Page 23 of Lady Constantine & the Sins of Lord Kilgore
She sucked in a sharp breath. That was it. That was truly it. Underneath the murky depths of her husband dwelled the real man. She had to find him, uncover him, and decide.
“I’m dangerous, Peter,” Callum said, interrupting the thoughts galloping through her head.
“No,” she said, stroking a gentle hand across his burning forehead.
“I am, I am. The things I’ve done.” He shook his head forcibly back and forth as if trying to get the memories of his past out of his head. “I’m broken. I have to protect her.”
“From what?” she whispered. “Yourself?” She waited for his answer with breath held, but finally she said, “Callum?”
His answer was a loud snore.
Groaning in frustration, she sat there on the edge of his bed, her mind turning over what he’d revealed.The things I’ve done. I have to protect her. I’m dangerous. I’m broken. He was trying to send her away to protect her. But from what exactly? Himself and the things he’d done? What things? What had he done that was so bad he thought he could not tell her, and he thought he had to protect her from? If he’d truly loved her, then the year he’d been gone had changed him so greatly that he no longer thought himself worthy of being loved at all, but did he still love her?
Chapter Nine
1833
Six years earlier
London, England
Callum unlocked the door of the painting studio he let in the square, just a short walk from his townhome in Mayfair. The door creaked as he opened it, and he paused, glancing around the sunlit room. He’d have to tell the landlord he would not be keeping the studio next month. Thank God they’d agreed on a month-to-month rental. He no longer had any spare money after the card game, and renting the space had been wasteful anyway. He would try to paint at his townhome, though when he’d tried before, he’d been unable, feeling as if his father were watching him from the grave with intense disapproval.
Callum shoved the key to the studio in his inner pocket, his fingers grazing the letter his butler had given him as Callum was rushing out the door this afternoon. He took it out, gazing at the seal of Mr. Pepperdine, who had been his father’s solicitor.
He tapped the letter against this finger. He hadn’t opened it yet because, frankly, Callum did not want any bad news before Lady Constantine hopefully arrived at his studio at two o’clock, as he’d invited her to last night at the Fortenberry ball. Thoughts of Lady Constantine made him smile, but the smile faded as he looked down at the unopened letter. It wouldn’t do to be cowardly and avoid bad news.
Shutting the studio door with the toe of his boot, he leaned against the nearest counter and opened the letter. At the top of the letter was a note from Mr. Pepperdine.
Lord Kilgore,
I apologize profusely, but painters discovered only last week that this letter had fallen between my desk and the wall. Your father gave me a stack of papers to deal with days before he died, and this must have been among them. There was a note from your father attached to this letter, instructing me to send it to you immediately, so I am doing so now.
Callum swallowed and continued to the next paper in the envelope.
Dear Son,
Lying here in my bed this morning with the knowledge that I am dying, I was struck with the realization that I have been a fool. I see now that you can be an artist and a marquess. I don’t know why I could not see that sooner. It’s amazing what clarity being near death brings. I miss you, and I am sorry. I am sorry for the years of strife, of harshness between us. Please come home. Come home and show me your art, and allow me to apologize in person, to tell you I love you and beg your forgiveness.
Callum stared at the letter, hardly believing what he’d read. His father had been sorry just as Callum had, and he had wanted to tell him so. A wave of sadness washed over him, but so did a second wave of gratitude to have this letter, these words from his father, at all. His father had loved him. Callum couldn’t remember his father ever telling him so before, yet here was the proof. And he’d told him to come home and show him his art. His father had taken a step to meet Callum halfway, and Callum felt a renewed sense of determination to somehow set right losing the unentailed land his father had wanted him to have.
A knock came at the door suddenly, and Callum glanced at it, knowing it had to be Lady Constantine. He carefully folded the letter from his father and put it in his pocket as a shocking eagerness to see her filled him. But he hesitated to open the door, as he considered what Talbot required of him. Could Callum ruthlessly seduce her? If he didn’t, he’d likely lose the land he desperately wanted to retrieve, but if he did, he’d lose his honor—and quite possibly more than that. He wasn’t exactly sure what thatmorewas, but it was something in her he’d seen last night. A goodness. A promise of something unsullied by wickedness.
With his thoughts still in turmoil, he made his way to the door and opened it. Standing before him, she was a sight to behold. Lady Constantine was wearing a simple, modest muslin walking dress of the palest green, which complemented her hair and skin. Her hair was loosely pinned up and looked as if she had done it herself as an afterthought, just like the night before. She didn’t seem overly concerned with her appearance as so many women of his acquaintance were, and he liked that too bloody much.
“I’m astounded you came,” he said by way of greeting. He stepped out of the doorway and swept his arm toward the painting studio.
“Is that why you invited me? Because you thought I would not accept your offer?” she asked as she moved past him into the studio, her skirts swishing and the scent of what seemed to be roses following her.
“No,” he said, poking his head outside and looking around the courtyard, which all the rooms in the building faced. “Where’s your chaperone?” He closed the door, watching her. She had her back to him, and she was staring at a painting he’d completed several days ago of one of his former paramours.
“She’s very beautiful,” she said. He heard no jealously in Lady Constantine’s voice, merely wistfulness, and the tone was very telling. It was, it seemed, as his instinct told him last night: the woman was good and kind. She was not the vindictive creature Talbot wanted Callum to believe she was. “Is she your, um, your—”
“Shewasmy paramour,” he said, dual desires warring within him. He wanted to frighten her away so he wouldn’t have the chance to hurt her, but he wanted her to stay so some of her goodness might rub off on him.
She turned slowly toward him, head tilted as she considered him. “Are you always so forward in your speech?”
“No.” He picked up some sketch paper, charcoal, and a board. He leaned against the counter where he’d read his father’s letter and started sketching a rough outline of her. She had lovely bones. Perfect, really. All long, clean lines and delicate curves. “I’m usually not forthcoming at all. You do something odd to me.” It was the truth.
