His gaze flicked past her shoulder, to the portrait. The laughing boy. The frog. The unscarred arms, the untamed hair, the unshadowed joy.
“He would have liked you,” Dominic said softly. “That boy. He would have been utterly, hopelessly besotted.”
“He still is,” Lorraine replied. “He merely hides it better now.”
They stood together a moment longer—his arm about her waist, her head resting lightly against his shoulder, the painted ancestors observing from their frames with expressions that ranged from disapproval to what Lorraine chose to interpret as reluctant approval.
Then footsteps sounded upon the stairs—quick, eager, unmistakable.
“Miss Weston! Miss Weston, come and see—I painted the female, and she is better than the male, and His Grace says the female is the superior hunter, so I made her larger—”
They stepped apart. Not with the startled haste of earlier days, but with the quiet, practised ease of two people accustomed to the delicate boundary between truth and appearance.
“Coming, Thomas,” Lorraine called.
She smoothed her skirts. Touched her lips where his had been. Met Dominic’s eyes one last time.
I love you, she mouthed.
He did not echo the words. He simply looked at her—long, steady, wholly unguarded—and then turned to the portrait of the boy he had been.
And for the first time in four years, he did not look away.
Chapter Twenty-One
“Another letter from the Hardings, Your Grace.”
Graves extended the silver tray with the careful neutrality of a man presenting a loaded pistol. The letter rested at its centre, travel-worn and water-stained, its direction smeared and overmarked with the inked impressions of its long passage—though Dominic did not require them.”
He took it.
“Thank you, Graves.”
The butler withdrew. Dominic remained alone in his study, the pale December light falling cold through the window, the letter in his hand—and for a long, motionless moment, he did nothing at all. Simply held it. Felt the weight of it—heavier than paper ought to be, as though it carried something denser than ink and goodwill.
Open it, he told himself.It is a letter, not a loaded pistol.
But his hands knew better. His hands, trained over four years to anticipate catastrophe before his mind could name it, had already begun their treacherous tightening.
He broke the seal.
Dear Duke of Ravenswood,
I write with glad tidings. My wife’s health is now much restored, and our affairs in Calcutta are at last concluded. We have been fortunate in securing passage home, and trust that, weather permitting, we shall reach Portsmouth toward the middle of February.
Though we shall likely be well advanced in our journey by the time this reaches you, I could not forbear writing at once, such is our eagerness. We are beyond expression desirous of making the acquaintance of our grandson. Thomas is all that remains to us of our beloved William, and we thank you most sincerely for the care and kindness you have shown him during these past months.
Upon our arrival in England, we shall make immediate arrangements to travel north without delay.
I remain, Your Grace,
your humble and grateful servant,
James Harding
The middle of February. Only weeks from now.
Dominic set the letter upon his desk with a precision that belied the upheaval beneath his ribs. He aligned it with the edge of the blotter. Smoothed the creases. Placed the brass paperweight—a lion, absurdly cheerful—upon its corner.
