Daria stared so long and unblinkingly at the image that her vision blurred and moisture squeaked from the corners. Restive, she scrubbed and blinked, trying to clear her eyes so that she might look longer. Until she simply stood there and let those tears flow as they need to so she might again see.
Daria stood there, eyes closed, until her legs tingled and the sensation numbed.
She tried again, squinting and then opening her eyes wide.
“Arcadia,” she whispered.
Just over a year into mourning her father at their family’s Derbyshire estate, she’d fought and rejected her mother’s attempts to venture into the world again. Phineas to her, Lord Landon to everyone else, Clayton’s best friend, and Daria’s now brother-in-law, convinced her to join him on an outing.
Surrounded by only her family, each immersed in their own sorrow, she’d secretly rejoiced at being with someone who was not a Kearsley—at least not in blood.
He’d escorted Daria to Chatsworth House. Although a shy child, she’d relished exploring everything and going anywhere and everywhere her Papa, Mama, and brother would take her. That joy and comfort ceased to exist upon the viscount’s death. She’d begged Landon to return her home. Pulled his sleeve hard over and over, she’d ripped the seams. Only after he’d held her close and met her harsh breathing with silence did she calm and allow him to escort her inside.
He’d squired Daria around visitors taking in the Duke of Devonshire’s collections. Ancient coins. Carved Greek and Roman sculptures. Past libraries. He’d quickened them along certain rooms. She’d caught enough of a glimpse on the passing way to note scandalous paintings and portraits of men and women in even more scandalous acts.
And then he’d stopped, bringing them to the quietest corner of Chatsworth.
A painting hung in that solitary space.
She’d looked questioningly to Lord Landon a moment before venturing closer.
She gazed forever at the painting.Thispainting.
“They reflect not on death, Daria.” The earl had rested a hand upon her shoulder and spoke quietly. “They reflect on their own mortality.”
“Their own mortality,” she whispered now as she’d whispered then.
And this, the solemn clarity of Nicolas Poussin’s greatest work should be the focal piece of Gregory’s inner sanctum?
Nothing about the Duke of Argyll was as it seemed.
And there was so much more to him than the color blue.
This room, these artifacts, were not the garish, wicked belongings of a frivolous rake.
They were…
“Are you climbing out of your skin in—”
Daria screamed, lost her footing, and went flying—like the bird she certainly wasn’t—only to land safe in the powerful hold of her husband’s arms.
With her head tipped back, she stared up at Gregory’s glorious visage, upside down. His dashing rogue’s grin revealed two rows of white teeth.
Her heart forgot its beat—and then, as though the organ sought to correct course, resumed at triple time.
“Your mural,” Daria whispered. The words cost her the touch of his lips. “I was studying your mural.”
“Never dare tell me that, little raven,” he purred. “After this morning,” He hooded his gaze. “And this afternoon, I have left you with nothing to occupy your thoughts but my furnishings.” Going onto his knees, his head bent toward hers.
“I must try harder, little raven.”
Or maybe it was that he sought to head off any topic that allowed a person too close.
Gregory lowered his lips once more.
It nearly cost her part of her soul, but Daria found the will to slither away.
Her husband’s lashes lowered.
