus couldn’t keep his eyes off Lizbeth again. Although he’d told her she looked beautiful when she was a mess from crying, he’d truly meant it. It wasn’t just her countenance that made her
lovely, but her smile, the way she carried herself, and most of all the courage she’d shown since her abduction, that made her beautiful.

  But now with her change of clothes, along with the perky hat that sat on her head, she once again looked as beautiful as when they carried her from the brothel.

  Her tears over her brother had torn him up inside. His feelings for her were growing every day. He was not happy if she was unhappy. He was not calm if she was nervous, and he was terrified if she was in danger.

  “How do you find working at the bookstore?” Marcus asked as he assessed the traffic when they reached the edge of the pavement. He moved them forward when there was a break in the vehicles.

  “I love working there. I have always favored reading, and to be able to handle books all day is such a treat. And when we are not busy, I get to read.”

  “I must stop in there one day. Reading is also a favorite pastime of mine. And I’m sorry to say I only visited Once Upon a Book twice when my sister owned the place.”

  They remained silent for a few minutes, then Lizbeth turned to him. “May I ask you a question that might seem rude, but if you will forgive me my impertinence and answer it, I would be grateful.” She grinned. “Oh, my, that was quite a mouthful, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes. That was indeed quite a speech. I dread to think what you have in mind.”

  She waited a few more minutes, and just when he thought she had changed her mind, she spoke. “I am not, and have never been, part of the upper crust.” She turned toward him. “The sort of people I know you socialize with in London.”

  He smiled. “Ah. The Beau Monde. Also known as the ton. Or the Upper Ten Thousand.”

  “Yes. That group.”

  “You might say that. My father’s oldest brother is an earl, and Mother’s father was a baron. So, we are members of the ton. And as such I have attended a number of events.” He looked down at her. “Is that what you are referring to?”

  Perhaps Lizbeth wanted to attend one of the many balls and routs she was asking about. Although he would be happy to escort her to any event she would like if they had reason to be in London, with her sweet countenance and honesty, many of the other young women would eat her up.

  “Yes, that is what I mean. I know Addie had a difficult time with it, but she mentioned you were quite…popular.”

  Bells went off in his head. He’d spent several years working on his reputation as a rake. He’d enjoyed numerous liaisons, although he shied away from married women. He’d had mistresses on and off and spent time and money in the gaming halls and gentlemen’s clubs.

  He’d never been involved in public drunkenness or races in Hyde Park in his curricle. Having to work each day in his father’s businesses did curtail his carousing a bit from some of his friends who continued to eschew work and carry on as gentlemen, even though many of them were having a hard time maintaining their estates.

  Thinking—and hoping—that perhaps he was off on what she was referring to, he said, “Yes. I was invited to many social events.” He shrugged. “I guess you could say I was on most hostesses’ list.”

  “I see.” They continued to walk. “But that isn’t exactly what I meant.”

  That’s what he was afraid of. They crossed another street and Marcus turned them toward the area where the tea shop was. “What, exactly, then, did you mean?”

  “Addie mentioned, and so did Pamela—not that we were talking about you, please understand—that…”

  “That what?” He was almost sure he knew what she was dithering about, but in the oft chance he was wrong, he kept his mouth closed and let her have her say.

  She brought them to an abrupt stop. “That you are a known rake, have had numerous affairs, dozens of mistresses, and attend questionable parties.” With the last few words, she dragged them forward, her face a bright red.

  “I see.” How the devil was he to answer those charges? While he enjoyed bedding more than a few women, he would hardly say he’d had numerous affairs and dozens of mistresses. Perhaps in his younger days, fresh from University, there were several parties he would never want to see his sister at, but all gentlemen delved into that area at least once in their life. Didn’t they?

  He cleared his throat. “You must understand that the life of a young man in the ton—”

  “Did you?”

  “Did I what?” Perhaps ignorance would help to at least give him some time to form a truthful answer without making him look like some sort of dissipated scoundrel.

  She offered him a slight smile. “I think you are avoiding the question.”

  They reached the tea shop and he was grateful for the interruption while they were greeted, seated, and approached by the server. Once their order had been placed, Lizbeth folded her hands on the table and looked him square in the eye. “I am still waiting for my answer.”

  “That’s what I am afraid of,” he mumbled to himself. Then, he quelled the urge to run his finger around the edge of his cravat, which suddenly felt much too snug. “I led the typical life of a young man of the ton. I attended a number of social events, like balls, routs, garden parties, and house parties.”

  He stopped, but she waved her hand in such a way as to say “Continue.”

  “I also spent time in the gaming halls, my gentlemen’s club, and other, more…shall we say inappropriate-for-young-ladies’ parties.”

  Lizbeth smiled and leaned back as the server approached with their tea things. They went through the usual process of Lizbeth pouring and fixing tea, passing plates of small sandwiches, biscuits, and tarts.

  She shook out her napkin and placed it on her lap. “And the other things?”

  He arranged his features into the most innocent way he could and looked at her. “Other things?”

  Lizbeth took a sip of tea and raised her eyebrows. “Mistresses?”

  Bloody hell, she was going to make him say it. Were she any other woman he would dodge the question, but he wanted something more between them. Truthfulness and trust. No doubt given her experience, her trust had been smashed like a glass tossed into a fireplace. As uncomfortable as this made him, she needed his honesty.

  “Yes. I have had mistresses. Not dozens, but a few over the years, never more than one at a time.” He chuckled. “Couldn’t afford it.” He took a sip of tea wishing it would turn into brandy when she merely responded with raised brows. Miss Lizbeth Davenport made him feel like a young boy with a stolen biscuit behind his back.

  “And affairs?”

  Double bloody hell. “Yes. There were a few of those.” He stopped, then hurried on. “But no married women. That goes against my own personal code of behavior.”

  She eyed the treats on the plate in the center of the table. “Debutantes?”

  “Never.” He shook his head. “I would never ruin a young lady. Or be stuck having to marry one.”

  She nodded as if satisfied with his answers. He, on the other hand, felt the sweat under his cravat, and soaking the back of his shirt as if he’d just gone a round in the boxing ring.

  Lizbeth took a bite of a fruit tart and smiled. “This is delicious. You should try one.”

  She licked her lips and grinned at him.

  What the devil just happened?

  Chapter 12

  “Thank you, Mr. Sinclair. I’m sure your wife will just love that book.” Lizbeth smiled at the man who visited the store just about every day she worked. He didn’t always buy something, but he chatted with her, and occasionally brought a piece of lemon candy or fruit for her, telling her she needed to add some pounds.

  Were he younger, or unmarried, she would suspect he was attempting to court her, but at nine and sixty years—he proudly boasted of the number the first time they’d met—and married to the same woman for more than forty years, he was just a nice man who loved books.

  “I am sure she will love it, too.” He tipped his hat. “Have a nice day, Miss Davenport.”

  There were still a few customers browsing the shelve
s and since she’d already asked if they needed help, she decided to take a short break and settle into the comfortable stuffed chair at the front of the store to read a few more pages from Jane Austen’s Emma that she’d started that morning.

  She first picked up a copy of The Woman in White but found it unnerving and decided it was not something she would enjoy, and at this time in her life she was all for fun and enjoyment.

  “I would like to purchase these two books, miss.” An older woman who had been in the store once before when Lizbeth was working walked up to her.

  Lizbeth hopped up. “Of course.” She took the books from the woman and carried them to the front counter where she checked the prices of the books, tallied the numbers and handed the slip to the customer.

  They exchanged money and the woman picked up her purchase and left. Lizbeth looked around the store again, and it appeared the other people who’d been browsing had left. She took a quick peek at her timepiece. Only fifteen more minutes until closing time.

  There were rarely new customers in the last few minutes before closing, so she sat on a stool in front of the counter and began to tally up the day’s sales. The bell jingled and she looked up from her work and sucked in a deep breath.

  “Good evening, Miss Davenport.” Mrs. O’Leary strolled up to her as if they were the best of friends.

  “What do you want?” The words came out even before Lizbeth thought of them. And she didn’t care how abrupt they sounded.

  Mrs. O’Leary tsked. “My dear, does the owner of this wonderful store—” she stopped and looked around “—know how you greet his customers?”

  “I doubt that you are a customer since in all the time I lived in your house I never saw you pick up a book.”

  Mrs. O’Leary tugged off her gloves and offered a sweet smile that Lizbeth wanted to slap off her face. “I do read on occasion. And as a public store, I believe I have the right to enter and browse the shelves.”

  “I don’t know what you’re doing here, but the store closes in about ten minutes.” Despite her pounding heart, Lizbeth returned to her duties. She got nowhere since with Mrs. O’Leary nearby she couldn’t concentrate on her work.