“I see,” she said. “So that kiss was not the beginning of a seduction to get your land back?”
“No, it was not. That kiss,” he said, reaching out and tracing a gentle finger over her plump lower lip, “was because I find you utterly refreshing and enticing. I don’t want to seduce you. I want to get to know you.”
“I’m supposed to believe this?”
He nodded. “You are, though I can imagine how difficult it must be. Lord Pierce, you see, caught me, unbeknownst to him and truly myself, on the cusp of wanting a real change.” Since returning to London, he’d been grappling with his shock that his father, who had spent most of Callum’s life telling him he’d never be a good marquess and steward of the land and money, had lost a great deal on his own. That knowledge had made Callum feel even guiltier that he’d not come to his father sooner, understood sooner that he could compromise, and the letter today reinforced Callum’s desire to change. He wanted to be the son his father had neededandkeep a part of himself. He could do both.
“Really?” She looked thoughtfully at him. “What do you want to change?”
“Me.” He had never been more honest than in this moment. “I want to change me.” He hesitated, but only because he was still so surprised he was sharing such personal details about his wants and dreams. It was because of her. He’d never met anyone who had such an effect on him. “I’ve spent most of my life a spoiled fool, and I did not realize the extent of it until just before you knocked on my door.” That truth hit him like a punch in the gut, and he had to pause to swallow. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the letter his father had written him. He handed it to her. It could explain it better and more succinctly than he could in this moment. “Read this.”
Her brows furrowed together, but she took the letter, her teeth sinking into her lower lip as she unfolded it and bowed her head to read. Her hair cascaded around her face to shield her expression from him, and he was glad not to see it as she read. He felt more vulnerable than he’d ever felt in his life. More vulnerable than when Ross had given him a beating. More vulnerable than when his father had praised Ross’s eagerness to learn all things relating to the title and land that was to be Callum’s, and then, in turn, had criticized Callum’s lack of interest, his lack of ambition, his lack of responsibility. They’d both been wrong and right about each other in different ways. Life was damned ironic.
When she looked up and there were tears swimming in her eyes, he felt such a strong connection to her that it took all his will to hold himself in place and keep himself from kissing her once more.
“Was he able to tell you?” she asked, her voice full of the tears she was clearly choking back. God, how had he been so lucky as to meet this woman?
He shook his head, and her tears spilled over her eyes and down her cheeks. His throat and chest tightened, and when she slid her arms around him, his father’s letter crushed between them, and offered him comfort, he took it, appalled at how much he needed it and shocked at how utterly grateful he was that she was willing to give it to him. He leaned into her, resting his forehead on her small shoulder, and she stroked his hair for a long, silent period.
He thought on how nice her hands felt in his hair, so caring. He thought on what he wanted to say to her and what he didn’t. She didn’t need to know that his father had somehow made a string of bad investments that had almost bankrupted the estate and had left Callum in a great deal of debt. That was none of her concern. Besides, Callum fully intended to somehow correct the situation.
He righted himself, her concerned eyes falling on him. Silently, he took her hand in his, surprised how the mere act of holding her hand stirred his desire for her, and he led her to the settee. They sat and faced each other. “I was not a model son,” he said. “I don’t want you to get the wrong idea from my father’s letter and think the problems between us were all his fault.”
She smiled gently. “It’s very enlightened of you to say so.”
He felt his own mouth pull into a rare genuine smile. “I’ve only recently come to recognize my own colossal bad choices and stubbornness that drove and kept my father and me apart.”
“When did you realize you wished to be an artist?”
“Very early. My mother painted, and she would allow me to sit in her studio and watch her as soon as I was old enough to do so without spilling or breaking anything.” She laughed at that, her merriment making her eyes shine bright. “My father required me to go out of doors with him every morning to ride the estate and perform various exercises he considered more masculine, but I was late to develop, and for a very long time, I was abysmal at the tasks he put before me, such as riding, fishing, hunting, log carrying.”
“Log carrying?” Her eyebrows arched high in question.
“Yes,” he said, chuckling. “My grandfather was half-Scot and passed down Highlander notions of what made a man to my father. Men were supposed to be physically strong and always stoic. I was stoic, I suppose, as a young boy but not strong—or at least not strong enough for my father’s liking.” He paused and scrubbed a hand over his face. “I can see now that he was doing his best, trying to make me into a man, but every time I failed at one of his tasks, his displeasure was harsh and his criticism stinging, and it was often given in front of other people.” Callum shrugged. “Soon I refused to go out in the mornings with him, and he tried to thrash me into submission, but it didn’t work. As I said, I was stubborn. He eventually gave up trying to bend me to his will with thrashings, but by then the breach in our relationship had begun. His next tactic was to refuse to allow me time in my mother’s studio with her unless I completed the things he believed the future marquess should be doing every day. So I did them but with no passion and a foolish refusal to embrace any of it. The harder he pushed me to be who he wanted me to be, the harder I pushed back.”
“I’m so sorry,” she said, the empathy in her voice touching him.
“Would you care for something to drink?” he asked, needing a moment to compose himself and realizing he’d been rude in not yet offering her anything.
“What do you have?”
It occurred to him then that he only had wine in the studio. “Wine,” he replied. “I can go out and—”
“No,” she said, shaking her head. “I’ve never had wine, and I have always wanted to try it.”
He rose, surprised to see the sun had started to set, and then he secured two glasses, poured them both some wine, and sat, offering it to her. He watched as she brought the glass to her lips and took a tentative sip.
Her eyes widened. “It’s delicious.”
He nodded. “The elixir of the gods, but be careful. If you drink too much it can make you feel like a god—invincible.”
“Go on,” she encouraged.
He inhaled a long, slow breath, thinking on what else to say. He still could hardly understand why he’d revealed all he had to her, but he felt good, as if a weight had been lifted. “There’s not much more to tell, really. At Cambridge I finally grew into my father’s physical image—”
“So he was an imposing man?”
He smirked at her. “You find me imposing?”
