Page 20 of Legacy of Succession

“Am I free to go home then?”

“No.” He takes a drink, and I copy. I lick my lips to take away the residue brandy on them.

“Then, I’m afraid, you're a monster and always will be. Real men don’t need to kidnap and imprison women to choose a bride. They go out on dates, like normal people.” I cross one of my legs over the other. He watches my thighs rub together in the tight fabric of the skinny jeans that I’m wearing.

“Which is why I asked you here.”

“You think this counts as a date?” I snort a contemptuous laugh.

“It’s the best I can offer. This isn’t prescribed in the governing document. It’s something I want to do, though.”

“Impress us with your witty repertoire in the hope that one of us falls in love with your good looks and humor and agrees to marry you. I don’t think that’s going to happen. Not unless they’re as insane as every man in this place.”

He sits forward in his chair and brushes his hand through his hair. It's longer on the top than at the sides and ruffles down to leave him with a sexy bed head.

“You know, I thought the bravado was all an act, but I’m beginning to see that you really are a bitch.”

“I’m not a bitch. The situation has just made me a little angry,” I interrupt and get to my feet ready to storm away.

“No, you’re a spoiled little rich girl. I bet Daddy has always given you what you wanted all your life?” He gets to his feet and grabs my arm and turns me around to face him. I try to pull away, but he holds my arm tightly. “At least you’ve had twenty-one years of a normal life. I’ve known about having to force a woman to marry me almost since I was born. It was the first thing I learned, pretty much, before I could even talk. That kind of messes with a kid’s head, knowing his life is mapped out for him, and there’s nothing he can do about it.”

I try to pull away again but can feel his strong grip tighten and dig into my slender arm.

“You think my life has been normal? It’s been far from it. Maybe knowing about my future would have made my childhood more understandable,” I respond and give up struggling. I lean further into him, so our faces are inches away from each other. I am so angry. “My childhood was spent in the company of a governess. I watched my brother and my only friend, a maid’s daughter, go off to school and come home talking about all the friends they made. They would go to parties, the park, concerts. Every single time I asked to go, I was told ‘no’. If I left the house, it was under my father’s supervision. I dreamed of going to university, of getting away, having a life, and learning more about art. But my father’s answer was always the same - that I didn’t need to work, so what would be the point in me learning things like that? I spent day after day alone. I had no idea why, until I was brought here. You think that’s a normal life? Then, you’re a bigger fool than you look. You may have known you would become a monster, but I had no idea I would become your victim.”

He winces at my words. He lets me go and stumbles back into his chair. I should run away while I can, but my feet won’t take me. Instead, I stay still, my chest heaving as I try to calm myself, after my fiery explosion.

“I went to university and studied Art. It was fun. What would your specialty have been?”

“My what?” My voice is quiet now.

“What would you have focused on? Fine arts? History of Art? Digital Arts?”

“History.”

“I did digital. Art on computers. Why history?”

I look back at the chair, and he nods for me to sit.

“I like learning about paintings, the history behind them, and the artist who painted them. I like learning why they made certain strokes the way they did, and what it reflects about them in the painting.”

“I’ve seen you looking at all the paintings around the house.” He relaxes back into his chair and crosses his left ankle over his right leg. I sit forward in mine. I’m still anxious being here and want to be ready to run, should I need to.

“You have some good examples. Do they come from the Duke’s work with the London galleries?”

“He’s well connected when it comes to purchasing artwork. It helps him get the ones he wants.”

I laugh — it’s a sweet and genuine chuckle, which catches me by surprise. I’ve no idea where the sound comes from.

“What?” he asks curiously. He is intrigued to know what has triggered me to let my guard down around him.

“I was just thinking. I hope that those contacts didn’t advise him to spend a lot of money on Van Gogh’s Poppies. I doubt that’s the original since it was stolen eight years ago in Egypt.”

It’s his turn to laugh, this time. I feel as though it's a private joke he’s not ready to share with me.

“I don't know the price my father paid. It would serve him right if he had indeed been tricked. He’s too pretentious when it comes to art. He likes the finest and will often overlook pieces by more modern artists.”

“Modern artists are just as good as the Old Masters, in my mind. Is that why you chose digital to specialize in?” I’m slightly scared of the accord we have formed. I know my facts when it comes to art. For someone with no formal qualifications, I’m well read. Discussing masterpieces with someone is enjoyable.

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