Portrait Of A Lover (10 page)

“Yes, I paint often,” she replied at last, “and I spend a great deal of time with my nieces and nephews.”

He was nodding, looking genuinely interested, but she did not trust that, either.

“And how is Lady Whitby?” he asked.

“Very well. She and Whitby are expecting their fifth child in a few weeks.”

“Ah. That’s wonderful.”

Annabelle felt her brow furrow with dismay. Magnus had been her family’s enemy for as long as she could remember, and he’d been accused of causing the death of Whitby’s older brother. Yet he was asking after them like an old friend, acting as if he cared.

Which he could not possibly. He was a villain. A hateful human being. And this was ridiculous.

Yet when another awkward silence descended upon the room, Annabelle found herself slipping into the familiar safety of polite conversation again, because she could not bear the noise of her heart drumming in her ears while he simply looked at her.

“America agrees with you?” she asked without enthusiasm.

“Yes. I have a house in New York and another in South Carolina. I prefer the southern weather in the winter months.”

She pondered this news. He had two homes, and he’d purchased this space, furnished it with some very fine pieces, and his clothes…Well, he looked immaculate, with shiny Italian leather shoes and a shirt that was clearly made of the finest linen money could buy.

What had he been doing since he left England?

He must have seen the question in her eyes, for he answered what she was thinking. “I’m in business in America. Shortly after I arrived there, I discovered I had a knack for buying and selling property.”

He was leaning an elbow on the armrest, his forefinger resting on his temple. He appeared very relaxed now, with one long leg crossed over the other, gazing calmly at her.

Annabelle knew he was doing this just to ride out her shock from seeing him, and despite her agitation, she found herself breathing slower. Perhaps that was a good thing. She felt more in control now. She was more rational. She could do this.

“I started out by purchasing a building not much bigger than this one,” he continued, “which had a good location but was run-down. I rebuilt it almost from scratch, doing most of the work myself, and sold it for a profit. Then I did the same thing again with a bigger building each time, and now here I am.”

“Congratulations,” she said, only because it was the appropriate thing to say.

She looked around the room. “Did you do all this work yourself?”

“Most of it, yes,” he said, “which I greatly enjoyed, because I haven’t done this sort of thing in a while. The projects became too complex, and there were too many at once. I have people now who do this for me.”

“I see.” She was quiet for a moment, pondering what he had just told her, thinking about this building. “Why a gallery?”

He inclined his head at her. “I have an interest in art.”

“You didn’t when I knew you,” she said, raising an accusing eyebrow. “You knew nothing about it when I met you on the train.”

He did not seem surprised or shaken by her tone. He remained cool and collected. “No, but since then I’ve acquired an appreciation.”

Another tense silence enveloped the room. Annabelle could almost feel the weight of her painting hanging on the wall behind her. She turned around and glanced at it.

When she looked back at Magnus, he was watching her intently. His gaze went from her eyes to the painting over her head, then back to her eyes again.

“Someday that’ll be in the National Gallery,” he said. “Or perhaps in the Met in New York.”

“I hardly think so,” she replied, even though she knew the painting was exceptional. More than exceptional, and it felt strange to think such a thing, because she never marveled at any of her other paintings. She was always so critical of her own work. But this one…

She still couldn’t believe she had painted it.

“Is this your first gallery?” she asked, wanting suddenly to redirect the conversation back to him. She didn’t want to talk about herself or her life or her work as an artist.

“No. I own two others in New York. They’re labors of love.”

Labors of love? For pity’s sake, this whole conversation was insane. This was Magnus. Magnus!

Annabelle strove to get her head on straight and decided it was time to take control of this meeting and find out the real reason why he had come back, and why he’d wanted her to hear him out.

“Magnus,” she said, closing her eyes briefly, her voice still cool and faintly antagonistic. “Let’s get to the heart of it, shall we? What is it you want to say to me?”

Annabelle waited for him to answer, while he gazed at her with steady, penetrating eyes. Finally he leaned forward in his chair and spoke.

“I returned to London,” he said, “because I have some regrets about what happened between us, and I wanted you to know that.”

Annabelle squeezed her hands together on her lap. Her brain couldn’t seem to process what he’d just said to her. He had regrets? Magnus? Magnus had regrets?

She could have laughed out loud, but that would have required her to smile, which just wasn’t possible right now. She was far too tense.

“How interesting,” she said. “But I’m afraid I’m having a hard time believing you.”

He nodded his understanding and lounged back again as if he hadn’t a care in the world. “I knew you would.”

“You knew I would?” He was entirely too confident, so she scoffed out loud. “You treated me appallingly, Magnus. You used me and discarded me, knowing from the very beginning that you were going to break my heart, but you didn’t care in the least. So you must forgive me for finding it difficult to believe that a man as heartless and unfeeling as you might be remorseful.”

Oh, it had felt so good to say all that.

His eyes smoldered with resolve. “I am not heartless, Annabelle, and I mean to prove that to you.”

She laughed. “How are you going to do that?”

“Well, to start with, I can tell you that I’m sorry, that I never meant to hurt you.”

Annabelle’s mouth fell open. Perhaps she was being a tad vindictive herself, but good God! Did he think he could just come here and say he didn’t mean it, and she would simply smile and say, How kind of you, and he would be absolved?

“It took you thirteen years to realize that you’d been unscrupulous, and that I deserved an apology?” Her anger was rising up inside her again.

He spoke with vehemence. “I was not unscrupulous, but merely stupid. And it did not take me until now to realize I’d wronged you. I knew it all along.”

“So why come here and apologize now?”

She stood up. This was absurd. She wanted to leave.

He stood, too. “Sit down, Annabelle. Please. Let me finish.”

She hesitated, fighting to subdue her temper, then reluctantly did as he asked.

“How can you tell me you were not unscrupulous,” she asked, “after what you said to me that day outside the bank, when you told me that you’d been using me all along?”

She frowned at him and leaned back on the sofa, remembering his brutal, merciless words.

I was enjoying a very satisfying jab at Whitby…

I didn’t love you…

Just thinking of it made her breath come short. He had cut her so deeply. There had been no kindness in his manner. He had not even tried to be gentle about it.

“I thought it was my only choice to say those things to you,” he said. “But none of it was true. I did care for you, and I was never using you for vengeance upon Whitby. I ended it because I was your family’s enemy, and I knew I could not provide for you. I said what I said because I knew you loved me, and I believed it was the only way to make you forget me.”

She stared at him in astonishment. “So now you’re telling me you lied to me outside the bank?” She threw her arms up in the air. “I’m afraid I’m getting rather tangled up in all the different lies on different days.”

She heard the kettle hissing on the side table.

“Your water is boiling,” she said.

He glanced up, then rose to pour the water into the silver teapot. He carried the small round tray to the coffee table between them and set it down.

Annabelle leaned forward to pour her own tea. “Aren’t you going to have any?” she asked, sitting back.

He blinked slowly. “No.”

Exhausted and weary from this trying conversation, Annabelle brought the fine china cup to her lips, but the tea was too hot to drink, so she set it back down and contemplated what Magnus was saying to her.

All her life she had been told certain things about him and his father—that they were both dangerous and conniving. Magnus had proven that sentiment to be true. He’d even admitted it that day in front of the bank, so how could she trust anything he said to her now?

Suddenly in no mood to drink tea, Annabelle stood and walked to the window, which looked out onto a narrow lane. She focused not on what was outside, but on the window itself—the way the little bubbles in the glass held the light.

Then she heard Magnus rising from his chair, too, and heard his quiet footfalls across the Persian carpet. Just the sound of his approach caused a fire to burn through her body, and she remembered all too well the excitement of being with him on the lake, and in the woods on the island, and how she had melted from the bliss of his presence alone.

He still possessed that same power, that same magnetic pull, and she hated that she was affected by it all over again.

Fighting hard to quench the memories—because she could not let him use his charm to trick her again—she squared her shoulders.

He came to stand beside her, so immensely disturbing to her in every way, but she refused to look at him. She did not take her eyes off the glass.

“Annabelle,” he said in a soft, tender whisper, “I know you don’t want to hear this, but I must say it, I must.” He leaned closer, so she could feel the moist heat of the whisper in her ear. “I’ve missed you.”

Her response to those words was devastating to her—devastating—for they uncovered a buried memory—of all the nights she had cried herself to sleep after their breakup, wishing it had all been a bad dream and her wonderful Mr. Edwards would come back and say those very words to her—that he was sorry and he’d missed her.

But suddenly, as quickly as the memory flashed in her mind, it disappeared again, because she had the good sense to remember that what happened between them had not been a bad dream. It had been very real, and she had to protect herself.

Annabelle raised her chin. “You’re right about one thing. I don’t want to hear it.”

He leaned even closer. “But Annabelle, not a day has gone by that I haven’t thought of you and wondered how you are. Sometimes I have dreams so real that I wake up in a sweat, thinking for days afterward that you were looking for me for some reason, or that you might even be in New York.”

Annabelle closed her eyes, digging deep for the will to remember how cruel he really was. She would find it. She would.

“I have not been looking for you,” she said, “and I was never in New York.”

Though she could not deny that she had often looked for his face in a crowd over the past thirteen years.

With the back of a finger, Magnus stroked her arm lightly. His voice was gentle and soothing. “I’ll say it a hundred times if I must. I am sorry, Annabelle, for hurting you. If I could go back, I would handle it all very differently.”

Suddenly she couldn’t speak. Her chest was heaving with a desperate need for air. A lump had formed in her throat and she struggled to swallow over it and force it back down, for she could not let herself be fooled by this blatant seduction.

She turned and faced him, imposing an iron will on herself. “But you can’t go back, Magnus. What’s done is done.”

“Perhaps someday you will find it in yourself to forgive me.”

“I highly doubt it.”

His penetrating gaze did not waver. “I’m not the man I was thirteen years ago. I promise you that.”

She frowned, wondering what was really going on in his mind. Was he truly sorry? Was he being sincere? And even if he was, would it make a difference? “You expect me to believe you, simply because you say it?”

“No, I hope you will be able to see it for yourself.”

She looked him over from head to toe, still working hard to hold onto her caution, to be skeptical. “Because you have money? Is that it? A gallery?An expensive suit? Is that how I’m supposed to see that you’ve changed?” She walked away from him and swung around in the center of the office. “I’m afraid you’re going to have to do better than that, Magnus, because I don’t trust you. You could be the richest man in the world, and nothing you could say or do would ever change that.”

He drew his head back as he digested her reply.

“I should go now,” she said, before he could say another word.

He hesitated, as if he was not yet ready to let her go, then at last he escorted her through the office door.

They crossed the empty gallery, and Annabelle realized with a start that they hadn’t even begun to talk about the art exhibition.