“My father and I . . .” He hesitated. “We have a strained relationship.”
“Oh.” Louisa knew little of his father except that he was penniless and her mother did not want an association, but he had mentioned their troublesome relationship once before. “I’m sorry.”
“There’s nothing to be sorry about. How has your summer fared?” His mouth tipped up into that half smile she adored so much. “I assume you’ve been tripping over admirers?”
“A ladynevertells.” She sent him a coquettish pout. “And you? Do you still hold fast to your vow of chastity and moral superiority?”
“A gentleman never tells,” he returned, and she laughed, turning back to the front. Who would have thought that a young man with such staid and old-fashioned values would have a sense of humour?
“Remind mewhyyou have taken such a vow?” She turned back to him, genuinely curious. “You are not like any other young gentlemen I have met.” All of whom enjoyed drinking, cards, and female company. “You have gained a name for yourself as a man who adheres rigidly to his values, which naturally is admirable, but I simply cannot conceive why.”
His smile was gentle. “I wouldn’t expect you to understand.”
“Why? Because I am nothing more than a shallow flirt?” She tossed her head, abruptly irritated. “Don’t treat me like a child.”
There was a silence as they came to the outskirts of the city. Louisa considered cantering ahead to talk with someone else when Henry said, “It’s because I don’t want to be like my father.” His eyes were fixed on his reins as he said it, and she had the feeling he had never confessed this aloud before. “He destroyed our family by doing all the things I’ve vowed not to.” There was a new harshness to his face. “When I marry, my family will not wonder if I will return home. My wife will not be humiliated because I parade my mistresses across town. My children will not be left to wonder if they will have anything left to inherit—or even if they will be granted the chance to live in their house come next year.” He snapped his jaw shut, and Louisa forgot her irritation in the face of his pain. “It is not something you can understand, Louisa, because you’ve not had to live it.”
For the first time, she saw herself as he must see her: a silly, airheaded girl whose thoughts were of beaus and conquests and flirtations. A girl who repeatedly toyed with him and pushed at his boundaries because they did not align with her own.
“I cannot change his actions,” he said, his voice low, “but this is one thing I can control. And I must control something, Louisa, or I will go mad.”
Henry Beaumont, the man who never, and all because his father was the man who always.
It was an extreme reaction, but she understood it, a little.
“Would moderation hurt?” she asked.
“And if I am not capable of moderation? My father clearly isn’t. Better I never have to find out how low I can sink.”
“Your self-control is admirable,” she murmured.
“It’s a necessity. Survival.” He hesitated as he glanced at her. “I likely will inherit very little, if anything at all. His behaviour won’t be curbed. And I must have something.”
“I understand.” She cocked her head as she observed him, wondering if he would balk at her confession. After all, Society as a whole disapproved—or it would, if it knew. “I am not certain I ever want to marry.”
His brows rose. “Because of your painting?”
“You remembered?”
He glanced at her. “I remember everything,” he said, and the tone of his voice made something warm and liquid erupt in the base of her stomach. “You told me you aspire to become one of the great painters.”
“I’m learning,” she said, struggling to find her ability to speak under the unsettlingly hot weight of his attention. “My father has hired me a tutor, and I am spending all my free time practising. If I were to marry, my husband would control whether I continued to paint, and he would almost certainly disapprove of my oils.”
Henry surveyed her with unwarranted seriousness. “You love it enough to sacrifice marriage for it?”
“How much of a sacrifice truly is marriage? Particularly when I have no interest in it.” She sighed wistfully. “When I have a paintbrush in my hand, I feel as though I am free. What man can grant me freedom?”
His gaze sharpened, and she felt his need to understand as though it were painted onto his skin. “Is that what art is to you? Freedom?”
“Do you not feel it too?” she asked earnestly. “Have you never seen something and been touched by it? Not merely by what it’s representing, but the skill it has taken to reproduce something of that magnitude? It’s one of the lenses through which we view history. It brings the world around us alive through the painter’s eyes. Through my painting, I can convey things I could never explain through words alone. I am more than the sum of my parts. More than I could ever be alone.”
Henry said nothing, and she flushed. Usually, she was so careful to keep her opinions locked safely down, but she had forgotten herself. Something about him made it all too easy to be honest, and honesty was one thing she had learnt one should never have too much of. The truth was potent, and if she gave too much of it away, it was akin to cutting her soul into pieces and dispensing the remains.
“I’m sorry,” she said, flashing him a brilliant smile. This was why she only ever flirted when she was in public. Talking of serious matters invited in danger. “We can discuss something else. You have a remarkably good seat on your horse, Lord Eynsham. Are you a frequent rider?” She took her bottom lip into her mouth, glancing up at him through her eyelashes. “You will have to teach me one day. I ride but infrequently.”
“No,” he said quietly. “Don’t hide yourself from me, Louisa.”
She took a fortifying breath. “I’m sorry, my lord. I don’t quite understand your meaning.”
