Portrait Of A Lover (2 page)

He smiled warmly. “You were very fortunate to have such good people in your life.”

“Indeed I was. My adoptive parents are gone now, but I still have my older brother Whitby—adoptive brother, that is—to care for me, and of course, Aunt Millicent, who has been living with us since I debuted in society.”

He tilted his head to the side. “You were raised by the Earl of Whitby?”

“Yes.”

He stared at her for a long moment, appearing utterly staggered. Then his voice softened with an odd hint of resignation. “Well. It seems I am in esteemed company this morning.”

He was looking at her differently. The fire in his eyes had gone out.

Perhaps he thought she did not wish to be speaking to him because she was the sister of an earl, and he was a bank clerk. She wanted more than anything to assure him that was not the case.

“I am hardly that,” she explained. “My parents were simple country people.”

“It matters little what your parents were. I can see you are a charming, intelligent woman all on your own.”

Annabelle’s cheeks felt hot all of a sudden.

“I’ve embarrassed you,” he said, with an almost melancholy tone. “Please forgive me. My only excuse is that I couldn’t help myself. I was lost in thought, in awe of your friendly, open manner.”

She raised an arched brow. “Who’s being charming now?”

He stared at her for a few more seconds before he quietly laughed. Annabelle laughed, too.

A moment later she leaned back and eyed him lightheartedly. “So tell me, sir, what do you do when you’re not banking? I see you like to read.”

For a brief moment he looked as if he weren’t sure he should continue conversing with her in this manner, then he seemed to let go of his reservations and laid his hand on top of the closed book. “Yes, reading is an enjoyable pastime, but what I really like to do is fish.”

“Fish?”

He nodded. “Nothing can compare to the experience of rowing a boat across a calm lake at dawn, when the air is crisp and your nose is chilled, and steam is rising from the water. Then you cast your line and hear the sound of it slicing through the air, and the hook hits the water with a quiet splash. Everything is so peaceful in the morning, and the sky has a certain glow.”

Annabelle imagined what he had described. She could see herself sitting in his boat. It was a lovely thought.

“You make it sound wonderful,” she said. “I’ve never been fishing before.”

“No?” His eyes were warm and his smile calm, almost soothing. “Perhaps one day someone will take you.”

Annabelle recognized the romance in his voice. He was telling her in no uncertain terms that he wished he could be the one to take her.

Desire burned through her body as she imagined seeing this man again in such a private setting, being alone with him in a rowboat, sharing such a moment.

Heavens, no one had ever flirted with her like this before. None of the young men she had danced with at balls or spoken to at assemblies had been anything like this man, who seemed mature and capable and so much more sure of himself compared to them. Even his physical presence was more manly. He was tall and broad through the chest and shoulders. His legs looked more muscular, and his hands…Well, she’d already noticed how attractive and strong they were.

But there was something else about him, too, something that stirred her blood and excited her in a way she’d never experienced before. It was the way he looked at her—as if he found her the most beautiful creature in the world.

“I would like that very much,” she replied breathlessly.

His eyes traveled from her face down the front of her bodice to her knees, then back up again before he slowly leaned forward. “Please allow me this impropriety,” he whispered, glancing briefly at Aunt Millicent, who was still snoring. “But may I ask your name?”

Annabelle experienced a surge of both apprehension and excitement. The whole tone of their exchange was highly improper and very wicked. She would never be speaking to him this way if Aunt Millicent were awake, or if the elderly lady beside him could hear what they were saying. Thankfully, she had barely looked up from her correspondence.

Annabelle shifted nervously in her seat, then whispered in return, “It’s Annabelle. Annabelle Lawson.”

He continued to stare at her face, almost entranced, as if he didn’t know what to make of her or what to say next.

“And what is your name, sir, if I may be so bold?” The fact that she had also whispered the question gave the whole conversation an air of secrecy and subterfuge. It was without a doubt the single most exciting conversation of her life.

He leaned forward even more. “John Edwards.”

A long, lingering, and delightfully sensuous gaze passed between them. Their faces were scandalously close.

“So tell me, Miss Lawson, what do you like to do when you’re not talking to strangers on trains?”

Annabelle smirked at him. “I paint.”

“Do you indeed? You’re an artist. I should have guessed.”

“How would you guess such a thing?”

“Don’t all artists have deeply tortured souls?”

Annabelle laughed out loud, and Aunt Millicent stirred beside her. Both Annabelle and Mr. Edwards quickly sat back as Millicent opened her eyes, stared dazedly up at the ceiling, then closed them again and drifted back to sleep.

Mr. Edwards swiped a hand over his brow, as if to say, That was close.

Annabelle shook her head with mock disapproval, then leaned forward again. Mr. Edwards did the same.

“Let me assure you,” she said, “I am not tortured.”

“Are you certain?” he asked with a teasing glint in his eyes. “You don’t feel wretchedly miserable or trapped? As if the life you are supposed to lead is beyond your reach and nothing has meaning?”

He was toying with her, of course, but she could not deny her astonishment that he had hit the mark exactly, because yes, sometimes she did indeed feel trapped. Especially when her aunt dressed her up like all the other London girls and paraded her around at balls—because she was not like other girls. She hated the Season, she had no interest in fancy gowns and heeled shoes, she had a strange fascination with Egyptian mummies, and she had a cow for a pet.

To be honest, there were times when she was truly screaming inside her head, trying to fit into this polished, patrician world, and not be a disappointment to her family, who had taken her in and loved her like one of their own. She felt she owed so much to them.

But she could not possibly express such an unconventional sentiment to Mr. Edwards.

“I paint landscapes,” she told him. “And I would describe my experience of painting in the same way you describe fishing. Nothing compares to the bliss of standing before a view of an autumn forest, setting up my easel and contemplating the first brushstroke. Though my favorite thing to paint is the coastline. Unfortunately, we don’t live on the coast—though I wish desperately that we did—so I must content myself with the countryside most of the time.”

He pointed a finger at her. “See? You are tortured after all. Frustrated by the geography of your existence.”

She laughed. “Yes, I suppose so. You win.”

He watched her laugh, and she could see as plain as day a gleam of desire in his eyes.

Oh, how he flattered her, just by the way he looked at her. She didn’t think she’d ever felt so beautiful before.

“I wish you could paint me fishing,” he said. “I would hang the painting over my mantel, and every time I looked at it, I would feel content.”

Content because it would make him think of fishing? Or because it would make him think of her?

She supposed she would never know the answer to that.

“I’d enjoy painting you,” she said openly. “I’ve never painted a fisherman before.”

“Perhaps one day we’ll make it happen. We’ll take your paints and a blank canvas out to my favorite fishing hole.”

Annabelle gazed out the window, feeling dreamy. “Wouldn’t that be splendid,” she replied as she imagined such a wonderful day.

It wasn’t long, however, before reality settled in and she had to accept that it would not happen. Ever. He was not the kind of man her aunt would approve of. He was a stranger on a train, after all, and he worked as a bank clerk.

As she watched the trees fly by outside the window—so fast she could barely focus on them—she was distressed by the extent of her disappointment. She was not free to do as she wished, for she was a London debutante.

Oh, how she hated that word.

If only her life were just a little different. She could only imagine all the things she would do.

Thinking such a thing made her feel guilty, however, for she had been blessed with so many privileges. She was grateful for her life. Truly she was. She had no right to feel frustrated.

M agnus Wallis sat across from Miss Annabelle Lawson on the fast steam train to Newcastle and cursed the cards he had been dealt all his life—today in particular.

He had not asked to meet her. If he had known who she was, he most definitely would have waited for the next train. But bloody hell, he had not known, and he’d been attracted to her the very first instant he’d noticed her—with her wild, frizzy, honey-gold hair and that outlandish purple hat.

He’d known immediately that she was one of a kind, perhaps a bit of a rebel. Not just because of her unconventional attire—not to mention those intriguing black boots—but because her eyes were so full of life, as wild and blue as the irrepressible sea.

And now he was in very deep, completely over his head as a matter of fact. He was sitting forward, listening to her describe her art with passion and hunger, gesturing with her hands as she spoke, her luscious smile dazzling and intoxicating.

All this, after he’d lied to her and given her a false name.

Magnus shuddered inwardly. He shouldn’t have done it. He’d known it was wrong, even as he was speaking the words, but he just couldn’t stomach the possibility that she would recoil in horror, which she would surely do if she knew who he was.

Her aunt would probably go into convulsions, for he was Magnus Wallis, Whitby’s contemptible, undesirable cousin, whom they all blamed for Whitby’s brother’s death. They thought he was a monster—just like his father—and all his life he’d been feared and loathed and shut out by the very people who had given Miss Lawson a home.

Lovely Miss Lawson…

All at once he found himself glancing down for a brief, appreciative moment at her extravagant bosom, which heaved enticingly as she took a deep breath to continue talking. He thought of their earlier conversation about going fishing together, and imagined teaching her how to bait the hook and cast the line, then imagined her standing in front of her easel, dabbing paint on a fresh canvas.

God, he wanted nothing more than to disembark from this train at the next stop and lead her out of here by the hand. To pretend they were two very different people. To continue talking like this—openly and passionately.

But no…That could never be, because she was a member of that family. She had been raised within their walls, while he had been tossed over them, and she was under Whitby’s protection. Magnus knew she was untouchable, as far as he was concerned. He should not even be speaking to her. Nothing could come of it but frustration.

Yet he was still drinking in her every word, wasn’t he? Still eyeing her full, sumptuous mouth and stealing glances at her lavish breasts, which continued to rise and fall with her enchanting enthusiasm. She was a delicious young beauty, to be sure, and God help him, he was a hot-blooded man.

He was indeed in way over his head.

When Aunt Millicent woke, Annabelle checked her timepiece to discover it was closing in upon noon.

The elderly lady beside Mr. Edwards had fallen asleep some time ago, so he and Annabelle had been free to chat for over an hour about everything imaginable—art, politics, books, the theatre, the pleasures and trappings of society, trains and coaches, the view outside the window.

They shared many interests, and when they did not agree on something, they each respected the other’s opinion and expressed a general feeling of enlightenment at having never considered such a viewpoint before.

Overall, Annabelle found Mr. Edwards to be the most fascinating, intriguing man she had ever met, and she could quite decisively say she was enraptured. She felt as if she had found the perfect companion—someone she could converse with about anything, even subject matters her aunt considered inappropriate genteel conversation.

Perhaps this strange freedom she felt stemmed from the fact that Mr. Edwards lived outside her world. He was not bound by the same constraints as she. He was different, to be sure. He made her feel alive and alert, and more consciously aware of the physicality of her being. Her heart raced with excitement over a certain word he spoke or a particular way he moved. She could feel her skin tingling with arousal. She could hear her heart pounding in her ears.

And she did not want this train ride to end.

So it was with great disappointment that Annabelle watched her aunt awaken from her nap. Aunt Millicent smacked her lips a few times and gave a sleepy little whimper.

Without uttering a word, Mr. Edwards stopped talking, calmly reached for his book and opened it on his lap before Millicent had even realized she was awake.

“Good heavens, what time is it?” she asked.

“It’s almost noon,” Annabelle replied, trying not to reveal her disappointment.

Mr. Edwards did not even glance up. He behaved as if he hadn’t heard the question.

Aunt Millicent nevertheless eyed him suspiciously when she noticed the other lady asleep. She glanced at him and Annabelle, looking concerned.

Perhaps her aunt did not want to admit she’d been negligent in regards to her duty, or perhaps she believed that Annabelle and Mr. Edwards had both been sitting in silence, reading the entire time.

Whatever she thought, thankfully, she asked no questions.

AFTER THE TRAIN MADE
a brief stop in Sheffield, where everyone got off for lunch, they were soon chugging noisily down the tracks again. Aunt Millicent was knitting with impressive vigor, making it necessary for Annabelle and Mr. Edwards to ignore each other.

Having already lost interest in her book, Annabelle rested her forehead against the cool glass, gazing dreamily at the white sheep dotting the green countryside. The train rocked back and forth, smoothly at times, jerkily at others, and she might have fallen asleep herself if the elderly lady next to Mr. Edwards had not spoken up.

“What a lovely lunch,” she said as she shifted in her seat. “Did you enjoy your meal as well?” she asked Aunt Millicent.

“Yes, thank you!” Millicent shouted in reply, nodding in an exaggerated fashion.

“That’s good, dear,” the lady said. She leaned her cane up against the seat and smiled at everyone, then reached into her reticule for her book of crosswords.

At that moment, Mr. Edwards grinned at Annabelle, his heated gaze raking boldly downward.

Heart jolting with a wicked thrill that settled in the pit of her belly, Annabelle glanced quickly at her aunt, certain that if her conservative chaperone had seen the decadent spark in Mr. Edwards’s eyes just now, she would pick up the older lady’s cane and knock him over the head with it.

But Aunt Millicent was not looking at Mr. Edwards. She was absorbed in her knitting.

When Annabelle glanced back at him, he appeared amused by the whole situation—the two of them sitting across from each other with a clear attraction neither of them could pretend didn’t exist, yet unable to converse the way they would have liked to. And they both knew Aunt Millicent was not about to encourage an introduction that could, God forbid, lead to an unwanted acquaintance.

So the next two hours passed in almost complete silence, except for once or twice when the elderly lady asked a question, and everyone looked up from their books or knitting to contribute. The train made a few stops along the way, and everyone got off to stretch their legs.

Then at last, late in the afternoon, Aunt Millicent’s head began to nod again, and she went out like a wet candle.

Annabelle glanced across at the other lady, who had also fallen asleep. Then she found herself smiling eagerly at Mr. Edwards, who had just set his book down. He leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees, clasping his large hands together in front of him.

With breath held, Annabelle waited for him to say something, but he took his time before he raised a finger and gestured for her to come closer. She quivered beneath the teasing glimmer in his seductive, dark eyes.

Laying her book down as well, Annabelle leaned forward. She and Mr. Edwards swayed from side to side with the rocking of the train, their faces only inches apart. His eyes roamed from the top of her head to her nose and lips, then to her frizzy hair and purple hat.

She studied his face, too—his strong cheekbones, the shadow of stubble along his jaw and chin, and the depths of his dark eyes. She gazed at him with more than an artist’s appreciation for male beauty. She was just a woman now, and he was so impossibly handsome in her eyes, it hurt just to look at him…

At last he spoke, in a low, husky voice, almost a whisper. Just the sound of it made Annabelle’s skin tingle deliciously with gooseflesh.

“How daring are you?” he asked.

Annabelle swallowed, shocked by the spell he’d cast over her—there was no other word for it—and she couldn’t believe her own blatant disregard for the concept of consequences. She felt as if she would blindly follow this man to the door and jump off the train into a slimy green swamp if he suggested it. If it meant she could be alone with him for just five minutes.

That scared her a little.

“What do you have in mind?” she asked nevertheless, curious, while at the same time struggling to hold tight to her common sense, murky as it was at the present moment.

He hesitated before he began to explain in a quiet voice. “Miss Lawson, all day I’ve been dreading the moment we’ll have to get off this train.”

“So have I,” she blurted out, before she had a chance to think rationally.

The two ladies were snoring beside them. Nevertheless, Mr. Edwards quickly confirmed their lowered lids before he reached for Annabelle’s gloved hand, turned it over, then slid his fingers up to the sensitive inside of her bare wrist. With the tip of his finger, he drew tiny feathery circles over the delicate blue veins…

Annabelle’s body went weak from his touch. She had never been so quickly enamored with a man before, nor had she ever experienced the true, aching cadence of lust. She had not understood its power.

“I can’t let you go,” he whispered, “knowing I will never see you again. Meet me somewhere. Anywhere. Could you do that?”

Annabelle panicked as she considered it. What he was suggesting was beyond improper, yet she wanted it with urgent desperation.

“Do you mean alone? I’m not sure that would be…” She didn’t know what to say next.

He hesitated, then bowed his head and shook it. “I’m sorry, Miss Lawson. I’m tactless. Of course it’s not possible to meet alone, and you should throw me off the train for even thinking such a thing.” He looked up, his eyes apologetic. “Forgive me. Is there another way?”

Staring into his dark, passionate eyes, she found herself leaning suddenly toward caution. Attractive though he was, he was still a stranger, and she found herself questioning his integrity. Was he testing how far he could go with her? And when he’d sensed her reluctance—because she was a well-bred young lady—was that the only reason he was retreating, and behaving slightly more respectably?

Perhaps he made a habit of taking advantage of young women he met on trains. Perhaps he only wanted to steal her overstuffed reticule.

Aunt Millicent twitched and snorted.

Annabelle immediately pulled her hand out of Mr. Edwards’s grasp, as anxiety cooled her thoughts. She was being rushed into a decision. Her aunt could awaken at any moment…

Which was why she answered so quickly, whispering, “Perhaps somewhere we could be properly introduced.”

Though she didn’t know why she should even bother with such a formality. Even if this man’s intentions were honorable, her aunt would never encourage such a match. She was very ambitious. Aunt Millicent knew Annabelle would have a substantial dowry, thanks to her generous brother, Whitby, and she was searching among the aristocracy for a husband for Annabelle. Even though Annabelle was not truly one of them.

“Where?” Mr. Edwards asked, staring intently at her. “A shop perhaps. But no, what would be the point? We’d only say hello and good-bye again.”

Annabelle experienced a sudden flash of fear. Indeed, what would be the point in seeing him again, unless she intended to defy her family and run away with him and live the modest life of a bank clerk’s wife?

Oh, good gracious. She was getting ahead of herself. She’d met a handsome man on a train. She’d known him only a few hours, and already she was plotting an elopement, despite the fact that she was slightly wary and had just wondered if he wanted to steal her reticule. She had best regain control of her senses.

“Perhaps it’s not a good idea,” she said. “I couldn’t deceive my aunt that way.”

His gaze fell upon Millicent for a long moment before he nodded, almost in defeat. He leaned back. “Of course. You’re right. I shouldn’t have suggested it.”

She recognized the disappointment in his eyes. He was surrendering to the reality of their situation—that he was not a suitable acquaintance for her—and all Annabelle’s suspicions about his integrity fell away, because she felt positively beastly over the direction this was heading. She had enjoyed their conversation so very much. He was the kind of man she would wish to know. He was intelligent, polite and interesting, not to forget handsome and exciting—so much more so than all the young lords she’d been dancing with of late. She did not wish him to think she considered him beneath her. She did not. But her family would certainly not support any—

Just then the steam whistle blew and Aunt Millicent sat straight up, eyes wide. Annabelle sucked in a breath, while Mr. Edwards calmly turned his head toward the window.