“Tell me about the Rubens,” Warwick said a moment later as he lowered himself to the opposite seat and took a sip of the brandy he’d poured himself.
Leaning back into a comfortable position, Raphe began, “I understand that you’re an art collector, my lord, and that you would like to add The Three Graces to your collection.”
The sparkle in Warwick’s eyes confirmed that this was indeed the case. “I offered your predecessor a handsome sum for it once, but he refused me.”
“Fifty thousand pounds, from what I understand,” Raphe murmured. He drummed his fingers lightly against the armrest.
Shifting, Warwick’s mouth twisted as though he’d just bit into a lemon. “It was more than the painting is worth.”
Raphe was aware of this too. He inclined his head in agreement. “Which can only mean that you want it a great deal.”
“It would complete the mythological theme that I’ve been putting together in the north gallery of Warwick House.”
With a nod of understanding, Raphe asked, “What if I told you that I’m willing to part with it?”
For a second, it looked as though Warwick would either leap from his chair with joy, or tumble to the floor in dismay. “That—” He cleared his throat and took another sip of his drink. “I would certainly welcome such a prospect.” He appeared to process the idea for a while before saying, “I suppose you’ll want the fifty thousand for it?”
“No,” Raphe said, amused by Warwick’s stunned expression. “In fact, I don’t want any sum of money in return.”
“No money?” he sounded incredulous. “But—surely you don’t mean to give it to me for free? Especially knowing how I feel about you and your family and considering how unaccepting I’ve been of you.”
“An incident that I will be willing to forget, in exchange for an apology.” When Warwick’s jaw tightened in protest, Raphe leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Look, I know I’m not what you imagined I’d be, but I am the Duke of Huntley, and I will not continue to allow you or anyone else to treat me with less respect than I deserve.” He paused for emphasis before spreading his hands and saying, “But, if you’re too proud to admit your faults, then perhaps I ought to hold on to the Rubens after all . . .”
“No. You are right,” Warwick spoke with haste. “You have improved yourself greatly since our first encounter—impressively so, in fact. And—and, I apologize for the things I’ve said to you. It was badly done.”
“Thank you, Warwick. I appreciate that.”
Looking like a dog with his tail between his legs, Warwick averted his gaze and took yet another sip of his drink. “So then the only question is, what do you want in return for the painting?”
Savoring the power that he knew he now held over the earl, Raphe took a second to answer. He laced his fingers together and did his best to hold still, in spite of his straining heart and the blood that thundered through his veins. “Permission to court your daughter.”
“What?” Warwick’s face went white.
Raphe smiled sardonically. “I believe you heard me.”
“You—and Lady Gabriella?” When Raphe nodded, Warwick’s expression tightened, his eyes narrowing with piercing intensity. “No,” he said with the swipe of a hand. “Absolutely not.”
Praying that Gabriella was right about her father’s obsession with The Three Graces, Raphe shrugged with a casualness he did not feel, and began to rise. “I wish you luck in completing your Greek theme then, Warwick. A pity I wasn’t able to help you with that.” It was the oldest bargaining trick in the book. One he’d witnessed more times than he could count on the streets of St. Giles, applied by vendors and buyers alike. Just walk away, he told himself. He turned to leave.
“Wait!”
Stopping, Raphe schooled his features before looking back at Warwick, eyebrows raised in question.
“Fielding came to see me earlier today. He formally asked for my permission to marry her, and I have given it,” Warwick said. He almost sounded apologetic.
The comment was like a punch to his gut. “Does she not have a say in the matter?” Raphe felt his blood begin to boil. Whatever agreement Fielding and Warwick had come to, Raphe was certain that Gabriella knew nothing about it. Which made him wary.
“The match will be good. The best, in fact.”
“And marrying me instead would be bad?” When Warwick didn’t answer, Raphe said, “My rank trumps everyone else’s, except for the Regent’s. Are you really telling me that the prejudice you have for me on account of my inferior upbringing is going to deny your daughter the chance of becoming a duchess?”
An infernal length of time followed before Warwick formed a response. “I don’t like mystery,” he eventually said. “And where you are concerned, there are too many unanswered questions. Like which relative it was, exactly, who took you in after your parents died. I knew your mother’s family well enough to say with certainty that they did not have any relatives near the Scottish border. As for your father’s side, I’ve looked into his relations since meeting you, and have come up with no verifiable facts. Which makes me wonder if you really are who you claim to be.”
“I can assure you—”
“Don’t bother,” Warwick clipped. “I’ve dealt with imposters before, and I suspect that I am dealing with one right now.”
“I am not an imposter,” Raphe said, his voice dangerously low.
