Portrait Of A Lover (11 page)

Perhaps it was just as well, she thought, because she was not sure she could survive seeing him again. It was too painful and unsettling.

She picked up her art case containing the three extra paintings she had brought.

He glanced down at the case. “But wait…”

Annabelle closed her eyes. He was not going to let her get away so easily after all.

“I know this is probably too much to ask,” he said, “but I’m opening this gallery in a few weeks, and I would still like to include your painting—the one in my office.” He glanced down at the case again. “But perhaps with your permission, I could look at those as well?”

Annabelle was momentarily befuddled after all that had just happened, but then she glanced around at the cream-colored walls and the shiny oak floor in this superb location, and was not about to let Magnus feel that he was holding her back from this. She had wanted to be indifferent, didn’t she?

So she forced herself to hand the case over to him. “One look.”

He nodded and carried it to the desk. Not entirely sure she had done the right thing, Annabelle stood back while he removed the first piece, which she called Amber Grass.

He held it at arm’s length before him, silently studying it while Annabelle tried to forget that he was Magnus. Right now he was a gallery owner making a judgment about her paintings.

He set Amber Grass on the floor against the wall before withdrawing the next piece: AutumnForest. Again he held it at arm’s length, studying it for a long time while Annabelle waited.

“Do you have arrangements with any other artists to show their work?” she asked, glancing around suspiciously.

He didn’t reply right away. He continued to look at AutumnForest, then set it on the floor against the wall, next to the other one.

“Yes, I brought a few works done by some American artists. Have you heard of George Wright?”

He reached into the case for the last painting.

Surprised, Annabelle took a step forward. “George Wright? You’re showing his work here?”

He was one of her favorite painters. He had a style of brushstroke like no one else, and he rebelled openly against convention.

“Yes,” Magnus said, holding up the last painting. This one was a seascape that she called Fierce Waters.

Finally he turned to face her. “This one is the best.”

“The seascape?”

“Yes. You have a gift with water.”

Annabelle didn’t know what to say. She was still staggered by the fact that Magnus had in his possession a painting by George Wright, and he was asking to include her work in the same exhibition.

“My home in South Carolina is on the coast,” he said lightly, “and it has a spectacular view of the water.” He set the painting down beside the others. “You would like it.”

“Would I indeed?” she replied, not wanting him to think he knew her personal tastes.

But then she remembered telling him once that she wished she lived on the coast. Had he remembered that?

He sat on the desk, his hands curling around the edge of it. “The paintings are excellent, Annabelle. Can I show them? All of them?”

She took a moment to think about it. If she allowed him to show her paintings here, wouldn’t that require more meetings or correspondence with him? She did not wish to have any connection with him again after today because she did not trust him.

But then she thought of George Wright. She imagined her work hanging on the same wall, then wondered if this was a ploy to lure her in…

“How long do you plan to stay in London?” she asked, wanting to understand what this would entail.

“I’m not certain. I’ve purchased two residences on
Park Lane
, so it depends how long the improvements take and how quickly I can turn them around.”

She narrowed her gaze at him. “You came back to conquer London, I see.”

“I suppose you could say that,” he replied, his dark eyes gleaming with determination.

She experienced a spontaneous vision of Magnus buying the houses on either side of Whitby’s London residence and turning them into brothels. Then she chided herself for entertaining such an outlandish thought. Surely he would never be so blatantly ruthless with his vengeance. Would he?

“Regarding the gallery, however,” he said, changing his tone, “I might only be involved with it for a few more weeks. I’m looking for someone to manage it, and once it’s established, I’ll likely do what I do best.”

“Sell it for a profit, too,” she said.

He inclined his head somewhat apologetically. “It’s what I do. And though I consider my galleries labors of love, I don’t intend to stay in London forever, so it would be difficult to administer.”

She was very glad to hear he didn’t intend to stay in London.

“Well, I can see you’ve put a lot of work into this place,” she said, glancing around.

“What can I say? I’m a worker.”

She suspected he was trying to tell her he no longer coveted Whitby’s position in society, that he had no respect for it and preferred his own. But she wasn’t sure she believed that.

“It’s probably futile to ask,” he said, “but I don’t suppose you’d be interested in managing the gallery for me?”

Yes, it was certainly futile.

“I have no experience,” she replied.

“But you know art.”

But she could not work for Magnus. “I’m sorry, I don’t think so.”

He grinned at her, and it was the first time today that she’d seen even the smallest hint of a smile. It was familiar and stirred those memories again, so she swept the recognition away.

“I just had to ask,” he said.

“I’m flattered you thought I could do it,” she replied, striving to sound businesslike.

“I have no doubt that you could.”

The temperature of the room seemed to escalate suddenly as Annabelle stood before Magnus, who was still sitting on the desk, now paying her compliments.

He had paid her compliments once before, though, hadn’t he? To seduce her and get what he wanted.

“But you haven’t answered me about the paintings yet,” he said. “Can I show them?”

Annabelle thought about it. Despite her hostility toward Magnus and her desire never to see him again, she knew this was an opportunity she could not refuse—to be shown in the same gallery as George Wright, when it was next to impossible to break into the London art world, especially for a woman.

She could not let her personal feelings keep her from a dream such as that, could she? If she did, she would surely live to regret it.

Besides, Magnus had said he planned to hand the gallery over to someone else, so she would likely be dealing with that person after he returned to America.

After another moment’s consideration, she finally gave him an answer. “Yes, you can show them.”

Magnus slapped both his hands on the desk before he hopped off it, looking exceedingly pleased, while Annabelle wasn’t so sure. “This is wonderful,” he said. “I know your work will attract attention.”

“No, George Wright will attract the attention.”

“Not for long.”

She wished she could take the compliment at face value, but alas she could not. Not coming from him.

“I’ll escort you out,” he said, walking past her.

When they reached the door, Annabelle stopped, feeling a sudden onslaught of anxiety over what she had just agreed to. She turned to face him. “Perhaps if there are any details to be discussed regarding the exhibition, we could correspond through letters, as I don’t come to London very often.”

It was a lie. She came all the time, and she suspected he knew it. She could see it in his eyes.

“Of course,” he said nonetheless. “And I’ll let you know as soon as I find a manager. When I do, he will take over from there.”

She stood in front of the door, waiting for him to open it.

“Thank you, Annabelle,” he said again, and she wondered what he was thanking her for, exactly. The paintings? No, it was more than that, she suspected, but she did not wish to contemplate it further.

She simply nodded and walked out.

A fter Annabelle left the gallery, Magnus closed the door and stood for a moment with his hand still resting on the knob.

Well. That had not gone quite as swimmingly as he had hoped, but at least he’d broken the ice.

Leaning back against the door, he closed his eyes, feeling grateful for one thing at least—he finally knew what she looked like, after wondering for years how she might have changed.

Not surprisingly, she was just as beautiful as she had always been. Perhaps even more beautiful, for the years had given her a certain indefinable vigor, for lack of a better word. She seemed self-assured and more sophisticated than before.

But her eyes were still the same—wild and luminous, her figure still voluptuously attractive. The only difference was that her manner of dress was more conservative. She’d been wearing a sensible hat, and gone were the clumsy boys’ boots.

He wondered if she still wore them in the country, when she was lugging her easel up and down steep hills, with her cow, Helen, plodding behind. Did she still have that cow? he wondered. He smiled affectionately at the thought of it, then his smile faded as he reminded himself he still had a steep mountain of his own to scale and conquer.

Pushing away from the door, he crossed the gallery to where her paintings leaned against the wall and crouched down to look at them again. By God, they were magnificent. He especially admired the creative mix of color—the blues and grays of the seascape, with hints of…Was it mauve?

He also had to marvel at how the water seemed to surge and swell before his eyes. How in God’s name did she create such movement?

Then he found himself wondering why she had never shown her paintings to the public before now. What was she afraid of?

Rejection, most likely, which caused him some regret.

All that aside, she was without question miraculously gifted, and it only added to her allure. He was in awe of her, and he wanted her back in his arms, and eventually, someday, in his bed. For although there had been other women over the years, she was the only one he had ever loved.

But was it even possible? he wondered with a twinge of concern, striving to be realistic as he rose to his feet and returned to his office.

He glanced at the sofa cushion where she’d been sitting—she hadn’t touched her tea—and recalled their conversation, how she had spoken to him with such hostility.

She had not forgiven him, but he was not surprised, given what he’d done to her and the number of years she’d harbored and nurtured her hurt. He had expected as much when he got out of bed that morning. He’d known there would be a quarrel of some sort.

He’d also known she would think he was here to exact further vengeance upon Whitby.

He’d told her he didn’t give a damn about her brother—which was God’s own truth—but he doubted she believed that, because there was a time when he very much had given a damn. Those five years after their breakup had been the darkest of his life. He had hated Whitby more than ever, and his bitterness had been all consuming, eating away at him like a disease. There were times when he’d become a villain himself, taunting his cousin, just to inflict pain on him where he felt pain was due.

And once, when Whitby was gravely ill, Magnus had actually hoped he would not recover. That was how dark those days had been.

If Magnus hadn’t left for America when he had, he didn’t know what would have become of him. He would surely have continued to wallow in his anger, on a downward course straight to hell.

But those days were over. After eight years in America, his life was no longer dismal. He’d made a success of himself, had learned to have hope, and because of that, he finally felt worthy of Annabelle.

Even though she had been unwavering in her antagonism today, he would press on. He would not give up. Rome wasn’t built in a day, after all. He would simply have to be patient, and lay one precious brick at a time.

Annabelle returned to Century House that evening, exhausted after the three-hour train ride from London. Carrying her empty art case with her, she greeted Clarke, the butler, and went straight to her rooms to dress for dinner.

A short time later she was hurrying into the drawing room to join Whitby, Lily, and the children.

“Annabelle, you’re back,” Lily said cheerfully, standing by the piano, holding John’s hand, her youngest, who was only three. He ran to Annabelle, and she scooped him up into her arms.

“Auntie Annabelle!”

“Johnny!” she said. “Did you miss me today?”

“No.”

“No!” Annabelle replied, laughing out loud.

“Father took us fishing!” Johnny explained, squirming out of Annabelle’s arms, forcing her to set him down before she dropped him.

Annabelle gazed at Whitby, who was sitting on the other side of the room, across from young Eddie at the chess table. “You went to the lake?” she asked.

“Yes,” Whitby replied. “It was a perfect day, wasn’t it?”

“Perfect indeed,” Eddie replied distractedly, moving a chess piece.

“I didn’t want to go,” Dorothy said in a haughty voice, for Dorothy—Lily and Whitby’s only daughter as of yet—was a very grown-up four-year-old, who would never be caught dead touching a fish. She preferred her dolls and hair ribbons.

“So if you didn’t go with the boys,” Annabelle said, “what did you do today? Did you stay indoors?”

“No. I took Helen for a walk in the garden,” Dorothy replied.

“Well, thank you very much. I’m sure Helen enjoyed the exercise.”

Dorothy nodded proudly, then Annabelle moved to the sofa and sat down next to Johnny and Lily. Her thoughts drifted back to the fishing excursion.

“That old boat still floats?” she asked, realizing she hadn’t been in it since that long-ago summer.

“Like a boat should,” Whitby said. “We didn’t have to bail, did we, boys?”

“What’s a bail, Father?” Johnny asked.

“It’s when the water leaks into the boat and you have to scoop it out with a bucket so you don’t sink.”

“I wouldn’t like to sink,” Johnny said.

Lily messed his hair. “I should think not!”

Lily and Annabelle shared an amused glance as Johnny slid off the sofa and went to join young James, who was sitting on the floor playing with his army of tin soldiers.

“How did everything go?” Lily asked in a quiet voice, though her eyes were brimming with curiosity.

Annabelle hesitated, glancing across at Whitby. “It went fine. He liked my other paintings, and he’s going to include them in the exhibition.”

“That’s wonderful.”

Annabelle then told Lily about the American artist, George Wright, and how it was an honor to be shown in the same gallery.

“But how was everything else?” Lily asked in an even quieter voice.

Annabelle wasn’t sure where to begin. “It was rather nerve-racking. We talked about what happened years ago.”

“You don’t say.”

“Yes, and he apologized to me, Lily. Can you believe that?”

Lily sat back. “I thought perhaps he might.”

“Did you really?”

“Yes. Why would he come all this way and contact you unless he had something important to say?”

Annabelle gazed pensively toward the boys playing with their little army on the other side of the room. “I’m still not certain he came here just for the single purpose of apologizing. He seemed very determined, as if he were on a straight path toward something.”

She thought about what he’d said to her, that he had missed her. Was it possible she was the something he wanted, and he was here in London to claim her? Could he be that presumptuous?

Yes, he probably could.

“He’s purchased two buildings in London,” Annabelle told Lily, attempting to distract herself from the idea of Magnus actually “claiming” her.

Lily’s eyebrows lifted. “He must have money beyond the allowance from Whitby. Did he say anything about that?”

“Yes, he said he doesn’t want it anymore, and he intends to inform Whitby as such.”

Lily gazed lovingly at her husband. “You’re going to have to tell him everything, Annabelle. I can’t keep it secret any longer. He knows me too well.”

Annabelle watched her brother playing chess with his son. Eddie made a move, and Whitby shouted with laughter. “Brilliant, Eddie! I didn’t see that coming!”

But there was something else he did not see coming, and she was not looking forward to explaining it.

LATER THAT NIGHT
, after the children had gone to bed, Annabelle returned to the drawing room with Lily and Whitby—as was their habit most evenings after dinner, when they would read or chat or play cards.

While Lily played the piano, Annabelle sat on the sofa with Whitby, but she wasn’t really hearing the music, for her mind was occupied with thoughts about what had occurred that day and how she was going to tell Whitby what she had kept from him.

Taking a deep breath, she finally met her brother’s gaze. “There’s something I need to tell you, and I hope you won’t be angry.”

Whitby sat back, his brow furrowing with concern.

“Over the past few weeks,” she began, “I’ve received two letters from…a gallery owner. He wanted to include one of my paintings in an exhibition.”

Her brother touched her arm. “That’s wonderful news, Annabelle. Congratulations. But why would you think I would be angry?”

She bit her lip, then decided to cease her stalling and meet the problem head on. “Because the letters came from Magnus, and you’re not going to like this, Whitby, but he has returned to London.”

For a moment her brother stared at her as if he wasn’t quite sure he’d heard her correctly, then his eyes darkened with worry and he looked across the room at Lily, who was tapping away on the piano.

Annabelle understood her brother’s anxiety. He’d lost many loved ones in his lifetime—which was why he’d always been so protective of her—and he considered Magnus a serious danger.

“He wrote you letters while posing as a gallery owner?” Whitby asked.

Annabelle looked down at her hands upon her lap. “Well, he wasn’t exactly posing. He really does own a gallery, and I went to see him today.”

Whitby stared at her in disbelief. “Did you know it was him when you agreed to meet?”

“Yes, of course,” she assured him. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, but—”

Whitby cupped his forehead in a hand. “Why the hell didn’t you, Annabelle? Who knows what could have happened? You shouldn’t have gone there alone.”

He stood up, looking as if he wanted to dash out of the house at that instant, find Magnus wherever he was, and confront him again, just like he had the last time.

All of a sudden the music stopped. Lily noticed her husband rise. “Is everything all right?” she asked.

“Magnus has returned,” Whitby told her directly.

“Oh my,” Lily replied.

For a long intense moment Annabelle’s brother stared at his wife fixedly. “You knew, didn’t you?”

Lily’s lips parted. “Well…”

Annabelle felt immensely guilty for asking Lily to keep something so important from her husband, but that was apparently not Whitby’s first concern. He strode to the window, contemplating what all this meant.

“He should not have come back. He is in breach of our agreement.”

“Please, Whitby, sit down,” Annabelle said. “Let me tell you what happened.”

Thankfully, he returned to the sofa, and Lily sat across from them to listen in.

Annabelle decided to start at the beginning. “That summer that we spent together thirteen years ago, I painted Magnus in the boat fishing, and that’s the painting he brought with him—the one he wanted to hang in the gallery.”

“Wait a minute,” Whitby said, holding up a hand. “You painted him? You never told me that.”

“I didn’t really want to talk about it.”

He gazed in the other direction for a moment. “I saw that painting over his mantel once—on the day I offered him the money to leave England. You painted that?”

“Yes.”

“It was one of the most beautiful paintings I’d ever seen, Annabelle,” Whitby said. “I didn’t recognize it as one of yours. Not that I don’t think your work is exquisite, but it was different.”

“I almost didn’t recognize it myself,” she said, “when I first saw it today.”

Both Lily and Whitby waited in silence for her to continue. She took a moment to decide where to begin and what in particular she should tell them. It all seemed rather smudged together at the moment.

“When I met him today, he explained that he regretted the way he had treated me all those years ago, and that he hoped I could forgive him.”

Whitby’s jaw clenched visibly. “You didn’t believe him, I hope.” It was not a question, but rather a very strong suggestion.

“No, not really.”

Where had that come from? It should have been a firm Absolutely not.

“Not really? You’re not sure, Annabelle?” Whitby’s tone dripped with disbelief.

Annabelle felt suddenly frazzled. “No…I mean of course I’m sure! And I told him so—that I could never trust him, not in a hundred years.”