Page 94 of A Scandalous Kind of Duke

It was too cruel of him to offer her kindness. Not when his kindness could only be temporary and she needed it so much.

He glanced around the threadbare studio. “Where are your family and friends? Who is helping you?”

“The artists will not come near me. The adverse side effects of painting nudes are contagious and they have put me in quarantine so no one catches my shocking moral indecency.”

“You have powerful friends, wealthy friends. Lady Hardbury? Mrs. DeWitt? Have they abandoned you?”

“Arabella and Cassandra cannot leave their babies, but they offer to send carriages. They will put me in their attics to paint pictures and hide from their respectable guests.” She twisted her fingers in the curtain. “My aunt and uncle have taken the cats to live as lazy mousers in their London house. They will have a nice life and soon they will forget me, because that is what cats do.” Then, because anger always proved an excellent defense against sorrow and fear, she added, “That is what I do too, I hear. Forget people.”

“I—” He stopped short.

“You—what? You would wave some ducal wand and fix everything? Will you hide me in your attic too, and keep me secret from your lovely lady wife? ’Tis all right, Leo. You don’t have to look after me. I have no one to blame but myself.”

“Prescott is a pompous, narrow-minded prig.”

She laughed shakily. “Yes. He is. But he is the voice of a society, and it is stronger than me and it is stronger than you. There is nothing you can do. I want nothing from you anyway.”

He didn’t answer. He turned to pace through the studio. His footsteps echoed through the hollowed-out room. She drank in the sight of him, so impeccably dressed, all familiar lines and fluid grace.

“I have booked passage to Italy,” she added jauntily. “I leave late tomorrow night, and that is how it goes. Mrs. Prescott has behaved well and I have behaved badly, so she will host a ball and I shall flee on a boat. Maybe after Italy, I’ll go to France. There are so many places in Europe I can go. They do not care about some silly English scandal. It is not so bad, you know. I’ll be free of London’s rules, at least. I’ll paint whatever I please and have whatever experiences I want.”

He stopped before her row of secret paintings and studied them in silence.

“Here they are,” he said softly. “The paintings you did not want me to see.”

Fondness infused his expression as he looked at her. No, notather: He looked rightintoher, seeing her deepest parts. He saw her dark shadowy corners, her secret landscapes, her foolishness, her regrets, her loneliness, her passions.

Curse him. How dare he! How dare he understand her and accept her, when he had not chosen her. He cared about her, she knew that, but that was not enough, not enough for him to show up here and—

“Go,” she said, the word tearing through her.

“Juno—”

“There is nothing you can do. You cannot help.”

He waited.

“Leo, please leave. I cannot bear to see you anymore.”

CHAPTER24

Juno’s usually rosy complexion was pale. Her eyes were dull and shadowed. Even her boisterous hair looked defeated.

Leo would burn down the world if it brought warmth into her cheeks, command the sun to shine if it might dispel those shadows. He would hold her until her tears went away.

It was not the tears she wanted gone, but him.

It occurred to him that this was the first time she had ever sent him away. He had always taken her welcome for granted. Today, he was no longer welcome.

And today, when she needed him most, when the world had stolen her verve and livelihood and dreams, he could do nothing.

Those other paintings—he had never seen them before, but he recognized them all the same. They formed the gallery of her hidden heart. She had shown him her secret places, and he had shown her his. She had seen him flawed and foolish and out of control, and she had claimed to love him anyway.

He had not dared to believe in her love, for fear she might break his heart again, yet his heart was shattering anyway, because she had lost everything, and there was nothing—nothing—nothinghe could do.

She stood straight and did not relent.

He stepped back. He bowed. He turned. He left.

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