The Day of the Duchess (Scandal & Scoundrel #3)(68)

“Why?”

And another. “Do you know the story of the Pleiades?”

There were moments when she could forget that Haven was a duke, and moments when his past, being raised in a constant state of aristocratic whim, showed without pause. Invariably, those moments were the ones like this, when he ignored questions and changed subjects without apology.

She did not hide her irritation. “I know they were sisters. I know they were daughters to Atlas.”

Another light flared to life. “And once Atlas was punished, forced to hold up the heavens, they were left alone, with no one to protect them from gods or men. Seven sisters. With only each other.”

She did not like the thread of awareness that went through her at the words. The familiarity of the story—her father, made aristocrat without warning, she and her sisters thrust into the world of the London aristocracy without aid. Never accepted for their low beginnings, never admired for the way they rose.

She affected a false bravado. “Dangerous daughters must stay together.”

“One more than the rest.” A flare of orange, casting his serious face in angles and shadows. He continued, his voice low and dark like the endless teardrop hallway. “The oldest six Pleiades were beautiful, and each tempted a god. Each married into the heavens. But the youngest, Merope—the most beautiful, most graceful, most valued—she caught the eye of a dangerous suitor—one who was earthborn.”

“Isn’t that always the way? Your sisters get their hearts’ desire, and you get a mere mortal.” Another brazier. This tunnel was endless. “Are we crossing the entire lake underwater?”

It was as though she had not spoken. “No mere mortal. Orion was the greatest hunter the world had ever known, and he pursued Merope relentlessly. And she was tempted.”

“Of course she was. I’m certain he was handsome as the devil.”

“He was, as a matter of fact.” Ah. So he was listening. “She did everything she could to hide from him, knowing there was no hope for them.”

She, too, was listening, the words no hope settling like an ache in her chest.

“She turned to her sisters, who banded together, working as only sisters can do to protect their youngest from the mortal hunter who would never be good enough. They began by blinding him—”

“And you thought my sisters were bad.” He lit a final flame, revealing another dark doorway, the hint of something beyond.

One side of his mouth tilted up, even as he stood framed in darkness, watching her. He looked like a god of sorts—a modern one. Tall and beautiful, with a face chiseled from marble, rendered even more godlike in the flickering light from the torch he held, as though he could summon flame at will. “His blindness was no deterrent. He was a master hunter, made so by the gods themselves. And so he pursued Merope, ever more desperate for what they might have together. For the possibility of their future.”

“You’d think he’d have given up on her, what with her clear disinterest.”

His words were more growl than speech. “Ah, but it wasn’t disinterest. It was fear. Fear of what might have been. And, as he was a mortal, fear of what she would most certainly lose if she succumbed.”

Her heart. Him.

Sera remained silent, and he continued, his words soft and liquid in this private, untraveled space. They were as secret as the place itself. “Orion did not fear blindness. He only feared never finding her. Never having the chance to convince her that they were for each other. That mortal or no, he could give her everything. Sun, moon, stars.”

“Except he couldn’t,” she whispered.

He hesitated at the words, and she noticed his fist clench around the handle of the torch, the way the light trembled there, in the dimly lit corridor, as though her words could manipulate it.

“The sisters went to Artemis, the goddess of hunters, thinking that if she called Orion off his search, he would listen. They pledged her their fealty. And she went to him.”

“He refused,” she said, suddenly knowing the story without ever having heard it. She drew closer to him, desperate for the ending. Knowing it would be tragic.

Wanting it to be happy.

“Of course he refused,” Malcolm said, meeting her at a distance. “And that was his mistake.”

“Never cross a goddess,” she whispered.

He gave a little laugh then, and the years disappeared with the upturned lines at the corners of his eyes, his smile drawing her in, making her wonder at the way those eyes saw and knew and revealed. “As though I have not learned that lesson myself.”

She watched the words on his lips, the memory of their smoothness and strength an assault. What if she kissed him? Not like she had the last time, with anger and frustration, but with pleasure? What if she kissed that smile? Could she catch it? Keep it for herself, for all the moments she was alone and wished she could remember it?

No. “Tell me the rest.”

He lifted his hand, and anticipation consumed her as his gaze moved to the place where his fingers hovered above her skin, an unfulfilled promise. “Artemis went to Zeus.”

It would not end happily.

Malcolm took a deep breath and exhaled. Sera felt the warm air at her temple. Ached at the touch. “She went to Zeus and asked him to hide Merope. To punish the man.”

To punish them both.