Sinful Deeds (9 page)

“I
always knew when you were up to something. What is it?”

“I’m
not up to something,” he protested, feeling all of seven years of age again.
“Can’t a son visit with his mother without his motivations questioned?”

“You
always were hard work.” She released a long smile. “I could never fathom why I
had so many sons who refuse to behave properly. Most women would be thrilled to
have so many boys but—”

“Not
you,” he finished for her. Bitterness began to burn in his gut. This had been a
mistake. What could he possibly learn from his mother? She was still as cold
and as miserable as ever.

“Viola
said you might wish to speak with me.” She lowered the cup to its saucer
carefully. “You must understand, Dante, I love you. I have loved you from the
moment you were placed in my arms. But—”

“Forgive
me, Mother, but I find that very hard to believe.”

The
dowager marchioness gave him a stern look—one that had him forgetting any ideas
of storming out or spitting any more declarations at her.

“If you
will let me finish. After Julian was born there was something...strange within
me.” She motioned to her head. “The doctor said it was a
depression of
spirit
or something similar. I could not connect with him, even though I
knew I loved him. Then I conceived you. I hoped very much to conquer it, but it
seems I could not. They tried many things to cure me, but it seems it is
incurable. And so, with each of your brothers, it never improved.”

She
placed the cup back on the table in the centre of the room. “Your father tried
to understand but could not. Even I did not, so I hardly expected him to. The
best thing for everyone was for me to stay away as much as possible.”

Dante
shook his head as a numb sensation pervaded his body. Damn her for not
explaining this sooner. And damn his father for driving her away. Why, if his
wife was ever suffering so, he would not rest until they had found an answer.

“I
cannot believe it was for the best.”

“Perhaps
not, but an absent mother was better than an emotional, miserable one. The
Cynfells do not weep and cry at every turn.”

He
peered closer at his mother and realised she was indeed close to weeping. He
gulped. “So this
depression of spirit
...it is still the same?”

“It has
improved over the years. Lots of sunlight and fresh air helps.”

“You
always said you went to the coast to accompany the countess.”

“Yes,
well, can a mother not take trips without being questioned by her sons?”

“Have
you told my brothers about this?”

His
mother shook her head. “Only Julian, and only because Viola is persuasive. They
do not need to know, Dante.”

“But—”

“I mean
it. I will not have it being known that the Dowager Marchioness of Lockwood has
lost her wits.”

Dante
wasn’t sure he agreed, but he would let it rest for now. As far he knew, his
brothers had not been so bothered by their mother’s absence. Perhaps because
they did not attach themselves to women quite like he did.

Guilt
jabbed him when his mother dabbed her nose and resumed her prim posture. He
supposed he always blamed her for their terrible marriage, but in fact, it
seemed his father was partly to blame too. He had never showed her the support
she needed.

Just as
he hadn’t with Josephine. Would he ever be able to make amends for his
behaviour toward her?

Josephine swallowed as she eyed the manor
house. It didn’t matter that she spent much of her time socialising with the upper
echelons of society now. The mere thought of meeting this rich man who was
interested in purchasing more of her paintings made her stomach tumble over and
over. She glanced at Diana who had agreed to accompany her, and her friend gave
her an encouraging grin.

“Just
think, if he likes your paintings, you will be able to earn enough money to
rent a place in the country just like this.”

She
studied the Tudor-style building with its long windows and turrets on each
corner. She had always liked the idea of a grand home like this—a place to
raise a family and paint quietly. Even her trips to the docks no longer
inspired her now Dante was not living in London.

She
hadn’t seen him in over five months now. Five long but busy months. Evelyn
Cherwell the Duchess of Ardleigh, had taken a liking to one of her oil
paintings after she had managed to persuade the manager at the local assembly
hall to allow her to give talks on painting techniques. Before long, she had
sold several of her paintings and had two more commissions. Now this Lord
Hollingsworth had recently bought her favourite for a large sum and was
interested in meeting with her to discuss more paintings for his new house.

Arm in
arm, they made their way up the private road and stopped in front of the imposing
dark wood doors. Iron studs ran up and down the wood and two large circular
knockers sat on either side. She reached for the nearest and rapped it.

They
waited.

“Maybe
we should go in,” Diana whispered after several minutes of waiting. “He
probably didn’t hear that.”

Checking
her prim outfit of a ruby red skirt, a white yoked shirt, and matching jacket
trimmed with floral patterns down the front, she nodded. She looked respectable
and hopefully professional. The sort of woman a man could have confidence in.

“Come
on then.” She twisted the old iron handle and winced when the door creaked
open. He had to have heard that, surely?

But as
they stepped inside the dimly lit interior, no one greeted them. The entrance
hall looked as though it had not been touched since the sixteenth century—dark
wood panelling, red tiled floors, and a chandelier hanging above with the
remnants of candle wax creating white rivulets that looked like the stalactites
one might find inside a cave. A lamp was lit on one of the two tables lining
the hall, casting vague flickering light. Whoever had owned this place before
this lord had clearly never installed gas lamps or perhaps hadn’t owned it
before the discovery of electricity.

“Hello,”
she called out. Two doors led off either side and there was another at the rear
of the room. It seemed like a veritable maze. “What do we do?” she whispered to
Diana.

“You go
that way, and I shall go this way.” She pointed to the door to the right and
scurried off before Josephine could protest. This poor man would be startled to
find two young women running around his house.

With a
sigh, she opened the door to the left and entered. She stilled at the sight of
her painting hanging at the end of the room, just above a huge stone fireplace.
The painting, which portrayed a young family on the hills of Hampshire, where
she had grown up, brightened the dim room.

Josephine
moved around the dining table that stretched along the length of the room and
paused to view it. She smiled. This was how she’d imagined her paintings. Not
hanging in a drawing room in London or in a gallery but in a family home.

“I
wonder if he has a family,” she murmured to herself. She really knew nothing of
this man.

“Not
yet.”

She
spun, her heart thumping wildly in her chest like a horse galloping out of
control. “Dante!” He stepped out of the shadows to join her. “W-what are you
doing here?”

His
lips quirked into a tilted smile. “Welcome to Hollingsworth Hall.”

“Wait,
you’re Lord Hollingsworth?”

He
lifted a nonchalant shoulder.

“So all
this, this fake name, was what...? A way to get me here alone?” A heavy ache
began to pound in her chest. Her dreams of a wealthy patron were slowly
dissolving, turning to dust much like the thin layer that covered the fireplace
grate by her feet.

She
stared at it, wondering what she should do. She still needed to find Diana.
Whatever this game was, she didn’t want to play it. Did he not understand how
hard it had been to do all this without him? There had been times when she had
longed to go to him and tell him of all her successes. Yes, she had done this
alone, but sometimes, just sometimes, she longed for someone to be at her side
while she achieved these things.

Of
course, nothing had changed. Dante Cynfell would never change.

Josephine
tried to step past him but he moved in front of her. “Jo-Jo.”

That
pet name physically wounded her. She felt it deep in her soul, scratching and
tearing at her. How, after all this time, could she still love him?

She whirled
away, intending to go around the table to escape. He snatched her wrist and
pulled her to a halt. “Don’t be angry, Jo-Jo. I needed to see you, to—”

“To
deceive me?” She couldn’t look him in the eyes. She’d wanted to do this alone, to
succeed on her own, and here he was making a mockery of her dreams.

“To
prove my love to you.”

Her
heart, oh her silly little heart, bounded against her chest at those words.
Love. Yes, that’s what she had wanted wasn’t it? But, no, it was too late. He
couldn’t love her that much if he refused to marry her.

Weariness
ate into her so when he released her wrist, she sagged onto one of the nearby
chairs and propped her elbow on the table. The past eight months of her life
had been so draining—exciting to be sure—but more work than she’d ever
realised. More than anything, she wanted someone to share that with now. But
not Dante. She just couldn’t do it again.

“Do you
like the house?”

She
scowled. From love to a house? What...? “Y-yes, it’s lovely.”

“Good.
It was meant for Jasper when he turned eight and twenty.”

“Meant?”

“It’s
mine now.”

“Yours?”
she asked numbly, aware she likely sounded no brighter than a talking parrot.

“Yes.
Jasper had little interest in a creaky old manor house so we did an exchange.
He’ll have the London townhouse soon.”

Josephine
paused to stare at the old wood of the table. She traced the scars in the
surface and imagined the many Cynfell ancestors eating their meals and
discussing business here. A family home for certain. So why would Dante—a man
who thrived on being in the centre of high society—exchange his house for this
one?

“Why
did you exchange?” Even her voice sounded weary. The truth was, without Dante
she was drained. Her mild side took over and she had no outlet, no way to
express herself other than through art. She hadn’t realised how much Dante
inspired her in life and in art.

A
flicker of apprehension washed over his expression. She saw his throat bob. He
took a step forward, stilled, and took another step. Slowly, he knelt in front
of her and took her hand. She glanced down to see it shaking.

Then
she realised both their hands were shaking. This wasn’t right. How could Dante
be shaking?

“Jo-Jo...”
He drew in a breath and pressed her fingers to his lips. She couldn’t help but
gasp at the feeling of his warm mouth on her cold hand. “I asked for this house
because the townhouse no longer appealed to me. I moved into it briefly and,
frankly, it was dreary without you.”

He
reached down to his coat and drew out a box. When he flicked it open to reveal
a golden band set with emeralds, she put a hand to her mouth.

“Is
this...?”

He
nodded. “Marry me, Jo-Jo. I love you. I want to have a family. With you, and
only you. I swear to you, whatever you want to do, I will support you. I will
work hard for you. If I can help it, I will never leave you alone in bed again.
I can’t enjoy anything without you, please—”

Josephine
pressed a finger to his lips. “I wanted so much from life. To be known for my
art and to have my name recognised. It’s hard being a mistress. It’s sometimes
hard being a wife.”

He opened
his mouth, but she pressed her finger harder.

“Being
your mistress was never easy, and I think being your wife won’t be either. You
are an infuriating man at times.” She drew in a breath. “But I love you, and
I’m made of strong stuff.”

“Oh, I
know you are.” He gripped her fingers tightly. “Does that mean you’ll marry me?
That you’ll come and live here and paint and be my wife?”

Tears
blurred her vision. She pressed her lips together and nodded. Through the blur,
she saw him grin, and he retrieved the ring to slip it onto her finger. Josephine
swiped her eyes and glanced at her finger. “It’s beautiful.”

“It was
my mother’s.”

“I
would have thought Viola had it.”

He
shook his head. “Mother didn’t approve enough of Viola to hand it over at the
time.”

“I’m
not sure she’d approve of me either.”

“A
successful artist as a daughter-in-law? I think Mother would be fairly
content.” He swiped a thumb under her eye and stood to draw her into his arms.
Dante hooked that thumb under her chin and lifted it so he could sweep a chaste
kiss over her lips. “Thank you,” he murmured.

“For
what?”

“For
saying yes. For giving me another chance. For being you.”

“I
didn’t actually say yes,” she said with a smile. She glanced around. “Oh poor
Diana.”

“She’s
probably enjoying tea and cakes in the drawing room.”

Josephine
was tempted to tap his arm in admonition. “Diana knew?”

He
nodded. “I wanted to make sure you came. Even Robbie Allen knew.”

“All
this trouble...”

“I had
to do it. Not just for you but for me. I had to prove to myself I was different
too. I had to know I was good enough for you.”

“Oh,
Dante, you are.” She gripped his face and kissed him. “You really are.”

“So
that’s a yes, is it not?”

She
nodded. “Yes.”

Josephine
allowed herself to be swept away by his kiss.
Yes.
Yes to achieving her
dreams. Yes to a life that would never be boring. Yes to life with Dante who
was now the man she always knew he could become.

The End

If you
enjoyed this title, please consider leaving a review.

Sign up to Samantha’s
newsletter
for updates on new release, free books and giveaways.

Other
titles by Samantha Holt

Sinful
Confessions (Cynfell Brothers Book 1)

Tempting His Mistress

Once Upon a Rake

Find Samantha on
Facebook