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So perhaps his father hadn’t told the entire truth. Sometimes love presented itself differently. Maybe one didn’t just know. Maybe it snuck up on him while he was busy planning his wedding to another…
Was that it? Did he love Jo?
That would explain the gnawing at the pit of the stomach, the dreams of her, and his reluctance to wed. But could he do something about his feelings? That was a far more complicated question.
Because even though his parents had a love match, they also had a respectable match. And marrying an actress was anything but respectable. This even before considering the very real fact that he was already betrothed. And there was nothing he could do about that without causing major damage.
Richard went farther and uncovered the next picture. His parents sitting on the same settee together, only with a babe in his mother’s arms.
Richard.
She was looking at the babe as if enchanted, while his father looked out of the portrait, his face serious, but a mischievous glint shone in his eyes.
How did the artist manage to convey that glint? Was his father laughing when the artist captured it? The viscount’s body was turned toward the artist, rather than his family, but his hand was on the viscountess’s arm.
Richard wondered if the artist had asked his mother to look at him again, and she simply resisted. Because as he went along the gallery, there were no longer portraits with his mother looking out. She was always smiling, looking at one or another member of their growing family. His father eventually joined her, and by the last portrait, the only person looking out was young Richard.
Richard stared at the portrait of all his siblings haphazardly arranged around their parents—Alan holding a cat, Adam poking at them both, his eyes laughing, Isabel frowning up at them, and Sam as always holding Ben by his forearm, looking up at him as if he was the only person in the room.
Richard wondered how the painter was even able to capture such chaos.
And that was probably why he was the only one standing there like a statue, looking out. Because surely their parents had tried to calm his siblings down a few times. Surely they’d been reprimanded time and time again, and the poor exhausted artist had sighed loudly more than once. So, of course, Richard, the responsible adult, the future viscount, stood there, trying to make life easier for everyone. He followed the rules and tried to make it easier on everyone while still letting his siblings run amok.
As a result, his siblings grew to live a little freer, and he was glad about that. It wasn’t his accomplishment at all, but if he’d contributed to it, he was glad.
Richard frowned as he heard noise from downstairs. It was quite unusual to hear any kind of noise in his townhouse these days. It seemed as though even the servants tiptoed around the house.
He carefully covered up the paintings again, locked the door behind him, and descended the stairs.
“What do you mean you do not know where he is, Mr. Doyle? Isn’t he always in his study?” Isabel inquired loudly of his half-deaf butler.
“I have not seen him downstairs yet, my lady,” the poor butler answered.
Richard slowly made it down the stairs. “Are you done intimidating my servants, Isabel?” he asked with a raised brow.
Isabel whirled on him. “Oh!” And then she looked him up and down and repeated, but with less enthusiasm, “Oh! What are you wearing? Have you—?” She turned toward Doyle, who just shrugged, and then back to Richard. “Have you not dressed yet?”
Richard looked down at his banyan. “Am I undressed? I am sorry, I have not noticed.”
“You know what I mean!” Isabel waved a hand. “It’s late morning. You should be all dressed and ready to receive visitors!”
Richard shrugged. “It’s not yet the visiting hours, and since I live alone, nobody bothers me anymore.” He paused. “Except for overbearing siblings. Did you want something?”
She looked around the hall, her lips pursed, looking quite similar to her dog, Button, when he sniffed something suspicious. “How long has it been since you left the house?”
Richard shrugged. “I leave the house every day.”
His butler coughed, rather unconvincingly. Isabel raised a brow.
“Fine, maybe not every day, but I have a lot of work to do.”
Another cough. Isabel crossed her arms over her chest.
Richard pressed his lips into a thin line. “I’d advise you to have that cough checked, Doyle!” he growled. Then to Isabel, “Now let’s talk without distractions in my study.”
Isabel smiled at the insolent butler before following after Richard. “I would prefer to speak with witnesses present. Someone who could keep you from lying to me.”
“Why would I ever lie to you?” Richard grumbled as they entered his study.
