He was quiet so long she thought he wouldn’t answer. Then, haltingly, he began to speak. He told her about the heat and the dust, the colour and the cruelty. About the things he’d done, the lives he had taken, and how it had hollowed him out.
“I thought I was already dead,” he said into the dark. “After Catherine ran from me, after society whispered that I was a monster, I believed there was nothing left to lose.”
“But?”
“But then I came back. And there you were at the opera, refusing to look away. Making me feel things I’d thought long since burned out of me.”
“Is that why you pursued me?”
“Partly. Also, because you were beautiful and defiant, and I wanted you with a ferocity that terrified me.” His arm tightened around her. “I still do.”
“I know.”
“Catherine will come, and I’ll have to face her.”
“Yes.”
“I don’t know if I can.”
“You can.” She pressed a kiss to his chest. “And I’ll be with you.”
“Why?” The question seemed torn from him. “Why do you care what happens to me?”
Because I love you,she thought, but didn’t say it. Not yet. It was too fragile.
“Because you’re mine,” she said instead. “And I protect what’s mine too.”
He was silent for a moment, then tilted her chin up to meet his gaze. The kiss he gave her was soft, almost reverent—nothing like their usual passion.
“Thank you,” he murmured against her lips.
“For what?”
“For not letting me vanish into the dark.”
“Never,” she promised. “You’re stuck with me now, Your Grace. For better or worse.”
“Worse seems more likely.”
“Then we’ll make it better. Together.”
He kissed her again, and this time there was heat in it—promise rather than desperation.
“Can I show you something?”
“Now?”
“Now.”
He led her through dim corridors to a room she’d never seen. When he lit the lamps, she gasped.
It was an artist’s studio. Canvases crowded every wall, the scent of oil paint and turpentine thick in the air. The paintings were extraordinary—landscapes of India, portraits of strangers, turbulent abstractions that seemed to breathe emotion.
“You painted these?”
“It helped. After India. Gave me something to do with my hands that wasn’t… destructive.” He looked almost shy. “No one knows. Not even the servants.”
She moved through the room, studying each piece. They were beautiful but dark, full of shadows and sharp edges. Except for one.
