Beautiful Things: Second Sons Book One
Beautiful Things: Chapter 45

This was a bloody disaster. How did everything go so wrong? James stormed down the gallery. There were only a few places Burke would hide, and James knew them all. He’d already checked the small library.

James thought his suffering would be over at the end of this week. He was letting himself pine until after the ball. Then Miss Harrow would go, and his life could return to normal. He was hoping for it, waiting for it, needing it like he needed air. She would go, and all would be as it was before. She would fucking go.

But no, Rosalie had just smashed that dream with a hammer, and now he was living inside a nightmare. Of course, his mother wanted her to stay. Someone had to learn to be the duchess, and George was certainly incapable of attracting the right sort for himself. So, his mother managed everything. Rosalie would move into his home. She would greet him every morning and discuss menus and plan village bazaars. She would walk his park and use his baths and be always underfoot until he gave in to his desires and claimed her body and soul—

No. There will be no claiming of any kind.

She was only here under the express condition that she make no attempts to woo or be wooed. Trust his mother to set impossible standards for everyone. But this was so much worse. It wasn’t enough that Rosalie couldn’t accept his sincere attention. She had looked him square in the face and admitted she didn’t want to accept. She fled the library and James didn’t dare follow. Burke left soon after.

Bloody hell, James should have stepped in sooner. Burke didn’t give his heart away easily. Ever. Burke never gave his heart away. If this little vixen thought she was going to be the one to take it and shred it in her hands…

He took a deep breath. He needed to replace Burke.

As children they liked to play in the storage rooms—games of hide and seek, burrowing under old tables and behind frameless art. Over time, James arranged himself a reading nook in the corner. It was just a faded chaise wedged behind a folding screen, but it was angled just right to catch the light. Once Burke found it, James was resigned to fighting him for the spot. It had been their favorite hideaway ever since, far from the bustle and noise of the main house.

James entered the red room and sighed. Burke’s riding boot was sticking out from behind the screen. He wove his way across the room, stepping over a rolled carpet and around a dented suit of armor. “Sulking are we?”

“Get lost,” Burke muttered. “I was here first.” He was stretched out on the chaise, his coat flung over the back, cravat untied. He had one arm raised up over his face, blocking his eyes from the harsh sunlight. In his other hand he held a glass of brandy.

James sighed, leaning against the wall. “It’s a bit early for brandy, don’t you think?”

“If we set our conduct by George’s standards, I’m merely catching up.” Burke sat up and drained the glass, setting it down with a clatter. “I can’t take a sanctimonious speech right now. Try again after I’ve had a few more of these.”

As Burke reached for the decanter, James leaned over top of him and snatched away the glass. Burke righted himself, reaching for the glass, and glowered.

“I have no speeches to give,” James said, rolling the glass gently between his hands.

“Yeah, right,” Burke scoffed.

Burke showed his hand in the library. It was only right James do the same. This was new territory for them. They’d never lusted after the same woman before. But Burke meant more to him than any passing infatuation. He sighed, setting the glass down. “I am not such a hypocrite to think you warrant a speech and I do not.”

Burke stilled, lifting his head off his hands. His expression shifted from wary jealousy to surprise. “Christ,” he sighed with a shake of his head. “She got to you too.”

“Not quite in the same way I believe she may have gotten to you…”

Burke made no response. Apparently, he wasn’t in a sharing mood. But James had to know. “How far has it gone? Should I be—”

“We kissed,” Burke admitted. “I kissed her…she…we kissed.”

“When?”

“When I found her at the edge of the wood,” Burke muttered. “She stumbled out looking like some kind of forest nymph. Her petticoats deep in mud, eyes wild. She was so…alive. I couldn’t stop myself. It was like she was the shore and I the tide.” He glanced up, grey eyes hardened. “I’m not sorry it happened.”

“What do you intend to do now?”

Burke shrugged. “Leave for the continent, I suppose. Join the military? Tom has been on me enough about the opportunities naval life can afford. Or perhaps I’ll join George when he makes his trek to Australia.”

“Burke, don’t be rash—”

Burke dragged his hands through his hair. James had never seen him this way about a woman. “If she’s moving into this house, and pushes me away, I can’t stay,” Burke muttered. “She thinks it can just be about sex, that I’ll pine after her body and not want to claim her soul. She’s mad. She doesn’t understand the power she holds over me. I can’t be here watching her, feeling her presence in every room. I can’t see her face everywhere, hear her voice, and not be with her. It would haunt me, James. I can’t—”

“That bad?”

“Worse,” Burke croaked, his face a mask of misery.

“Let’s just…get through this week. If Miss Harrow is staying, we’ll have time to sort things out. For now, we need a plan for Tuesday.”

Burke flopped back on the chaise. “What about it?”

James kicked the heel of his booted foot. “Your brilliant idea for a sketching party. Where do you want to take them?”

“I don’t bloody care—”

“I am not doing this by myself. Get your head out of your arse and stop moping. You are not falling apart over a girl you’ve known for two goddamn weeks. You wanted to take the ladies sketching, now tell me where. Finchley Hill? The west lawn?”

Burke just scowled.

“Fine. You’re bloody useless.” He turned away.

Burke’s voice called through the screen. “The waterfall…in the woods, by the—”

“The old mill,” James finished. It wasn’t a waterfall, more of a slight declination that made for some rapidly flowing water. But it was still a lovely spot, full of fond memories. As boys, they played knights and kings in the abandoned mill, using it as their keep.

“Make it a picnic,” Burke muttered. “Blankets on the grass by the stream’s edge.”

“It’s a fine idea,” he replied. “I’ll arrange everything.” Then he paused, not quite believing what he was about to say. He was glad Burke was hidden behind the screen. “She never said she wasn’t interested in you; she’s just not interested in getting married. Perhaps she has a good reason. Perhaps that reason can change…given the right incentive.”

He could feel Burke’s stillness. “You would approve?” Burke muttered through the screen. “You would let me have her?”

James forced a laugh. “I doubt very much there would be any ‘letting’ you do anything when it comes to Miss Harrow. And don’t forget Renley’s interest. He might come back from London a changed man…”

Burke scrambled off the chaise. “Rosalie told him to forgive her. He’s going to throw himself at Marianne again. If anything, he’ll probably come back engaged. And she doesn’t want him like that. He said she was adamant they be nothing but friends.”

James met his gaze. “Right…like the two of you are just friends…”

Burke’s eyes roiled with storms. Yes, Renley was most assuredly in this contest too. These idiots were fighting for the hand of a woman who didn’t want to be won, a woman who was just as much a fool for not realizing she’d already won. Both men could be hers for the taking. Christ, what a joke.

James was so busy for the rest of the day, he hardly had a moment to turn his attention to the problem of the unsuitable Miss Harrow. The afternoon ran so long, he missed dinner. By the time he returned home, he headed straight for his chambers, where he had his valet prepare a steaming hot bath. It was only when he was settled in the bath, steam spiraling off the water’s surface, that he let himself think about her.

For all he knew, Burke approached her today. Did they kiss again? Did she whisper sweet nothings in his ear, promises to love him forever, like Marianne did to poor Tom? Would she do the same to Tom when he returned from Town?

That didn’t seem like her style. To own the truth, she’d impressed him in their time together. There was an honesty to her that he could appreciate, for it mirrored his own. She said what was on her mind, and she didn’t hold back…but she also didn’t seek to harm. That was rare in a person in general, and virtually unheard of in a woman. For what lady did not secretly live to tear others down?

But this was an infatuation and nothing more. Burke may be ready to make a fool of himself, but James had a family, a title, a reputation. He couldn’t go ruining himself over a passing fancy. And that’s all Rosalie Harrow was. Then he would let nature take its course. For when had he not eventually found fault with every girl he’d ever fancied?

A sudden thought had him sitting up in the tub, sloshing water over the side. He was taking Rosalie sketching…but she wasn’t in possession of her sketchbook. He very much doubted she retrieved it herself, likely too traumatized by seeing George’s hairy arse. And servants never had occasion to go up to the roof…unless George was in the mood for a shag with view. No, the sketchbook was probably still there in the dark of the stairs.

He finished his bath and snatched up a candle. This late at night, there would be no one walking the halls, so he didn’t care he was barefoot with his shirt undone. He pulled on his favorite green silk banyan and stalked out of his room. He moved down the dark hall, passing George’s suite. He paused for a moment, listening for sounds within. There came the unmistakable sounds of giggling—masculine and feminine.

Fucking George.

James stalked down the hallway, his candle flickering as he paused before his least favorite painting in the house. What the hell was wrong with that horse? If James ever became duke, one of his first acts would be to see it taken down and burned in the yard.

He pushed through the servant’s door and took the few steps spiraling up to the next landing. The stone was cold against his bare feet. He paused. There on the steps was Rosalie’s abandoned sketchbook, spine bent, pages abused. He picked it up and flipped it over. His eye flickered over the page and his heart stilled.

It was him. She hadn’t drawn anything above his nose, but he knew his own face well enough to recognize the shape of his jaw, his lips. She’d clearly put time and effort into shaping them just right. Had she been watching him? Or was it done from memory? Either way it made his cock twitch.

He knew it was wrong. This was a lady’s private sketchbook. He may as well be reading her diary. But he found himself dropping down to the stone stair. He set his candle a few steps above him and leaned back, holding the sketchbook in both hands as he flipped through the pages. Most were done with ink or charcoal but some were colorful pastels—flowers in a vase, the Swindon sisters, a handsome sketch of a horse in profile. And then his chest tightened. Renley smiling, his mouth quirked at the corner, his handsome officer’s hat pulled low over his brow.

He flipped the page and felt his chest grow tighter. Burke in profile. Burke’s stormy eyes. Burke’s hands. How did James know the man so well he could identify him by his hands alone? How did Rosalie know his hands so well she could draw them from memory?

He flipped the page. Another sketch of James. The general shape of his face was there, with some hatching filling in his jaw. The only defined feature was his lips. Two sketches. A study of James Corbin’s mouth. Bloody fucking hell. All she had to do was ask, and he would show her what his mouth could do. What sketches might she draw then?

A rattling below made him jump and he snapped the sketchbook shut. Who the hell would be moving around at this hour? He snatched up his candle and stood, tucking the sketchbook under his arm as he spiraled down the stair. His brows lowered as he readied to catch a pair of servants in a midnight tryst.

“Who’s there,” he barked.

He swung around the corner to see Rosalie yip and step back, nearly tumbling down the stairs. Her candle tipped off its stand as she smacked it against the wall. He shot an arm out and caught her, closing the space between them, turning her towards the wall. He dropped her sketchbook and caged her in with his arms. It all happened in a blink.

“Heavens,” she panted.

He took in her flushed face, her dark hair tumbling around her shoulders. She wore a nightshift with only a blue velvet robe to cover her nakedness.

“Why is there always a Corbin in this stairwell?” She hissed, slipping out from under the cage of his arms.

He couldn’t help but grin. “Well…it is our house.”

Her eyes dropped to take in his open shirt and bare feet. Flustered, she sank to her knees, reaching for her candle in the dark.

“What are you doing up here?” he said, voice low. His eyes caught on the little yellow ribbon in her hair. He fought the urge to reach down and tug loose the bow. He wanted her hair completely down, framing that heart-shaped face.

“I came for my sketchbook,” she replied. She righted herself and met his gaze, always so defiant. “I could ask you the same.”

His grin widened as he visualized her drawing his lips with such care. “I came for your sketchbook.”

She gasped a little breath. It sounded so good, he wanted to replace a way to make her do it again. He prayed she wouldn’t see the way his cock was half hard for her. When was the last time he was alone with a woman? He couldn’t think. She smelled heavenly. Something floral and spiced. It filled his senses, tugging at some memory he couldn’t place. Was it frankincense?

“Where is it then?”

He watched her mouth make words. If he had any talent, he might return the favor and make a study of sketching her lips. Wait, she was speaking. What did she say? God, he was an idiot. How could a woman make him feel so out of control? Why was she still looking at him like that? Oh right, they were speaking. He took a breath. “What?”

“My sketchbook,” she said on a huff, hands on her hips. “You said you had it.”

He glanced around. “I dropped it. I was rather distracted by the damsel threatening to tumble down my stairs.”

She glanced around, spotting it with a little gasp. She bent down and snatched it up, tucking it under her arm. Her cheeks were still deeply flushed as she held out her snubbed candle. “Would you give me a light, sir?”

He dropped down a step and held out his candle. The new flame flickered into life, expanding the circle of light around them. He watched the twin flames dance in her dark eyes. They stood there in the quiet, chests rising and falling as they breathed. Christ, she was so beautiful. He wanted to touch her face—those dark brows, her full lips, her blushing cheeks. Would she let him? Would she ever crave his touch like she did Burke’s?

Damn it…Burke.

Burke was in love with her, mad for her…and here was James, coveting her for himself, daring to jeopardize his friend’s happiness. Burke called her the shore pulling in tides, but James knew better, for was he not feeling the same inescapable pull? James had been suffering under the delusion that when Rosalie left, the urge to be near her would ease. Out of sight, out of mind.

But Rosalie Harrow was not the shore. She was the moon. There would be no escaping her pull for either of them…any of them. The moon is everywhere—always coaxing, always claiming. Even when she cannot be seen, she is felt. And James felt her everywhere.

Damn it all to hell.

Those beautiful dark eyes were trying to read him. Impossible. He had to shut these thoughts down. He refused to get involved. More importantly, he refused to hurt Burke.

Walls, James. Retreat.

He shut down his emotions, replaceing the strength to detach. He saw recognition flicker in her eyes as if she knew exactly what he was doing.

Her countenance fell. “I’ll just…I’ll go then…”

“Yes. Goodnight, Miss Harrow.”

He frowned. Why wasn’t she moving? She was just standing there, holding tight to her candle like it was a shield and he a dragon. Was she afraid of him? He lowered himself down a half-step and she pressed herself back against the wall, giving him more space to pass by.

“After you,” he muttered, gesturing down the stairs.

She turned and their shoulders brushed in the narrow space. He was fighting the urge to reach out again—

SLAM.

“What was that?” she whispered, nearly stumbling back against his chest.

James’ every sense was on high alert. One hand braced her hip to steady her.

“Frigid whore!”