Portrait Of A Lover (6 page)

He was certainly hers. She knew it already, because she had never felt like this before. Ever. She hadn’t even known such extreme emotions were possible.

“I want to finish the painting,” she firmly said.

He wet his lips and didn’t answer right away. His chest was heaving with indecision. Then at last he said in a quiet voice, “So do I.”

Annabelle inhaled deeply with another wave of relief. “When?”

“Next Sunday? Same time?”

A whole week seemed too long to wait to see him again. She would go insane. But in the end she agreed because there was no way around it. He had his clerkship in London.

She would simply have to accept that she would spend the next seven days dreaming of him, and fighting the insurmountable fear that he would leave her standing at the lake, waiting and waiting again, just as he had at the gallery.

T he following Sunday, Annabelle arrived at the lake and was pleased to discover she would not be kept waiting—for there in the boat, casually lounging back, was Mr. Edwards.

And he was there waiting for her every Sunday afternoon for the next six weeks.

It was the happiest, most romantic summer of her life. Mr. Edwards always brought two fishing poles, and he and Annabelle spent countless hours sitting in the small boat, bobbing up and down in the waves, enjoying the summer heat and the peaceful outdoors.

It wasn’t all peaceful and relaxing, of course. One particular afternoon they argued when Mr. Edwards tried to show her how to gut a fish.

Annabelle proudly won the argument, drawing the line at hooking a worm, which she had become quite an expert at, she could not deny. She no longer squealed for any reason, not even when a floppy trout landed with a splat on her boots in the boat.

And though they spoke of nearly every subject under the sun that summer, they never mentioned the argument they’d had that first day, nor did they speak of the future. If Mr. Edwards talked about his work, it was only to relay an amusing story about a coworker or customer, never to draw attention to the differences in their social positions. Perhaps they simply wished to enjoy themselves and forget how their lives differed. Or perhaps they preferred to imagine that those lazy summer afternoons would never end.

Annabelle wished they wouldn’t. She wished it most ardently when she and Mr. Edwards stretched out on the picnic blanket after their lunches, their heads together as they stared up at the sky, watching the puffy clouds drift by at a snail’s pace. They would pick out shapes of things and watch the blackbirds soar freely against the blue.

And that was always the time he would kiss her, his lips moist and soft as they met hers, tasting like red wine. All he had to do was lean toward her and her entire body would purr with the passion-filled delight of his presence and the overpowering desire for more.

But despite her feverish longings, Mr. Edwards consistently refused to do anything more than just kiss, and never for more than a few minutes. Each time, he explained that he wanted her to have choices, in case she later changed her mind about him.

“I won’t,” she always said.

“You might,” he always replied.

So their physical intimacies made little progress. And it was not until the summer’s end that she fully understood why.

IT WAS THE LAST SUNDAY
in August.

Magnus leaned a shoulder against the old English oak on the hill, which overlooked Century House, Annabelle’s opulent home—an aristocratic mansion of unparalleled grandeur, set amidst terraced formal gardens and magnificent fountains.

He stood for a long time just looking at it, while his emotions were tearing him apart inside—for the summer was at an end. The sunlight and shadows had changed, the air had turned crisp, and today…

Today was the day Annabelle would finish the painting.

He glanced down and kicked his booted toe against a large exposed tree root. He thought about what he had been doing all summer—spending romantic afternoons with Annabelle, charming her into falling in love with him, never telling her who he really was.

He had suffered for it each and every minute, constantly vowing he would tell her the following week. But then she would arrive at the dock with her easel, all smiles and playful teasing, and he had never been able to say the words. He hadn’t been able to bear the thought of her reacting to him with revulsion.

Just one more day, he’d tell himself. If he could just make her love him a little more, it wouldn’t matter when he told her. She would forgive him for keeping the truth from her, and love him regardless. He’d wanted only to wait until they were stronger.

But now, on this day, he found himself facing the reality of what their future would be, even if she did forgive him. He thought of the bed he’d gotten out of that morning—the coarse, wool blanket and the mattress full of holes. He’d gotten dressed, then shoveled the coal into the stove himself, but not until after he tramped down the road at dawn to purchase a jug of milk from the worn-out dairymaid.

He thought of the breakfast he’d eaten—the same breakfast he ate every day of his life: bland porridge in a chipped bowl.

And his mother was run-down and depressed again, drinking too much as usual. The previous night, he had returned home to find her in a drunken swoon with her head on the kitchen table, a half-empty bottle of whiskey in front of her.

He quietly slid the bottle out of her loose grip and poured it out in the muddy yard, knowing he’d never hear the end of it when she woke, but he followed through nonetheless.

Magnus lifted his weary gaze and looked down the hill at Century House again, and imagined Annabelle waking this morning under clean, white embroidered sheets, eating a breakfast prepared by a devoted kitchen staff. Her maid would have helped her dress and knotted her hair, and another set of maids would have cleaned out the grate in her fireplace, swept her polished floor, and fluffed her feathery pillows.

It was a world very different from his.

He felt nauseous all of a sudden, and slid down the side of the tree to sit on the ground. Resting his elbows on his knees, he raked both hands through his hair.

What did he think he was doing? How could he be so selfish, thinking he could take Annabelle away from the life she knew and force her to alienate her family, then drag her down into the hell that was his life?

He supposed the problem was that he felt something for her that he’d never felt for any other woman. He loved her laughter, her intelligence, her nonconformity. She inspired him with her artistic creativity, challenged him and made him think, and she made him feel at ease and at home—which was something he rarely felt with anyone.

He had grown to care for her so very deeply and devotedly that it was now much more than a simple matter of lust. What concerned him today was her welfare and well-being. Her future happiness.

Yet with his feelings as profound and passionate as they were, he wasn’t entirely certain he could be noble and self-sacrificing enough to do the right thing—which was undoubtedly to give her up.

“
ARE YOU READY TO SEE IT?
” Annabelle asked later that afternoon, meeting Mr. Edwards at the water’s edge as he dragged the heavy boat onto the beach.

“I’ve been ready for six weeks,” he replied.

She had noticed with some concern that he’d seemed downtrodden most of the day. He was not his usual flirtatious self, and had been very quiet. During lunch she’d asked him if he was all right, and he’d assured her he was just tired after a long, busy week. She had accepted his explanation, hiding her fear that it might be something more.

“Well, come and see it, then,” she said, holding out her arm. “But close your eyes.” She took him by the hand and led him to the easel. “All right. You can look now.”

Mr. Edwards opened his eyes and stared at her painting for the longest time while she watched him apprehensively. His eyes moved over the details in the center of the canvas, then he studied every corner.

At last he looked at Annabelle, who warmed at the tenderness and wonderment in his expression.

“What do you think?” she asked hesitantly.

He slowly approached. “It’s beautiful, Annabelle. Too beautiful to give to me. It should be in a gallery somewhere.”

She shook her head. “I’m not famous enough to be in a gallery.”

“You should be. You will be.”

Annabelle smiled, dumbfounded by the astounding pride and elation that came from knowing someone truly appreciated her work.

No. He more than appreciated it. He was awestruck. Not just with the painting, but with her.

All at once she wanted to shout out loud across the lake and hear her voice echo back in return. She was so happy to be with him, and so proud of this piece! It was beyond a doubt the best thing she’d ever done.

“Can I assume you like it?” she asked.

He came to her. “I more than like it. I love it. It has movement, yet stillness at the same time. And the reflections in the water…” He returned to stand before the painting, and moved his hand over it as he spoke. “They look so real, yet when you study them, you are struck by the fact that you are seeing only the surface of the water, and there are deep, unknown depths beyond. It’s the most incredible thing anyone’s ever given me. I’m not worthy of it.”

“Of course you are.”

He returned to her and cupped her cheek in his large, warm hand, stroking with his thumb. His touch gave her shivers.

Slowly he lowered his lips to hers and kissed her while he held her face in both his hands. The kiss deepened, and Annabelle reveled in the taste of his tongue and the hot wetness of his mouth closing over hers. She let out a small whimper as she wrapped her arms around his broad shoulders, feeling all at once flooded with a rush of need so strong, she feared she would never be able to let him go.

She wanted more. She knew there was more. So much more…

He dragged his lips from hers and whispered, “No, Annabelle.”

But she refused to take no for an answer. She cupped his face in her hands. “Please, just this once.”

She could see in his eyes that he was straining to resist her, but soon he gave up the fight and kissed down the side of her neck.

Annabelle began backing up toward the trees, leading him by the hand. This time he did not resist. He followed willingly, his eyes laden with desire. As soon as she reached the shade of a tall oak tree where the scents of pine and chamomile were thick in the air, she sat down on her knees in the grass, still holding his hand as she looked up at him.

He hesitated, but only briefly before he knelt down before her and eased her onto her back. His body and mouth covered hers, and emotions welled up inside her.

She wanted to tell him she loved him, but she was afraid, because she knew if she did, he would stop. He would remember their impossible situation—that she was forbidden to him, just as he was to her. He would stop kissing her like he always did.

Suddenly driven by a sense of urgency, she reached for his hand and held it firmly to her breast.

Their gazes locked.

Annabelle’s body quaked with both excitement and fear as she recognized the passion in his eyes and felt his physical strength as a man. He was heavy on top of her, powerful and aroused, pressing his hips into hers, looking as if he wanted to take her completely—and if he decided to, there would be nothing she could do to stop him.

But she did not want to stop him.

She could see, however, that he wished to stop himself. It was clear in his eyes, so she quickly parted her legs and wrapped them around his hips.

The rock-hard stiffness of his arousal pressed against the pulsing ache between her thighs, and she took in a deep, shuddering breath.

“This is dangerous, Annabelle,” he said, his voice strained with a firm warning.

“But please don’t stop.”

She wiggled her hips, her body flooding with a willful desire for pleasures beyond anything she knew. She wanted to give herself to him completely and love him forever, and those emotions were so strong, her awareness of duty and responsibility to her family meant nothing.

Something about the way she moved must have aroused him further, because he lowered his weight upon her and covered her mouth again with a deep, rough kiss that threatened to steal her soul.

She moaned huskily as his tongue drove into her mouth. It was nothing like any of the other gentle, tender kisses on the picnic blanket. This was powerful and demanding and it was the start of something new. She felt as if she’d just been dropped onto a moving train.

Annabelle slid her hands down his broad back, lifted the back of his jacket and tugged his shirt from the waistband of his trousers. She massaged the strong muscles at his lower back, marveling at the smoothness of his skin and wanting to touch the rest of him, everywhere.

He groaned and rolled off her slightly to lean on one elbow while he quickly unbuttoned her bodice. Then Annabelle unhooked her corset in the front, feeling a pleasurable freedom as it came loose. He slid a warm hand up under her chemise.

It was shocking—the feel of his hand upon her bare belly, then her breast. No one had ever touched her there before, and when his thumb stroked her nipple and his mouth came down upon hers again, she whimpered at the throbbing lust spreading through her body. It was incomprehensible, and the intimacy of his caress only made her love him more. She kissed him deeply and affectionately, wanting to show him with her body just how much she loved him.

Then Mr. Edwards raised her chemise and took one of her nipples into his mouth, and Annabelle thought she might die from the ecstasy of it—his tongue and lips and the feel of his hot breath upon her wet skin. She let out another little whimper.

“God, Annabelle,” he said, resting his forehead upon her chest, “I want you, but I can’t take you. I can’t.”

“Yes, you can. Please don’t stop.”

He paused there in silence for the longest time, his shoulders heaving as if he were out of breath from rowing the distance of the lake. A squirrel chirped somewhere in the distance.