"Did you?" Lucien was watching her face far too closely as he fell into step beside her. The stark white of his shirtsleeves gleamed in the afternoon sunlight, and his gray waistcoat clung to the hard musculature of his chest. "Or are you just telling yourself such a thing?"
Ianthe flushed. "Do you pretend to read my mind now?"
"Not your mind, no. Your emotions, however, are painted across your face. Your father troubles you."
"Your father troubles you," she shot back.
They shared a long, steady look.
"Which one?" Lucien asked, with a faint, mocking lift to his brow.
"Both of them, I believe. Tell me about Lord Rathbourne, for I know your grievances with Drake. Did he beat you? Lock you away? Force you to give up all the lessons you loved, and instead turn to meaningless hours of prayer?"
Lucien cut her a cold look. "No. He didn't care enough to bother."
Then he turned and strode away from her, across the grassy lawn of the park. Ianthe stared after him. That was it? After all she'd revealed? "Wait!" she called, grabbing a handful of her skirts and scurrying after him. "You cannot simply leave it at that." Catching his sleeve, Ianthe added, "Please."
Lucien looked bleakly across the park. She didn't think he was going to answer her; every inch of his body was a stiff line. Then his lashes lowered, covering those amber eyes. "Do you know the one time that Lord Rathbourne gave a damn about me?"
Ianthe shook her head.
"It was right before he forced me to summon the demon. After years of neglect—or no, not even that, but indifference—he finally began to pay attention to me. He invited me into his workshop to show me the mysteries he was studying: time, space, planes of existence behind my knowledge. Then he offered me a gift, Ianthe. A collar. I didn't recognize it for what it was. I'd never seen a Sclavus Collar, for such things are forbidden. He told me it would increase my powers, so that I could act as a wellspring for him. He needed the additional strength of my power, for he had a difficult undertaking to pursue."
Lucien blew out a breath. "It was stupid to believe him, but... I never thought his intentions toward me were malicious. I never had cause to doubt him, and I was proud that he'd asked me. I wanted to please him. He'd always preferred my cousin Robert to me. This was the one thing that Robert couldn't give him, for he has the magical ability of a turnip."
Picking up a small rock, he toyed with it, still looking down. "Do you know the worst thing about what happened a year ago?"
Ianthe couldn't contain her sudden surge of pity. She slid a gloved hand over his, stroking his knuckle with her thumb. She didn't like seeing him like this. "What?"
"It made sense," he said, looking up and meeting her eyes. "Why Rathbourne never cared for me. In a way, it was almost a relief to discover the truth. He wasn't my father. No wonder he barely tolerated me."
"But what was so bad about that—?" And then she realized.
Lucien's smile was thin-lipped. "Precisely. I trade one father who doesn't care for me, for another who I'd never even met. And now this father of mine needs my help. Can you wonder why I don't fully trust the offer?"
For the first time, she didn't have the words to defend Drake.
Chapter Fourteen
It took precisely five minutes to break into Rathbourne Manor on the outskirts of Kensington.
Lucien strode into Lord Rathbourne's study, raking the room with a hard gaze as he set the candle he carried on the mantel. Little had changed. Over the mantel hung Lord Rathbourne himself, sneering down at the room, forever caught in his favorite expression. The artist had done a brilliant rendition, all the way down to the thin moustache that flagged Lord Rathbourne's lip and the pinpoint glare of his pupils.
Lucien turned his back on at least one of his ghosts. Rathbourne held no sway over him anymore.
White sheets draped the furnishings, heavy with dust. Until his case was heard later this summer, the courts would hold the property in trust. How Robert would hate that. It gave him some grim amusement, until he realized that this grim mausoleum and the old, ancestral estate were the only things he truly owned in this world, if the courts ruled him sane.
What kind of future was that?
To allay the answer, Lucien paced to the window and flung the heavy velvet draperies back. Within seconds, he was overwhelmed by a miniature dust storm. "Damnation." He coughed, turning away and waving his hand in front of his face to clear the air.
"What did you expect?"
Ianthe stepped inside the study, lifting her pale, oval face to survey the heavy bookshelves. Her creamy skin held no watercolors right now. Her emotions were muted, bearing only a faint, radiant shimmer of amusement. A beautiful woman of ivory tones and faint rosy blushes, wearing a red gown. His gaze slowed as it traced the pale curve of her shoulders. It was difficult to think of her as he once had—as the enemy.
Something hard and tight within him softened as he looked at her.
This was not the mad villainess he'd spent the past year picturing in his revenge-fueled fantasies. She was warm flesh and blood, with her own demons, her own secrets. He wasn't certain he particularly liked this slow-building camaraderie between them, or perhaps he didn't fully trust it, but a part of him was intrigued to discover more about her.
