suddenly, I lash out, I provoke and
probe his worst pain. I do not know myself anymore. I do not know
who I have become, or did not, until these moments….
She had not known herself still capable of
tears, but she wept…Gabriella wept, most of that night.
She knew when he left and escaped into his
shadows and hell. She did not want to think she may be mad from her
own year’s long obsession, but she was what he had made her, what
they created together. Perhaps…she was bound more to Raith LeClair
himself, than she was that past now…
Upper Brook Street. London England.
His Grace Artis Le Clair, Duke of Eastland’s
residence.
Jules arrived at his father’s mansion at the
exact hour of the summons. Handing over his caped coat and hat to
the butler, he headed towards the study, boot heels ringing on the
high polished marble floor, whilst he was idly glancing around at
the décor, nearly coming up short as it dawned on him that it had
changed. Gone were the twelve foot gold edged pillars the Duchess
insisted should line the grand entry. Instead, the green-papered
walls were visible with discreet seating, a pair of emerald
upholstered chairs and settee, near the far wall, facing a bank of
windows.
Clusters of priceless art no longer hung in
the short hall either. He frowned with some mystification before
knocking on the folding doors. He knew Eastland’s fortune was
secure, thus, he could only assume his father had other reasons for
toning down the ostentatious décor.
“Enter.”
He opened the pocketed doors and stepped
inside his father’s domain, the only room he recalled that his
mother never entered nor touched. Here was a chamber that mimicked
the Duke’s country house, one of wood-paneled walls, shelves of
books, supple leather furnishings, and well-tread carpets.
“Your Grace.” He bowed, having reached the
desk his father sat at, just beside the half-opened French doors
that splashed a bit of rain in, no other lord would allow to ruin
his rugs.
Artis set the pipe he had lit in a stand.
Jules' held his posture, hands relaxed at his
sides and body straight under that dark-eyed scrutiny. Although
they had not seen each other since the Duchess’s funeral—a strained
affair to say the least, he could not say the years had been unkind
to Artis, for he actually looked more…alive, than in the years
before.
The Duke’s hair was silver, thick, worn
tapered to the nape, his face bearing those aristocratic assets
that all his sons got some component of. Save for the color to his
skin, which attested to his years of rusticating, he looked the
epitome of English peer in his wine coat, white shirt and buff
breeches. The shorter colorful silk neck cloth—a dash of casualness
the older gents indulged in during the earlier hours.
“How have you been?” The Duke asked.
“Well, your Grace.”
Those silver brows pulled down. Jules saw the
up, and down look, his father gave him afterwards and raised his
own sooty brow.
Making a short, snorting noise, his father
waved a hand and sighed. “Sit down, Jules.”
Placing a hand on the back of a chair facing
the desk, Jules stepped around it and sat. He attended his father,
hiding his reaction to another silence whilst the Duke puffed his
pipe and looked him over rather pensively.
The pipe emitted a cloud of smoke before
Artis set it aside again, then leaned back, relaxed in his chair.
“Have you seen your brother, Blaise, yet?”
“No. Your Grace.”
“Why not?”
The sharpness of that caught Jules off guard,
but he supplied evenly, “I have yet to receive an invitation to the
Viscount’s residence.”
Staring at him, Artis murmured, “Are you
telling me that you’ve not made an effort to see your brother at
all in—what, eight years?”
“I have seen him, Your Grace. On several
occasions, years ago. We did attend several—“
The Duke shot to his feet, his hand rubbing
his nape as he growled, “That’s not what I mean.” He
probe his worst pain. I do not know myself anymore. I do not know
who I have become, or did not, until these moments….
She had not known herself still capable of
tears, but she wept…Gabriella wept, most of that night.
She knew when he left and escaped into his
shadows and hell. She did not want to think she may be mad from her
own year’s long obsession, but she was what he had made her, what
they created together. Perhaps…she was bound more to Raith LeClair
himself, than she was that past now…
Upper Brook Street. London England.
His Grace Artis Le Clair, Duke of Eastland’s
residence.
Jules arrived at his father’s mansion at the
exact hour of the summons. Handing over his caped coat and hat to
the butler, he headed towards the study, boot heels ringing on the
high polished marble floor, whilst he was idly glancing around at
the décor, nearly coming up short as it dawned on him that it had
changed. Gone were the twelve foot gold edged pillars the Duchess
insisted should line the grand entry. Instead, the green-papered
walls were visible with discreet seating, a pair of emerald
upholstered chairs and settee, near the far wall, facing a bank of
windows.
Clusters of priceless art no longer hung in
the short hall either. He frowned with some mystification before
knocking on the folding doors. He knew Eastland’s fortune was
secure, thus, he could only assume his father had other reasons for
toning down the ostentatious décor.
“Enter.”
He opened the pocketed doors and stepped
inside his father’s domain, the only room he recalled that his
mother never entered nor touched. Here was a chamber that mimicked
the Duke’s country house, one of wood-paneled walls, shelves of
books, supple leather furnishings, and well-tread carpets.
“Your Grace.” He bowed, having reached the
desk his father sat at, just beside the half-opened French doors
that splashed a bit of rain in, no other lord would allow to ruin
his rugs.
Artis set the pipe he had lit in a stand.
Jules' held his posture, hands relaxed at his
sides and body straight under that dark-eyed scrutiny. Although
they had not seen each other since the Duchess’s funeral—a strained
affair to say the least, he could not say the years had been unkind
to Artis, for he actually looked more…alive, than in the years
before.
The Duke’s hair was silver, thick, worn
tapered to the nape, his face bearing those aristocratic assets
that all his sons got some component of. Save for the color to his
skin, which attested to his years of rusticating, he looked the
epitome of English peer in his wine coat, white shirt and buff
breeches. The shorter colorful silk neck cloth—a dash of casualness
the older gents indulged in during the earlier hours.
“How have you been?” The Duke asked.
“Well, your Grace.”
Those silver brows pulled down. Jules saw the
up, and down look, his father gave him afterwards and raised his
own sooty brow.
Making a short, snorting noise, his father
waved a hand and sighed. “Sit down, Jules.”
Placing a hand on the back of a chair facing
the desk, Jules stepped around it and sat. He attended his father,
hiding his reaction to another silence whilst the Duke puffed his
pipe and looked him over rather pensively.
The pipe emitted a cloud of smoke before
Artis set it aside again, then leaned back, relaxed in his chair.
“Have you seen your brother, Blaise, yet?”
“No. Your Grace.”
“Why not?”
The sharpness of that caught Jules off guard,
but he supplied evenly, “I have yet to receive an invitation to the
Viscount’s residence.”
Staring at him, Artis murmured, “Are you
telling me that you’ve not made an effort to see your brother at
all in—what, eight years?”
“I have seen him, Your Grace. On several
occasions, years ago. We did attend several—“
The Duke shot to his feet, his hand rubbing
his nape as he growled, “That’s not what I mean.” He
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