An Ideal Husband? (12 page)

‘He turned very nasty and called me all sorts of names. A hell-cat, a she-devil. He said that I had led him on. It was all my fault and that he’d never behave like that around a true lady. I had shown my true breeding—a common whore.’

A single tear trickled down her cheek. She sat up and wiped it away with furious fingers. He silently passed her a handkerchief. She dabbed her eyes and regained control.

‘I have made a mess of your shirt front. You must realise that—’

‘Hush. They were all lies.’ He tilted her face so he looked her directly in the eyes. ‘All wicked lies, Sophie, from a cowardly scoundrel. You are the epitome of a lady. You were young. He took advantage of you. Cawburn bears all the blame.
You were and remain the innocent victim who used all the means at your disposal and some brilliant ingenuity. Did he say anything else? Threaten you?’

She gave a brief nod. He might believe that, but she had to wonder, particularly given how much she’d enjoyed Richard’s kisses yesterday—was she truly a bad woman who simply played at being good? ‘Finally he said that we would have to marry and he’d spend all my money. He’d enjoy seeing me reduced to poverty and dressed in the meanest rags.’

‘You can see what a liar he was.’ He ticked off the points on his fingers. ‘You didn’t have to marry. And he most definitely has not spent all your money. You have a sterling reputation and are admired by many people, while he was forced to flee to France to escape his creditors … and I know of at least one incident where he cheated at cards. He was caught red handed and denied it with very great bleats, accusing everyone else, until I drew the card from his boot.’

‘You did?’

‘A man who will cheat at cards will cheat and lie at anything, and most particularly in love. Think of that the next time you are tempted to believe anything else he said. The reason you enjoy such a good reputation is because you are
a good person, Sophie. Everyone is allowed one mistake.’

‘It was because of Henri … It was all her doing.’

He shook his head. ‘I have never met this Henri, but I know you. No one wields that much power. She might have kept it quiet for a little while, but your subsequent actions ensured silence. You haven’t hidden or stopped doing what you pleased. You simply stopped some of the lies he told you. It is time you stopped believing the rest of the filth.’

‘I still have nightmares,’ Sophie confessed.

‘Always with him. Never with me starring in his role.’ He pinned her with his gaze. ‘You are not frightened of me, are you, Sophie?’

Sophie bit her lip. She could hardly confess to the sort of dreams she was having about him! And how for the past two nights, she had woken with his name on her lips and a deep longing to have his lips against hers. It was trying to make those sorts of dreams real which led to her utter destruction.

‘Only with him,’ she managed. ‘I haven’t known you very long.’

‘I will never give you a reason to have a nightmare.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Is there any dream you have given up because of him and his lies?’ he asked into the silence which had filled the carriage. ‘Something you could do to prove to yourself that he no longer has power over you?’

‘I used to enjoy drawing. I was going to be a great painter. He had promised to take me to the Alps so I could paint.’ Sophie tried to swallow the hard lump which had formed in her throat. ‘I … I had always dreamt of going there on my honeymoon. I wanted to paint the mountains. I read somewhere that the light was good. People used to say that I was quite accomplished. Afterwards, I found it difficult to hold my brush or pen without the feelings of shame and remorse washing over me. Drawing became torture, something I did before. It was like my life was divided into two parts.’

Her limbs started to shake as she struggled to keep control and not allow those feelings to swamp her.

He pulled her back into his arms. ‘Hush, now. Your friend didn’t put a frying pan to Cawburn’s head. You did. And you are safe now. You can go to the Alps and paint if you want to. You don’t have to wait for a wedding trip. You can travel, Sophie. It is easy. All you have to do is buy a ticket and go. You mustn’t allow a creature like
that and his self-serving lies to rule your existence. You allow him to win by doing that. And that is nothing you want.’

She breathed deeply and allowed the crisp masculine scent to fill her nostrils. She’d shed all the tears she needed to over that man and what he’d done to her innocence. Richard was right. She had to start living again. She breathed deeply one more time, made a memory and then sat up.

‘Thank you. I will get some new paints when I next go to the shops.’ She looped a strand of hair behind her ear. ‘The trip might have to wait a while. Perhaps after our engagement is done, I might need to get away to recover. My stepmother might agree. She has always wanted to take the waters.’

A half-smile touched his lips. ‘There, better already.’

‘Much better.’

‘Good.’

His hand stroked her cheek. A warm tingle pulsed through her. He was going to kiss her again. She closed her eyes, parted her lips and hoped.

Rather than kissing her, he gave a great sigh before rapping the carriage roof. The carriage turned around almost immediately.

‘Where are we going?’ Sophie asked, her eyes flying open as a pang of disappointment went through her. No kisses today. Despite his easy words, he felt she was tainted in some way.

‘Back to your home, but I want you to do something for me, Sophie.’

‘What is that?’ she whispered.

‘Give me a chance to prove that I am as far removed from the sort of creature that Cawburn is. I do understand the word no and that when a lady says it, she means it.’ He raised her hand to his lips. ‘Will you do that for me, Sophie? Judge me for me, rather than considering me to be like Cawburn?’

‘I … I will try.’

The box of paints with its bright colours neatly arrayed stared up at her. She fingered the aquamarine and then the crimson red. Gorgeous rich colours which made her soul ache to use them. She pulled her hand away before the temptation overwhelmed her.

‘You have given me oil paints?’

‘They seemed more appropriate than watercolours. You are not some milk-sop miss content with a pastel-coloured life, but a vibrant being who requires true colour to match her view of
the world,’ Richard replied. ‘Or that was my thought.’

‘I know how to paint with oils. I used to prefer them, but watercolours seem more ladylike.’ Sophie gently closed the wooden box, before she gave in to the urge to start painting there and then. Oil paints were for people who led reckless and chaotic lives, rather than ordered ones.

‘Sophie, you are a lady whether you paint in oil or water. It is how you act. Your stepmother will confirm it.’ He tilted his head. ‘Where is Mrs Ravel? I have a present of wax fruit for her.’

‘She has a dress fitting.’ Sophie gestured to the piles of old magazines, penny-dreadfuls and fashion plates. ‘I’m sorting through these and trying to decide which to keep and which to throw away. I hadn’t thought you would call. There is no At Home on a Friday.’

Rather than living in hope of Richard calling, she had chosen to wear a faded rose-coloured gown with a high-necked collar and her loosest corset. Her hair was drawn back in a simple knot, rather than being artfully done. Sophie absurdly wished she was in the dark-blue gown which set off her eyes and that she had used curling tongs to make sure her ringlets framed her face.

She squashed the thought. It did not matter
what he thought of her looks. They were thrown together by circumstance. She was not going to act on any feelings of attraction towards him. He might have been the perfect gentleman yesterday, but could she trust him today?

‘Is there something wrong with a man calling on his fiancée?’ He glanced about the small sitting room which her stepmother and she used in the evenings when they were not entertaining. ‘This room is far more pleasant than the drawing room. Cosy and more you.’

‘No, nothing is wrong. And I like this room better with fewer china ornaments to knock.’ Sophie picked up a brush and toyed with it, twisting it about her fingers. ‘I will make sure my stepmother gets the fruit. It is good of you to remember her.’

‘I have brought some paper as well as a variety of pencils,’ Richard said, holding out another parcel. ‘In case you didn’t have any. I wasn’t sure about the size of canvas you might require, but the man at the shop will drop off a selection later today.’

Sophie tilted her head to one side, eyeing the parcel with suspicion. ‘I don’t understand. Why are you giving me these things?’

‘Have you forgotten what we spoke about yesterday? You promised to try drawing again. As
you said you stopped four years ago, I reckoned you would not have paints, pencils or drawing paper.’ His eyes glinted gold. ‘Finding excuses is a terrible thing.’

‘Spoken like someone who knows.’

‘There are things I avoided until I was forced to,’ he admitted with a studied shrug.

Sophie caught her breath and waited.

‘I am not here to speak about my failings,’

he said finally. ‘Know I have many. Are you going to draw?’

‘And I do intend to after I have finished with the magazines. But these are far too much, Richard.’ Sophie gave the paintbox a wistful stroke. The tubes were new and unclotted. When she had looked this morning at her old oil paints, she couldn’t even squeeze the tube, the paint was so old and cracked. Her brushes were matted and glued. The thought of going and buying more had been beyond her and she’d put it off for another day.

‘What is the harm in spoiling you? Do you like them?’

‘Very much,’ Sophie admitted. ‘I am puzzled why you have given me all this.’

‘Can’t a man give his fiancée a present?’

‘It is nothing that others will see,’ she explained.
‘I’m hardly likely to bring it up in conversation, either.’

‘And what of it? You will know I gave it to you. Sometimes it is not about creating an impression, Sophie, but doing the right thing.’ He shrugged. ‘After our conversation yesterday, I wanted to encourage you. To paint.’

She knew he was talking about more than that. He wanted her to stop allowing The Incident to rule her life. Rather than fearing it, a sort of reckless excitement filled her. It was an unexpected challenge. ‘You are very kind.’

‘Some day you might get to the Alps and want to paint, but you won’t have practised for a long time. You need to practise now, so you are ready. The wax fruit are in case you need a subject. But I thought your stepmother was more the wax-fruit type.’

‘I will definitely go … one of these days.’ Privately Sophie vowed that she would go once they had ended. And she would paint meadows filled with flowers with snow-capped mountains towering over them. It would be a way to ease the pain in her heart. She froze and buried the thought. She liked Richard and enjoyed his company, but nothing more. They could never be real friends. There was far too much between them. After this false engagement ended, she’d never
see him again. They would be strangers. The thought depressed her. ‘Yes, I will definitely go.’

‘Then you will accept the gift? I give it to you as a friend. I do consider you a friend, Sophie. I hope you will come to consider me as a friend.’

A friend. Sophie’s heart thudded.

‘Can a man and a woman ever be friends?’ she asked lightly.

‘I like to think you are. We share a secret.’

Friends for now, strangers in a few weeks. She’d miss him. ‘How could I refuse when it was given in the interests of friendship?’

He stood there without moving and she wondered if he expected a kiss. She carefully placed the box down on the table with the drawing paper and pencils next to them, making a show of straightening them, but all the time watching him out of the corner of her eye.

‘I shall start a painting today to show you I’m serious,’ she said to cover the awkward silence. ‘You can see it tomorrow … I mean, whenever you next come to call.’

‘Tomorrow will be fine. There is a concert of Handel’s
Water Music
on at the Royal Theatre. I thought you and your stepmother might enjoy going. You did enjoy the theatre so much in Liverpool last March.’

‘I promise not to flirt with any strange men
with my fan. I gave that up after I met you. Lesson learnt.’

A tiny smile touched his lips. ‘You have our story down.’

‘It is important not to make a mistake.’ Sophie turned back to the paints. ‘I’ve no wish to come undone over it. I’ve told the story so many times now that I almost believe it myself.’

‘Do you have a subject in mind for this painting of yours or shall I pose for you?’

Sophie examined the carpet of the small sitting room. If he posed for her, he’d have to stay. A large chunk of her wanted him here, but the more prudent side knew he should go. She had given up being reckless years ago. And while Richard might say he was different, she had no desire to put him to the test. Once bitten, twice shy as her nurse used to say.

‘It normally takes me an age to decide on the subject,’ she said. ‘I like to spend time arranging things and doing preliminary sketches. Paintings don’t happen like that. They need to be prepared.’

‘Do you draw people?’

‘I used to.’ Sophie gestured towards the pen-and-ink portrait of her stepmother that stood on a side table. ‘I did that one the spring before I made my début. My stepmother was a poor sitter.
She kept moving her hands and changing expressions. Most aggravating—the drawing took twice as long as it should have done.’

‘You are very talented.’

‘You’re being kind.’

‘Kindness has nothing to do with it. I merely appreciated your talent.’ He nodded towards the paints. ‘Another time, then. When you are more confident at drawing people. I promise to sit very still and not move a muscle … no matter how much my nose itches.’

‘Perhaps.’

‘No perhaps. I shall look forward to sitting with anticipation.’

Sophie’s mouth went dry. And she privately decided the time would never come. The risk to her resolve was far too great. There would be too many opportunities for seduction. Richard might proclaim to be different from Sebastian, but she didn’t want to tempt fate.