His gaze shuttered a little at the reference to Knight’s sister—the one she had sworn she would use to get her revenge. But all he said was, “Knight can go hang.”
“I could perhaps make him do so,” she said seriously. “But I won’t.”
“No?”
“If he is doing this over his sister . . . I can understand it.”
Henry’s lip curled. “His methods are repugnant.”
“Yes,” she said, and gave in to the calling of her body, crawling back across the bed. He drew her into his arms, settling her on his chest, an arm around her back, playing idly with her hair.
“Are things truly so bad for you?” she asked.
“You mean are we on the brink of ruin? Yes.” His voice was wry. “My father knows no restraint and my brother is following in the same path.”
“Oliver?”
“Yes. I’ve tried remonstrating with him, but to no avail. He seems determined to kick up every lark at Oxford, and heaven forbid hestudy.”
She rested her chin on her hand as she looked into his face, at the unyielding lines of it even now. The air of youthful innocence had gone, replaced by something that looked a little jaded. She remembered how he had been as a young man, so responsible and dutiful even then. He knew what his father was and determined to steer clear of those temptations, even when it would prove difficult.
But his brother, evidently, did not have his disposition. It would be a rare man who did, she thought.
“Have you spoken to him as a man?” she asked. “Not as your brother, or one you’re responsible for.”
“I’ve spoken to him as honestly as I can.”
“I know there’s some age difference between you. He’s—how old?”
“Eighteen.”
“Yes,” she said, and at his tensing, ran a finger along the collar of his shirt. “A child, still. Younger than you were when we first met.”
“When I was his age—”
“Ah, but he is not you. Did you not say before that I do not have your disposition? Why should your brother? You may find it easy to abstain, but evidently he is conscious of the wishes of his peers. What young man is not?” She propped herself up more firmly, holding his gaze. “Youcannotexpect him to make the same sacrifices as you. But if you speak to him as a man, as an equal, expressing the reality of your situation, perhaps he will find his own way forward.”
He frowned, but a rueful smile twitched his lips. “It’s hard to consider him a man,” he admitted.
“I think it will be better for you both the moment you do so. Consider how he must feel, constantly belittled and lectured by his brother.”
“If my father—”
“But he does not,” she said gently. When they had first met, and he had first confessed in Bath what his relationship with his father was, she had wished she could have shared her own father with him. Kind-hearted, generous, understanding. A man that all men should aspire to be. But Henry had not had her father, and when her father had died, he had grieved with her, but he had never truly been able to understand the magnitude of her loss, because for him, to lose his parent would be as much relief as sorrow.
Henry’s fingers trailed down her hand to her elbow, as though he wanted to learn how every inch of skin felt against his fingertips. “Can I ask you something?” he said, voice very soft.
“Mm?”
“Are you painting again?”
The question took her by surprise—there was no way for him to have known that for months after Bolton’s death, she had stared at her canvases and felt sick, her throat closing and her stomach roiling. It had taken her years to be able to pick up a pencil and sketch again; still longer before she dared paint with oils. Even now, sometimes the smell made her think of what had been. But she would not let him control her, and this was the future she had always wanted for herself.
“I am,” she said after a beat. “Did you know I’d stopped?”
“I thought you might have done after Bolton forced you to—” He stopped, nostrils flaring. “But I know how much it matters to you, and I hoped very much that you had begun again.”
“Yes, I . . .” She closed her eyes, honesty compelling her to speak, but pride preventing her from seeing Henry’s face as she made her confession. “Before I met you, all I wanted from my life was the freedom and independence to paint. I wanted to claim my portraits, to brave the scandal that a high-born lady painting in oils would bring to my door, and to leave my name behind in my art when I die.”
