Beauty Tempts the Beast (Sins for All Seasons #6) - Lorraine Heath Page 0,56
those who’d laughed at him, mocked him, called him unflattering names.
Whenever his mum had tended to his cuts and scrapes, she would admonish him to ignore the cruel barbs slung at him—“One cannot throw horse dung without getting his own hands covered in muck.”—to exercise patience, which in the end would elevate him above those who thought making sport of others somehow made them better. Eventually, he’d sought out Gillie to see to his hurts because, like him, she’d been abandoned, having been left in a wicker basket on Ettie Trewlove’s doorstep. Also, like him, she hadn’t an inkling as to who might be her parents. So their common ignorance regarding why they’d been given away and by whom had formed a strong bond between them.
He wasn’t even certain the woman who’d handed him over was, in fact, his mother. She’d never claimed to be. He suspected she’d told Ettie Trewlove she’d return for him because she hadn’t sufficient coins to pay her required fee, and had given a lie so he wouldn’t be turned away. Perhaps that meant she’d cared for him a bit. But even caring didn’t prove she was his mother.
Not that it mattered, not any longer. Having recently turned thirty-three, he’d accepted what he didn’t know wasn’t nearly as important as what he did. He knew his temper could be a frightful thing, which was the reason he kept it on a tight leash, but he might untether it if he ever encountered Chadbourne. He most certainly would have given it free rein should his path have crossed Thea’s father’s. Especially as it seemed a hanged duke could continue to do damage. Could make his daughter feel unworthy of the dreams she’d once held.
By the time he reached his destination, rainwater flowed off the brim of his beaver hat, flowed in rivulets down the length of his heavy greatcoat. He jerked open the door and strode into the foyer where most gents were escorted right back out of the exclusive club for ladies, but then he wasn’t most gents. “Aiden about?”
“You’ll find him in the garret, Mr. Trewlove,” the young woman behind the counter said as she held out her hands expectantly to receive his hat and greatcoat. It always unsettled him when someone referred to him as mister, as though he was a civilized bloke, and hadn’t banged a few heads in his day. He was nearly grown before he’d recognized the wisdom of his mum’s admonishments and had begun working to curb his temper, but it easily flared when needed, and his fists were always ready to deliver justice in order to douse the flames.
With reluctance, he removed his hat and shrugged out of his coat. “They’re quite wet.”
Taking them from him, she smiled. “As we have few clientele about at the moment who are in need of me, I’ll see what I can do to remedy that before you go out again.”
It wasn’t only the fact that it was late morning, but also the time of year that resulted in the dearth of customers. Most of the women who visited the club were aristocratic and presently in the country. But Aiden and his family resided in rooms on a floor above, so he was usually found here. “I’ll just head up.”
He took the stairs two at a time, following the familiar path up a few flights until he reached the floor where a narrower set of stairs led to the attic. At the top of them, he discovered the door was ajar, no doubt because the rain prevented the window from being opened in order to let some of the fumes from the paint escape the small area where his brother worked. Pressing a shoulder to the jamb, he studied what Aiden was committing to oils. “Do you paint only your wife these days?”
His brother didn’t seem startled by his words, but then the stairs had echoed Beast’s footsteps and he’d been told on more than one occasion that his presence stirred the air in a room so he couldn’t go unnoticed. On the other hand, when necessary, he could sneak up on a bloke and not be detected until it was too late.
“Why would I bother with anything else?” Aiden asked, stepping back to study his own work, which Beast always found ethereal in nature, as though the subject was being viewed through gossamer. In this instance it was a mother holding her infant son. “One should paint what brings joy.”