Fortune Favors the Wicked by Theresa Romain Page A

sound in her ear. “An answer. Please believe I do not mean to pry; I only seek not to blunder.”
    Chill wariness touched between her shoulder blades. “Of course,” she replied equally low.
    â€œIs Miss Maggie aware that you are her mother?”
    * * *
    Benedict did not regret asking Charlotte the question, though he guessed it would break the easy flirtation into which they had fallen.
    Charlotte’s hand clutched his sleeve, a spasmodic gesture of alarm, and pushed him into his own chamber. “No,” she whispered, shutting the door behind them. “No, she does not know. How could you be . . . how did you realize?”
    He couldn’t say, exactly. As he’d made to return to his chamber once Charlotte entered Maggie’s, he had overheard her speak to the girl. Her voice was different, like a string plucked that ran straight to her heart. It harmonized with the way she had spoken of her supposed niece earlier.
    â€œI heard in your voice how much you loved her,” he tried to explain.
    It was a tone of yearning for something that was already present, a yearning so deep it could not be satisfied. He couldn’t think of anything he had wanted that much in his life. Wanting in the negative—to leave England, to undo his blindness—was not the same thing as treasuring another creature so deeply that one’s voice shimmered like gold.
    The frantic grip on his arm relaxed. “If she hears love in my voice, that cannot be a bad thing. But she is not to know of—the other. Known as the child of my sister, who was wed, Maggie is legitimate. Her life’s path will be easier.”
    He wanted to take up her hand, to hold it in his own. “And yours?”
    â€œThe best thing I can do for my daughter is to be her aunt.” The words were heavy with sadness—but also determination.
    He flicked his fingers out, just a whisper of a touch against the back of her hand. “You are brave, Miss Perry.”
    â€œI am what I have had to be, Mr. Frost.” Her hand turned beneath his, and for a second they were palm against palm. “As are you.”
    And then the door opened, and she left.
    * * *
    â€œI hope it was no inconvenience to travel to Cheshire. I have summoned you here as an admirer of your work.” The Marquess of Randolph leaned back in the chair behind his study’s desk, regarding Edward with hooded eyes.
    â€œYes, my lord,” Edward Selwyn murmured. “I mean—no, my lord. No inconvenience. I am honored.”
    So honored, he hardly knew what he was saying. The Cheshire seat of the Randolph marquessate was everything he had imagined luxury to be. Where the floors in his Strawfield home were wood or slate, these were marble. His own walls were carved wood or hung with paper; the Randolph chimneypieces were marble and the walls were swaddled in painted silks.
    And best of all, in a place of honor behind the marquess’s desk, hung one of Edward’s paintings. It was a small figure in oils inspired by Botticelli, depicting a Venus pudica arising from the sea. One of Edward’s early works, but still a favorite of his.
    â€œI am honored,” Edward repeated, trying to sound both respectful and confident, “that my art has come to your attention. It would be my pleasure to paint your portrait, my lord.”
    Randolph’s pockets were deep, and there was no denying the man was powerful. This, at last, could be the patronage he had been waiting for. He’d be the next Gainsborough, the next Lawrence.
    â€œA portrait isn’t precisely what I had in mind.” A decanter of brandy and a pair of glasses sat on the marquess’s desk. Randolph poured out a generous measure into each glass, then handed one to Edward. “I was thinking of an exhibition of your work. A private one.”
    The brandy stung Edward’s nose. He’d arrived only an hour ago and was hoping for a cold luncheon of some