Being here secured Noah’s freedom, ensured that I had the means to earn money, and hide from the Lances and Gladstones, or so I thought.
My silence, our silence, grew.
“Tramel needs to see you. You know the bad nature of my relationship with him. Would I come to you on his behalf if it were not dire?”
A chill swept over me.
Blood sloshed in my veins as if it looked for a way out. I tried to still my hands.
“I close my eyes, Cilia, and I see us happy. Surely we can take this trip together and see Tramel and be civil.”
The wordnoshould be on my tongue, but it was always hard to say that to Felton when his voice was low and his eyes glowed of fire.
Under a Jamaican moon, he swore he understood me. He was my muse, my Roman soldier. Then we were at cross-purposes in Britain, strangers at Mayfair.
“Sweetheart.” Felton peered down at me; with his loosed hair he looked like a corsair pirate. The auburn locks hit at his shoulders, waving in the air scented with paint fumes.
“I’m not asking for forgiveness or even a second chance. Just for you to agree to come say goodbye to a man who thinks the world of you.”
“Felton.”
His hand slipped to mine. His skin felt like a coal fire. “Wouldn’t dream of asking you to listen to my taking responsibility for my mistakes. Or even asking you to explain why one mistake had to end everything.”
One?
It wasn’t one. The large, most unforgivable mistake wasn’t even his. It was mine. I didn’t keep pushing for Helena to come with me to England. I left her where Gladstone could take advantage of her.
Felton released my hands and walked past. His back was an inch from me. “I’ll be your assistant tonight to help you get things done. Let me open this and stir it. I think that’s how I can begin.”
“I haven’t agreed. You don’t need to do that.”
“No problem. This will hurry things along.”
If I stretched my finger like the hand of God in Michelangelo’s painting in the Sistine Chapel, I could trace the lines of Felton’s straight shoulders, the curl of his legs as he stooped.
My heart, which should be frozen like that white ice of winter, lurched. Tramel was dying and Felton was acting like the duke—sweet and attentive.
“Cecilia, all this time apart, it should’ve softened us. Should have made us wiser. We can work together.”
A hint of sage from his cologne wafted to my nose.
The scent reminded me of the good times when I thought I was the luckiest woman, when I believed in our marriage of convenience.
Comforting lies.
I knew better now. “Felton, I’m not sure that I can afford to leave, with so many theatres in need of scenery. It’s the height of the season.”
“This will give you a chance to offer the girls a proper goodbye. They miss you. I told you about Amelia. Have I mentioned how Agatha waited in your studio, hoping you’d return? She wanted to show how much more improved her brushwork is.”
An ugly cry built.
I loved his daughters.
“Give Tramel his last wish, then I will give you yours. I’ll find a way to end our marriage.”
“That’s quite a bargain.”
He stopped stirring and wiped his hands on his handkerchief. “A desperate man can only hold on so long.”
