But he’d forgotten to bring a coin for the footman, and not only was Vincent seated on the opposite side of the table from Miss Walden, she was at the far end, giving him zero chance of conversing with her.He’d have to have a talk with the footman later.
He was not jealous that Matthew and Xavier were chatting with Miss Walden.Or making her laugh.
No, he could not be jealous.Because if he was jealous, that meant… That meant that he had feelings for her.Feelings that went beyond doing the gentlemanly thing like offering marriage after he’d compromised her when they’d been trapped in the cave.
She pursed her lips to delicately blow on her soup, and he was reminded of how it had felt to kiss those lips this afternoon.To hold her in his arms, tucked up tight against his chest, or carry her on his shoulders.Slide her body down the front of his before … eventually, reluctantly … letting her feet touch the ground.
He’d encountered dozens of women in London who would have been ecstatic to consider themselves compromised by him.Not because he had a high opinion of himself; he was cognizant that he was considered a good catch by society because of his current title, wealth, and yes, his looks didn’t hurt, but he was an especially good catch because of the title of marquess and even greater wealth he would inherit upon his father’s passing.An event that he hoped was still many years in the future.
Yet she had scampered away from the chance to have their impropriety witnessed.To exploit the situation to her benefit.To be his viscountess.She had prevented him from even offering marriage after they spent the night together in a cave.
At least she’d accepted his gift of the scarves.
As the group drifted into the drawing room after dinner, Matthew gave him a look that silently told him he recognized and was puzzled by Vincent’s preoccupation.
“Xavier, do you know Haydn’sFantasiain C?”Matthew called as he thumbed through a folio of sheet music.“We could play a duet on the pianoforte and harpsichord.”
Xavier wandered over to the music cupboard.Vincent looked forward to sitting beside Miss Walden on the sofa while his brother and friend entertained the gathered company, but the vexing woman walked to the fireplace instead, her head tilted back as she examined the painting newly hung above the mantel.
Aside from paintings displayed in various parts of the house, Aunt Gert supported Agnes’s artistic endeavors by encouraging her to hang one of her paintings in the prominent spot above the fireplace, regularly changing which masterpiece was on public display.The subjects were often exotic landscapes where she had lived with her Army officer husband—grandfather’s youngest brother—or portraits of people she had met.
Startled, he recognized his grandparents and a very young Aunt Gert.A wedding portrait, apparently.Aunt Agnes had shown him a few sketches of them over the years, and of course a portrait of his grandparents hung in the long gallery at Hobart Hall.But that portrait had been commissioned only a few years before Grandfather’s death, when their faces bore evidence of full lives well-lived.
But this couple…
In the blush of youth, his grandmother Vincenza stared at him through the decades, her aquiline nose, high cheekbones, olive skin, and straight black hair nearly identical to the features that gazed back at him in the mirror, on the rare occasion he looked in one.
So different from the curly light brown hair, blue eyes, and fair skin of his grandfather, father, and middle brother.
So striking was the resemblance that were they the same age, Vincenza would have appeared like Vincent’s twin sister.
Vincent couldn’t breathe.His lungs refused to work as his brain struggled to process the vision before him.
For most of his life he’d fought feelings that he didn’t belong.That Father recognized Vincent as his heir only because of his pride, in not wanting to admit his wife had betrayed him.
How many times had Vincent acquiesced to Father’s demands, simply because Vincent feared his father would change his mind?That he would disown him and declare Wallace to be the obvious heir.That Father would prove Wallace and his sneering accusations to be correct.
His heart thundering in his chest, Vincent clutched the arm of the sofa.He would have staggered if he’d been standing.Only the cushions kept him upright.
“Wallace,” Miss Walden called without taking her eyes off the painting, speaking so softly she was audible only to someone paying close attention.
Wallace straightened from where he’d squatted down to pet Henry, and joined her at the fireplace.“Yes, Miss Walden?”he said, wearing an expectant grin that Vincent wanted to smack off his brother’s face.
“Earlier today you told me that you resemble your father, and that Xavier resembles your mother.”She shifted her gaze from the painting to Wallace, her expression thoughtful.“Have you noticed how much Vincenzo resembles your grandmother?”
Wallace’s smile turned brittle.
The age-old hurt from being accused of not belonging in the family warred with Vincent’s ridiculous joy at hearing her speak his name.His intimate, given name.His first name as written in the parish baptismal registry.
His chest froze.He wasn’t ready for someone else to discuss this dark, family secret.And how dare Wallace spread his dirty accusations to someone outside the circle of the three brothers?
“No,” Wallace quietly insisted with a defiant tilt of his chin.“He looks like Father’s Greek friend who used to visit.”
“Mr.Pop-a-Dop?”Xavier strolled over from the pianoforte.“He always brought the best sweets.Couldn’t get them anywhere else.Nurse said so.”He studied the painting, then glanced at Vincent, still frozen on the sofa, and back up to the painting, tapping his chin with one finger.
“Did you notice he never visited after Mother died?”Wallace clipped his words.
Between one heartbeat and the next, Vincent thawed and boiled over.He jumped to his feet.“Because he died, you ignorant ass!”
