Keeping Faith (Fair Cyprians of London 3)

“I’d rather die!”

Her defiance seemed only to inflame him more. With a sharp tug, he ripped the silk of her cuirasse, pulling her towards him as he seized a hank of her hair.

Faith wept with pain as she lashed out with both hands, her fingernails scoring his stubble dusted cheeks.

“Harlot!” Whore!” His words blasted into her head as he threw himself on top of her, the bed behind her breaking her fall. A minor comfort she thought disjointedly as he hiked up her skirts.

Chapter 7

For so long had Crispin been staring at the open book in front of him, or rather, the honey bees hovering above the honeysuckle outside his study window, that he’d entered a different time zone. A more pleasant time zone. He’d swapped politics and diplomacy for a panorama featuring a beautiful sunset, which had him deliberating on the palette for the pale pinks that splashed through the darkening blue. Except that the blue kept metamorphosing into the blue of a neat, simple, figure-hugging dress worn by an exquisitely beautiful young girl with rippling golden hair.

A young woman bringing beauty to life in all its guises. A young woman he was itching to paint. That was, in truth, what was making him feel alive at this moment. Not two weeks on the French Riviera.

“I’m glad to see you applying yourself so diligently, Crispin.”

He turned at the sound of his father’s voice, gravelly and now, unusually, softened by approval. Crispin had long sought to win his pater’s regard. Since Crispin had been appointed third secretary with his diplomatic prospects now all but assured, provided he didn’t disgrace himself, the relationship between the two of them had greatly improved.

“With less than four weeks before I leave, I want to be as well versed in continental politics as possible.” Crispin smiled, looking up from his books and gesturing for his father to take a seat upon the leather sofa at right angles to him. “I think I shall enjoy it though I’ll miss you and Boxer, naturally.”

“Is that all you’ll miss? Your father and your dog? There’s not a young lady who has captured your interest?” Without waiting for a reply, he went on, “I’m glad to hear it, Crispin, for you must focus your time and energies on your career for at least the next two years.”

Crispin grimaced. “Is that a suggestion or a stricture, Papa? That I do not marry for two years?”

His father’s expression softened to amusement as he idly picked up a book that was lying on the side table. “I’m not suggesting you deny yourself pleasure, my boy. Pleasure and marriage are not exclusive of each other.” He tapped the book, which happened to be on portraiture. “Once you’ve established your career you can paint as much as you like. I’m only guiding you, my boy. I’ve trodden the path you’re on now, and I have wisdom and experience which you do not have.”

Crispin avoided his father’s look to stare over the potted palms through the window. When his father insisted on continuing his monologue in the same vein, he groaned inwardly. “Designing females who throw themselves at you in the hopes of a title are a different kettle of fish to females who are in the market for pleasure; happy with a transaction that’ll keep them in pretty clothes while you can let off some steam. It’s the way of the world, my boy.” He hesitated, caught Crispin’s eye for but a moment, then stared out of the window. “Whatever happened in the past, Crispin…you were not to blame.”

“Perhaps not entirely, Father.”

Lord Maxwell swung round. “How quickly society would have judged had the wrong information been…reported.”

Crispin was not about to be drawn. “You made sure of that, Papa,” he muttered, rifling through the papers on his desk to distract himself and wishing his father would leave.

“Would you have expected me to do other than what I did?” his father returned sharply, his craggy face stern. “See my only son’s name splashed across the newspapers together with whispers that you were a…” He shuddered, unable to say the word. “It would have ruined your career.”

“I would have been cleared in an investigation, Father.”

“Mud sticks, Crispin.”

Crispin gave a taut smile. “But thanks to you, Father, my reputation remained pristine.”

“By God, boy, I did what any father would do under the circumstances. A girl died. Tragic, of course. But the fault was hers. Alone!” His father made an effort to keep his anger in check. “So, tell me, Crispin, how will you spend the next three weeks preparing?”

“Preparing to leave my homeland? I shall do little different to what I have been doing. I shall study hard.”

“You need diversion.”

“Perhaps I should pick up my paintbrushes again.”

Lord Maxwell sighed. “And get drawn into a world from which you can only extricate yourself with the utmost effort when time is of the essence?” He sighed. “No, Crispin. Establish your career and then you can dabble in your paints if that’s what you wish. It’s not for me to ban you forever from an artistic pursuit I’d happily condone if you could control it, but…it’s an addiction with you, my boy. As dangerous as any bubble pipe, I fear.”

“It’s a diversion. One I find enormously fulfilling. Isn’t that what you were advocating, Papa? A little diversion?”

“I was thinking along the lines of the female variety.” Lord Maxwell cleared his throat. “A woman who can take away your cares for just a short while before you leave. If you need help in this area, I can recommend—”

Crispin cut him off curtly. “I don’t need a woman, thank you.” He might have added that the last thing he’d enjoy was a woman he suspected of being in any degree intimate with his father. Crispin respected his father in so many regards, just not when it came to the way he relegated women to varying degrees of usefulness; Crispin’s late mother having been one of these: consort in public, mother of his children, and bearer of his heir. But when his father required pleasure, he consorted with an altogether different type of woman.