Harlequin Historical November 2015, Box Set 2 of 2 (62 page)

‘We're not all spoilt and arrogant.' Cameo sent him a small, sorry smile. ‘Well, some of us have recently learnt not to be.'

‘Being spoilt and arrogant was something I hated in my half-brother—' Benedict twisted the name with disdain ‘—Robert.' He wrapped his finger in a curl escaping at Cameo's neck, making her skin tingle. ‘Can you forgive me? And as for my unconventional birth, can you accept that, too?'

‘Whether you are high-born or low-born makes no difference to what I see in you.'

‘And what do you see?'

‘You're an artist. You taught me.' She reached up to trace a daring finger around the brackets of his mouth. ‘I see natural nobility. I see passion and pride and there's arrogance, too, Benedict. But I wouldn't have you any other way.'

A strange note came into her voice as she said, ‘About Robert...'

‘What is it?'

‘I think Robert knew who you were.' Her eyes sparked. ‘You didn't recognise him that day in Hyde Park, but...do you think he recognised you?'

The scene flashed in Benedict's mind. The distance between them. ‘It's possible, I suppose.'

‘But he knew your name, didn't he? It was Robert who recognised my portrait at the Royal Academy. He must have been at the private viewing. He went straight to my father, to have the painting removed from the exhibition. I'm absolutely certain. He intended to damage your career and my reputation. He meant to ruin us both.'

Faltering at the cold rage written all over his face, Cameo told Benedict about Robert's threats when he'd cornered her into marriage.

‘Cameo.' Benedict drew her safe against his strong chest. ‘You should never have consented to marry him, not for my sake.'

‘I didn't want anything to happen to you.'

‘I can defend myself against Robert. You need have no fear of that. He'd better pray our paths never cross. The thought of you, married to him. He's a bully. Thank goodness you're safe from him.'

‘Your paintings saved me,' she whispered.

But what had she done, leaping out of the carriage? The realisation struck her. Her parents would have been aghast when she didn't appear at the church. Her mother doubtless would have had hysterics in the front pew while her father barked orders to have his daughter found. She winced. It hurt her to think of causing such panic in her parents.

And Maud, waiting by the big wooden doors of the church in her blue bridesmaid's dress, holding the lacy veil, ready to drape it over Cameo's head and face, and crown it with the diamond tiara, before presenting her with the bouquet of cream roses that matched those of the bridesmaids. Would her friend understand what she had done, why she had done it? Would George, in his tailed morning coat, forgive her for the disgrace his sister had brought on their family by not turning up at the church?

And Lord Warley, standing at the altar. Her lips firmed. She could see him, too, his yellow teeth in a snarl. She felt no pity for him. He'd been so certain he'd had her caged. She could well imagine his rage at her having escaped from his clutches, but she wasn't going to St Mary's church, whatever happened. She refused to be delivered up to him.

But Benedict had picked up her cloak.

‘What are you doing?'

‘You can't stay here, Cameo.' He tied the bow under her neck. ‘Not like this. I'm taking you to Mayfair.'

‘What? But, Benedict...'

‘They'll be frantic about you. I can't keep you here while they suffer.'

The honour in him. While she'd barely considered the havoc she would cause when she had leapt so impulsively from the carriage, the panic she might evoke. She hadn't fully considered what doing so would mean: leaving a crowd of guests, family and friends waiting at the church for the marriage ceremony, craning their necks to see the bride walk down the aisle, a bride who wouldn't appear. Her only concern had been running to Benedict. All she'd known had been the message of her heart, her desperate need to see his work again, to see something of him one more time. The scandal! She flushed with shame, not for what she'd done, but for the way her parents, her mama, in particular, would feel, as their family's name was whispered in drawing rooms, at balls and parties, with the horrified delight that only a shocking scandal brought. Her only hope was that her family and friends could forgive her for what she'd done. She'd try to make amends, try to make them understand, if they would let her.

‘Oh, I've got to let them know what happened.' She twisted her hands with remorse. ‘I've got to explain, ask them to forgive me. They're going to be so angry.'

‘Their main concern will be to have their daughter alive and well.'

‘I didn't stop to consider. Everything you said about me was true. I'm spoilt and selfish. Thoughtless.'

‘Stop it, Cameo.' He put a finger to her lips. ‘You're you. Lady Catherine Mary St Clair. Cameo Ashe. They're both part of you. And I love all of you.'

Benedict's mouth was almost on hers when the studio door creaked open.

Robert twirled his silver-topped cane. ‘Ah. My missing bride.'

Chapter Twenty-Three

‘“And would they praise the heavens for what they have?”
And I made answer, “Were there nothing else
For which to praise the
heavens but only love,
That only love were cause enough for praise.”'

—Alfred, Lord Tennyson:
‘The Gardener's Daughter'

B
enedict stared at his half-brother, his fists like rocks. Robert. He hadn't seen him for years, but he hadn't changed much, though he looked heavier and his hair was receding. The prim mouth that hid his avaricious nature and the hint of cruelty in his prominent eyes were still the same.

Blood swirled in front of Benedict's gaze. Every memory he possessed of his half-brother at Warley Park—killing the rabbit in the woods, being heartless to his mother when she fell ill, telling him he'd lost his inheritance—all seemed to clamour in his brain at once. Every nerve and sinew in his body shouted to rip the man apart for all he'd done, most of all, for what he threatened to do to Cameo.

‘Allow me to warn you, Warley. Leave now, or you'll be sorry.'

‘Leave?' his half-brother sneered. ‘Without my dear fiancée?'

‘I know all about you,' Cameo choked out. ‘I know you and Benedict are brothers.'

‘Half-brothers,' Robert corrected. ‘We don't want to overstate the relationship.'

Benedict's nails bit into his palms. ‘I have no desire to claim any greater relationship with you, Warley, than that we unfortunately possess.'

‘Benedict is Lord Warley's son, just as you are,' Cameo threw at Robert. ‘Don't you dare deny it!'

‘Yes. This—artist—' Robert threw a disparaging look around the studio ‘—is my father's—what's the best way to put it, since we are all being so polite?—my father's by-blow.'

Benedict's throat clenched.

‘Don't disparage our father.' No matter if his father had kept his promise about his will or not, he wouldn't hear his father's name slighted. That pain had healed, while he'd painted out all his emotions, poured them into his portraits of Cameo. He no longer felt any anger towards his father. Whatever he had done, he had done it because he'd had to. His father had loved his mother and him, too. That was enough. ‘He was an honourable man.'

Cameo faced Robert. ‘Unlike some.'

Benedict couldn't help taking in how beautiful she looked at that moment, coming to his defence, her dark hair tumbled over her shoulder, her pansy eyes sparking violet fire.

Robert sent her a slow, lecherous glance as she stood there. ‘How fetching you look, Lady Catherine Mary, in your wedding gown. Tonight I shall enjoy stripping it off you. I do hope my half-brother hasn't already spoilt the fruit.'

Benedict leapt. He grabbed Warley by the waistcoat and pulled back his fist. ‘Don't you dare speak to her that way.'

Robert bared his yellow teeth in a snarl. ‘I'll speak to my fiancée however I like, you bastard...' He lifted his cane.

‘Stop!' Cameo cried, rushing between them. ‘Please don't fight!'

Benedict dropped his fists. Only Cameo's distress halted him from giving Robert exactly what he deserved.

Robert brushed off his waistcoat. ‘Did you think I'd let you have her? She's not for the likes of you.'

‘She's not a possession, like a painting to be hung on a wall,' Benedict said, between gritted teeth.

‘She's mine. Just like all the paintings in the gallery at Warley Hall. I'll do whatever I want with her. Once we're married no one can stop me. It's the law.'

‘It's because our father and I shared a passion for art, isn't it?' Benedict demanded. ‘Something you didn't share. Is that it?'

‘But I got everything in the end,' Robert sneered.

‘And now you're after Cameo's money to pay your gaming debts.'

His half-brother licked his lips. ‘It's an additional pleasure, of course, that she's also an object of your desire. That will make it even more enjoyable when she's under my control.'

‘That will never happen.'

Robert rubbed his hand up and down his cane. ‘She belongs to me.'

‘You've always been jealous of me, no matter how much our father gave you.' Benedict kept his voice low. ‘You always wanted everything of mine.'

‘There's not much to take.' Robert cast another disdainful glance around the studio. ‘Just look at this attic.'

‘He wouldn't be so badly off if you hadn't cheated him out of his inheritance!' Cameo exclaimed.

‘You don't know what you're talking about, Lady Catherine Mary.' Robert spoke her name in a way that boiled Benedict's blood further.

‘Oh, yes, I do. Benedict has told me all about it. Your father wanted Benedict to have the Old Masters in the gallery at Warley Park, the ones he collected on his European tour. He left them to Benedict in his will—the will you destroyed.'

‘Cameo—'

‘I'm sure of it, Benedict!'

‘You can't prove it,' Robert said swiftly.

A gruff voice came from the door. ‘Perhaps I can.'

‘Papa!' Cameo exclaimed.

To her amazement her father, puffing and out of breath, entered the studio with a face like thunder.

He scowled as he lifted off his top hat. ‘Damned stupid place to live. All those stairs.'

‘Your father's come to bring you to the church.' Robert's tongue darted out. ‘I told him where we'd find you.'

The earl made straight for Benedict. ‘You're Cole, I take it?' he demanded. ‘I'm Buxton. So, you're the painter, eh? The one who did the portrait of my daughter?'

Cameo rushed in. ‘That's right, Papa.'

‘I can speak for myself, Cameo,' Benedict said.

Pride filled her as he stood his ground and answered her father steadily, ‘Yes, I did the portrait, my lord. And I'm not planning to apologise for it.'

Cameo gulped as the vein in her father's forehead popped out. ‘And you're my friend Warley's natural son, are you? Come on, out with it!'

‘I am. I wouldn't want to deny it,' Benedict replied coolly.

‘Disgraceful,' Robert broke in.

The earl glared at him. ‘That's what you think, is it, Warley?'

‘Well, he is a by-blow and—'

‘That's enough!' The earl's voice became louder. ‘Your father would be ashamed of you, Warley. He told me years ago about his natural son and his pride in him, even if he was born on the wrong side of the blanket. Happens in the best families. He asked me to look out for the lad. I'm afraid I've let my old friend down.'

As he turned to Benedict his voice turned gruff. ‘I've been trying to find you for years. I thought you would use the family name Ackland, not Cole. This matter's been troubling me for some time. Only put two and two together this morning at the church when Robert let your connection slip.'

Rummaging in his coat pocket, he found an envelope. ‘Ought to have got this to you years ago. It's been in my safekeeping in Mayfair. I went and collected it. Here. Take it. It's yours.'

Benedict received the envelope. Cameo saw his lips tighten as he stared at the handwriting on the front. She held her breath as he opened it, then scanned the pages inside. ‘Benedict, what is it?'

With a stunned expression he looked up at her. In his eyes was a light, a flame of joy. ‘It's my father's will.'

‘What?' Robert lunged forward and tried to grab the paper from Benedict's hand.

‘You won't be getting your hands on it this time,' Benedict warned him through gritted teeth.

Robert backed away.

‘Indeed not.'

‘What does the will say?' Cameo refused to hold back. ‘Please tell me, Benedict. Did your father keep his promise to you? Are the paintings in the gallery at Warley Hall yours?'

‘More than that.' Appearing dazed, Benedict rubbed his hand across his eyes. ‘He left me Warley Park.'

* * *

As Benedict stood clutching the will, a vision seemed to rise in front of his eyes.

Warley Park. That huge, glorious estate, spread over hundreds of acres, with its woods, its lakes and fountains, and its smooth green lawns rising on a slope up to the grand house. And the house itself, with its Tudor core, and the elegant wings, Georgian, palatial; its perfect proportions had pleased his artist's eye even before he'd understood the splendour of what he saw. He'd only understood he liked to look at it—had understood instinctively it was something fine.

His father hadn't cut him out of his will. He'd never rejected his firstborn son. He'd left Benedict the home he loved.

‘Benedict!' Cameo flung her arms around him. ‘I can't believe it. My father had the will, all this time. Warley Park is yours.'

His half-brother's face paled. ‘That will is null and void. It won't stand up in a court of law.'

‘Won't it?' the earl bellowed. ‘I think you'll find it might. I'll see to that.'

‘Surely you're not going to support this...this...
artist's
claim over mine...'

‘You don't think so? That will is legal and valid. There was enough for both of you, but you cut your brother out of what your father intended for him. You're a disgrace, Warley.' The vein on the earl's forehead appeared as if it would burst. ‘I've always had my suspicions about you, and so did your papa, unfortunately. I tell you, he would be disgusted. As am I.'

‘You don't understand the whole story, my lord... Cole's mother, she was little more than a peasant—to think that someone with that background should have Warley Park—'

‘Enough,' Benedict broke in quietly. Beside him he felt Cameo quake at his tone. She knew how his mother had suffered at Robert's hands. ‘It's time you left.'

For a moment he thought his half-brother was going to argue.

Benedict spoke again. One word, gritted between his teeth. ‘Out.'

With a single glance at Benedict's face, Robert made for the door.

‘Don't think you've heard the last of this,' he threatened, with a lift of his cane.

‘I think we've heard the last of it, unless you want your gaming habits barring you from every club in London,' the earl inserted furiously.

The studio door slammed.

The earl glared as he turned to his daughter. ‘Don't think that you're not in trouble, young lady! I've never known such behaviour! Not turning up at the church! Empty carriage! We didn't know what had become of you, Cameo!'

‘I'm sorry, Papa.' She held out her hands imploringly. ‘Can you forgive me? I couldn't go through with it. I knew I had to get to Benedict.'

Benedict stepped forward, with an internal chuckle. He'd pictured Cameo living in that grand house in Mayfair, with a wealthy protector. Here he was. Her father, who, beneath the bluster, obviously adored his daughter.

‘I'm sure you've been worried about Cameo, my lord,' he said calmly. ‘I was just about to return her to your care in Mayfair.'

The earl's brow furrowed, perplexed. ‘About to bring her home, eh?'

‘That's right, my lord.'

‘Humph!' the earl exclaimed after a moment. ‘Very gentlemanly of you. I suppose I wouldn't expect anything less from the eldest son of my friend.'

Benedict inclined his head.

Lord Buxton addressed Cameo. ‘Ought to not have forced you into a wedding, I suppose. Your mother's been having hysterics, something about your grandmama. Says she wants your portrait hung in the drawing room.
The Gardener's Daughter
, is that the name of it, eh?'

‘Yes, that's right, Papa.'

‘Still for sale, is it?'

‘It's not for sale,' Benedict interjected. ‘But I would be happy to make a gift of it to Cameo's mother.'

The earl's eyes boggled. ‘Is that so?'

‘That's so.'

Buxton stared at Benedict again. Benedict witnessed the respect dawning in his eyes.

‘First, we'll arrange for the portrait to be displayed in the Royal Academy once more. Oughtn't to have had it taken down. Work of art like that. Acted too hastily.' He gave a cough. ‘You'll have your hands full with my daughter, Cole. But my friend thought a great deal of you and it seems young Cameo does, too. I'll expect you to take good care of her, as your father would have wanted you to.'

Benedict met his gaze. ‘I will.'

‘Oh, Papa!' Cameo threw her arms around her father.

‘There, there!' He gave her an awkward pat. ‘I wanted to trust my daughter to my best friend's son. It seems I can, after all.'

The sound of footsteps and a muffled voice came from outside the studio.

‘Cameo! Cameo! Are you in there?'

Cameo's mouth dropped open in astonishment. ‘Why, that sounds like Maud!'

Pink bonnet askew on her blonde curls, a pretty young woman rushed past Benedict as soon as he opened the door. She was followed closely by a dark-haired young man.

‘Maud!' Cameo exclaimed, as the young woman hugged her as if she wouldn't let her go.

‘Oh, Cameo! I've been so worried! I couldn't wait downstairs a moment longer! I thought something dreadful had happened to you!'

The young man who could only be Cameo's brother—such was their resemblance—stepped forward and held out his hand to Benedict. ‘I'm George St Clair. How do you do? You must be...'

‘Benedict Cole.'

‘The artist?'

‘He's my friend Henry's eldest son,' Lord Buxton put in irascibly. ‘Warley Park belongs to him.'

‘I say.' George whistled. ‘That's a turn-up.'

Cameo spoke up. ‘Perhaps I should make some introductions. This is my friend Miss Maud Cartwright, Benedict.' The pretty blonde who had embraced Cameo dimpled at Benedict.

‘I knew Cameo must have come to you. I waited outside the church in Mayfair, with the veil and flowers,' Maud described breathlessly, her eyes round, as she clutched Cameo's hand. ‘And the carriage arrived and Bert opened the door, and, oh, Cameo, you weren't there, you'd just vanished! We looked and looked for you. I was so frightened. Then I thought, oh, no, she's come up with one of her dangerous ideas...'