The Scandalous Lady Sandford (Lost Ladies of London 3)

“And don’t ask me about it,” she interjected, “not ever.” Only one person knew what she kept close to her heart, and he would never betray her.

The muscle in Fabian’s cheek flexed, but he said nothing. An uncomfortable silence ensued, the deafening sound only broken by the crashing of waves on the rocks below.

“I can offer you the one thing you desire above all else.” Fabian spoke softly, all arrogance abandoned. “I offer you freedom.”

For a lady, the power to make decisions was a treasure beyond that of gold and jewels. But she’d had naivety knocked out of her by a cold-hearted devil. She knew the words men used to manipulate situations to their advantage.

“You cannot offer marriage and freedom. It is a contradiction in terms. Marriage is a means for a man to exert his control. A wife must do her husband’s bidding.”

“Not if you married me.”

“I would be your property, a commodity to exploit in any manner you saw fit.”

“I demand nothing from you.” He gestured to the vast landscape stretching beyond the castle walls. “I offer you an island, a place to live and roam freely. I can have a house built if you’d rather not live with me in the castle.”

To live away from society proved tempting. Fabian made no promises. All he wanted was a means to control her brother. “But to gain my freedom, I must betray Vane.”

Fabian pushed his hand through his hair. “It is not betrayal if Vane doesn’t give a damn about me. Had he bothered to reply to my missive, we would not be standing here. I am the one who bears a grudge, and rightly so.”

“What happened to Estelle was not Vane’s fault.” Vane would have disobeyed their father and married Estelle if only she’d given him a chance.

“Damn right it was.” Vehemence brimmed in his voice. “Vane could have saved her, but he let pride and arrogance get in the way.”

“And how will marrying me help you now? Do you think revenge brings peace? Because let me tell you it does not.” She stared at him, and he struggled to hold her gaze. “Tell me the truth, Fabian. You owe me that at least.”

He gave a curt nod of resignation. “Come, let me show you to your room. It’s growing chilly, and the hour is late. I’ll explain everything on the way.”

The stairs seemed steeper on the descent. Twice she almost slipped on the worn stone steps. Fabian reached up and captured her hand. The sudden jolt of awareness only unbalanced her further. As he firmed his grip, she could feel the callouses on his palm. The Raven didn't sit on a throne and bark orders. She imagined him working alongside his men, standing at the helm of his ship during long, perilous voyages, risking his life to restore the family fortune.

They reached the door to the landing, and he released her hand. “We do business with merchants in Paris,” he suddenly said. “Recently, one of my most trusted men journeyed to the city to deliver important documents.”

Did he speak of Mackenzie? There was something in the Scot’s voice that instilled confidence, something solid and dependable.

Fabian gestured to the long corridor, candles in iron sconces lighting their way. He clasped his hands behind his back as they fell into a slow pace. “Mackenzie has seen the miniature I have of Estelle. While leaving the merchant’s house in a hurry, he bumped into a woman and knocked her books out of her hand. He stopped to help her, but it was only as he watched her scurry away that he noted the likeness.”

Lillian’s heart sank. Oh, she wanted to believe Estelle was alive, not just for Fabian’s sake. Vane had not been the same since the day Estelle ran away from Prescott Hall. He nurtured a darkness deep within, a hardened heart and an utter lack of sentiment for the fair sex.

“When one longs to reunite with a loved one, the mind can play many tricks,” she said. The painful lump in her throat was a precursor to the well of tears filling her eyes. She glanced away quickly. “When we are desperate, we will believe anything.”

He remained silent for a moment, and she could feel the heat of his gaze drifting over her. “I’ve spent the last eight years staring at women with black hair and mesmerising eyes, hoping they were someone else.”

“I imagine you see Estelle wherever you go.” She found the strength to look at him.

“Indeed, although it is not only the dead who haunt our dreams.” He stared into her eyes and then blinked and shook his head. “Despite doubting Mackenzie, we returned together to Paris, took the miniature and knocked on doors in the quarter, asked at circulating libraries, at cafes, walked the promenades.”

“Is the miniature a good likeness?”

“You may judge for yourself.” Fabian strode to a door further along the corridor and had to duck slightly to clear the stone lintel.

Lillian waited outside. A lady did not enter a gentleman’s bedchamber. And yet she wanted to see where Fabian slept, what trinkets lay on his side table, what the intimate surroundings said about the man.

Fabian returned and handed Lillian the oval miniature. “It is all I have of hers.”

The artist had captured Estelle’s likeness perfectly. She had a face one instantly fell in love with. It had nothing to do with her classical beauty: porcelain skin, full pink lips and wide dark eyes. When one looked at Estelle, they saw kindness, sincerity, a generosity of spirit.

Lillian traced

the outline of the picture with her finger. “You must miss her terribly. You were always close.”