Portrait Of A Lover (13 page)

So she sat down at her desk and withdrew her personalized stationery from the top drawer, dipped her pen in ink, and began to write:

Dear Mr. Wallis,

I was pleased to hear of your progress with the gallery, and thank you for the invitation to the opening. I would be delighted to attend.

Sincerely,
Annabelle Lawson

She set down her pen and blew upon the ink, rereading what she had written.

…delighted to attend.

She sat back in her chair. Delighted? Pleased to hear of your progress?

She closed her eyes and blinked, as if that would bring reality back to her brain. This was Magnus she was writing to. In all her excitement, she had forgotten that rather sticky fact.

She felt her brow furrow with confusion.

Annabelle looked down at her reply again, and remembered their meeting one week ago at the gallery. She had been hostile toward him, aloof at best. Perhaps she should rewrite the note and try to convey that tone instead.

For a long time she considered it, then shook her head, wondering why she was giving this letter so much importance. It was a reply to an invitation, nothing more. If she were truly indifferent, she would not be analyzing it so carefully.

So with that, it was decided. No more doubts and uncertainties. She would send the trifling letter as it was.

THREE DAYS LATER
Magnus sat down at his desk in the gallery office and read Annabelle’s reply. She was coming. No. Even better, she would be delighted to come.

He leaned back in his chair until the front legs came clear off the floor and stretched his arms high over his head.

After his meeting with Whitby, he was sure he had been hung out to dry. He’d imagined himself the topic of many heated conversations in the Whitby household—most of which would involve his misdeeds and flaws and general overall offensiveness. He’d even expected Annabelle to change her mind about letting him show her paintings. Every day, whenever a knock had sounded upon the gallery door, he’d expected it to be a footman, come to ask for them back.

But no footman had come, only this letter. This very satisfying letter.

He sat forward, the chair legs landing hard upon the oak floor. There were still so many things left to be done—one of which was the printing of the exhibition labels, and since the paintings were being offered for sale, he did need to understand Annabelle’s expectations regarding price.

He supposed he could have asked her that in the last letter, but now he was glad he had not, for it gave him another excuse to write to her.

Dear Miss Lawson,

I will be placing exhibition labels on the walls next to each painting, and we must determine an asking price for each. It is my recommendation that you ask £200 for each of the three paintings you brought when you came to the gallery, and £300 for The Fisherman. Would that be acceptable to you? My commission is ten percent.

M. Wallis

As soon as Annabelle read the letter, she dropped it onto her desk. Three hundred pounds? Surely he wasn’t serious. She was no one special. She’d never sold a single painting in her entire life. She couldn’t possibly ask that much.

She picked up her pen…

Dear Mr. Wallis,

While I am flattered by your confidence in my work, I wonder if a more modest price would be more appropriate. Perhaps £25 each, and £30 for The Fisherman?

A. Lawson

Magnus read her note and smiled. Dear, sweet Annabelle. She was modest, and completely oblivious to her talent as an artist. How could she not know?

Not that he was complaining. He was more than pleased that he would be the one to help her see it.

Yes, one brick at a time, carefully laid…

Dear Miss Lawson,

I received your reply in regards to the asking prices of your paintings, but I must plead your indulgence to trust me in this regard. I have seen many paintings come and go through my New York galleries, and I can assure you, these amounts are not unrealistic for works as exquisite as yours. If anything, I would like to ask more.

I am honored to be the one to show them for the first time, as I believe you have a rare talent. The gentleman from the Times was most impressed with your work, and singled you out among the others, and I was not at all surprised.

So please, I ask you, let me print those prices? Anything less would be unthinkable.

M. Wallis

Annabelle was sitting on the edge of her bed when she read the letter, and as soon as she finished it, she flopped backward, sinking into the soft feather mattress. Staring up at the ceiling, she wondered if she should pinch herself.

Were the paintings really that good? She had no idea. She felt totally incapable of judging her own work. All she felt when she looked at them was a frustration over the things she wanted to change. She was never completely satisfied with any of her paintings and felt them nothing special at all, even after she was long finished with them.

Except perhaps for The Fisherman. She had not wanted to change a thing on that one—which had been a novel experience for her.

But still…£300? Could she possibly allow Magnus to ask that much?

She supposed he had an interest. He wouldn’t want to ask something insignificant because he had a commission to earn. But nor would he want to ask anything outrageous, because if the paintings did not sell, he wouldn’t earn a farthing.

But surely, if he was as wealthy as he appeared, his commissions were of no consequence. He had called his galleries labors of love, hadn’t he? Yes, he had, and he had a great deal of experience.

Then it occurred to her—he couldn’t be toying with her, could he? Flattering her as a means to an end? In a devious scheme to seduce her for some hidden purpose? To injure Whitby again?

Old fears and uncertainties came bubbling to the surface, because she had been flattered by all of this, and she caught herself chewing a fingernail.

Then again, if he was asking a high price just to flatter her, she would find out at the opening, wouldn’t she? She would know very quickly if people thought the prices were unreasonable.

Annabelle sat up again and finally decided to take a risk and let Magnus ask whatever he wished. As difficult as it was, she would trust him—at least in this regard. And she would use the gallery opening as a way to test him, to see if he had been deceiving her.

She walked to her desk and penned him a quick note to approve his suggested prices, then dressed to go and visit Madame Dubois in the village, who required Annabelle’s presence for one last fitting of the dress she had designed for her. Annabelle could hardly wait to see it.

O n the night of the gallery opening, Magnus made his way through the crowd, greeting some of the guests as they arrived.

So far, only a half hour into the evening, it appeared to be a resounding success. There was a noisy hum of conversation and laughter, some of the most respected names in the art world were present, along with some very prominent members of society, including the Duke of Harlow, who was a well-known art enthusiast, and Baron St. Clair, one of the wealthiest men in London since striking it rich in the American railroad, of all things. He was one of the few English aristocrats with whom Magnus felt he had anything in common.

But despite the impressive showing of prestigious guests, Magnus felt no true satisfaction—for the one guest who truly mattered had not yet arrived. He hoped she had not changed her mind.

Then the door swung open and there she was—Annabelle—stepping into the gallery alone.

Magnus was jolted with a sense of urgency when he saw her, and was pleasantly surprised she had come alone, for he’d expected her to bring someone, perhaps even Whitby, which would have made a blatant seduction considerably challenging. This, however, was an unquestionable advantage.

She appeared nervous and flustered, so he interrupted the gentleman who was complimenting him on his choice of champagne and shouldered his way through the crowd to greet her.

“Good evening, Miss Lawson,” he said, making a conscious effort to speak in a businesslike manner, though beneath his surface politeness he was struggling to harness a most uncompromising, sexually aroused state of mind. How in the world could he help it, when she looked so delectable in an elegant, plum-colored evening gown that accentuated the fullness of her breasts and the tempting, lavish curve of her hips?

Quite frankly, it was an injustice that he’d never seen her dressed this way before—in jewels and French heels and long, sleek black gloves. Even her fragrance aroused him. It was the sweet, spring perfume of lilacs.

“Good evening,” she replied, handing her cloak over to the doorman.

Magnus waited for her to smooth out her skirt and take a perfunctory look around the room. “Can I offer you a glass of champagne?” he asked.

“Yes, thank you.”

Magnus caught the eye of the waiter and signaled to him. An instant later Annabelle was lifting a champagne flute off the shiny brass tray.

“Please come in,” he said, guiding her through the crowd. “There are some guests who have been waiting to meet you.”

Annabelle allowed Magnus to lead her into the room, hoping no one could make out how nervous she was, for not only was she attempting to enter into the London art world—when in reality she was a thirty-four-year-old spinster aunt who lived in the country—but she was also interacting with the man who was, and would always be, her first love. Her only love, really, although those old feelings were now mixed with so many others—like anger, distrust, and trepidation.

As she followed him through the crowd, however, she realized with some anxiety that those off-putting feelings did not overrule the disturbing way she was reacting to him now—because seeing him again felt just like it had in the old days, when she would come to him at the lake after an agonizing week away from him and find him lounging back in the boat, looking handsome and virile. Unfortunately, the very minute she had laid eyes upon him tonight, her body had awakened the same way—with exhilaration and desire, and she did not understand how she could possibly be feeling that way. How could she forget the hatred that had crippled her all these years?

She noticed uneasily that her hands were trembling, so she strove to focus only on the gallery exhibition. She could not let him do this to her. She could not.

Magnus directed her to a group of gentlemen toward the back of the room, and they all stopped talking as soon as they noticed Annabelle. They studied her curiously, hesitantly, for there were not many women present, and one of the men in particular—older, with gray hair and spectacles—looked down the long length of his aristocratic nose at her before Magnus made the introduction.

“Harlow,” he said, with a confident smile, “allow me to present Annabelle Lawson, my latest discovery. Miss Lawson, the Duke of Harlow.”

Annabelle felt her face flush with surprise, then she gathered her composure and gracefully curtsied. “Your Grace, it is an honor.”

The duke’s eyes warmed instantly, his voice friendly and open as he spoke. “So this is the elusive new artist,” he said as he bowed to Annabelle. “My dear, the honor is all mine. I am enchanted to meet such a remarkable talent.”

Annabelle lowered her gaze. “Thank you, Your Grace.”

He patted Magnus on the back. “My good man, you didn’t mention she was not only gifted, but lovely as well. Miss Lawson, will you be so kind as to discuss your seascape with me? I just acquired it.”

Annabelle sucked in a breath. “You did?”

“You sound surprised,” he said.

She could feel Magnus’s eyes on her, waiting for her reply.

“No, it’s just so early in the evening. You must be confident in your tastes, Your Grace.”

The duke seemed pleased with her answer, and offered his arm. “Shall we?”

Annabelle smiled and wondered if this would answer her question—whether Magnus had been merely flattering her with his extravagant asking prices.

She supposed he could have exerted some influence and worked something out with the duke as part of his scheme, but then she feared she was being overly suspicious to the point of absurdity.

But Magnus had always possessed a talent for knocking her off kilter, hadn’t he?

The duke escorted Annabelle across the gallery to where her painting was hanging on the wall next to a few others, none of which she recognized. She and the duke discussed all of them in addition to hers, and Annabelle soon began to relax.

She eventually met the other three local artists who were present, and they were all friendly except for one, who was a member of the RoyalAcademy. He seemed rather vain about his own work, and spoke to her with a belittling tone.

“You may feel differently about Wright’s work when you’ve gained more experience, Miss Lawson,” he said to her, when she expressed her high regard for the American artist.

She did not bother to argue with him, for she could sense he was envious of Wright’s talent. Instead, she turned her attention to the other gentlemen, who shared her appreciation, and enjoyed the delicious spiced shrimp hors d’oeuvres.

As the evening wore on, she realized that all her worries about seeing Magnus tonight were for naught, for he remained respectfully in other areas of the gallery, keeping his distance, leaving her to mingle on her own, and never once did he reveal that they had known each other before. He treated her exactly as he treated the other artists—with a professional reverence and respect.

She should have been relieved. She told herself she shouldn’t even be noticing that he was ignoring her, but alas, she felt something very different, which was upsetting to say the least—for she was disappointed.

The sad truth was, she had been acutely aware of his location every single second during the night. Despite all the terrible things she knew about him, she’d had to fight to keep from glancing over at him constantly just for the mere pleasure of watching him talk, laugh, sip champagne, or run a hand through his hair.

Yes, she still thought him the handsomest man in the world, the most intriguing, the most irresistible, and she could not deny the foolish yearning for him to merely glance her way. She wanted the excitement, the thrill of his eyes meeting hers. And even though she had done everything in her power to convince herself she didn’t care and was only here for the exhibition, she had to accept the fact that she would always be drawn to him, and she hated such weakness in herself—for wanting something that had once been so destructive.

Later, as the evening drew to a close and the guests began to disperse, Annabelle stood alone in front of The Fisherman, looking curiously at the little red mark on the exhibition label and feeling weary of the battle going on inside her head.

She glanced across the room to where Magnus was speaking to some of the guests, and as soon as their eyes met, she knew she was simply incapable of fighting the attraction anymore. She felt a powerful surge of longing course through her, and didn’t have the strength to resist it. She had been suppressing her emotions for too long—thirteen years to be exact—and she was exhausted.

Whether he felt what she felt, she did not know. All she knew was that he was picking up two glasses of champagne and blazing a direct path toward her.

She took a deep, steadying breath, not sure what would happen if she ever completely let herself go free.

“You did well tonight,” he said, handing over one of the glasses. “Let’s make a celebratory toast.” He raised his glass, and Annabelle joined him by doing the same. “To a successful opening and the launch of your career.”

Annabelle drank to his toast, then endeavored to initiate some relaxed conversation, for she did not want him to know how shaky she felt just from the mere fact that he was standing beside her.

“You may find this hard to believe,” she said, “but I never considered my art as a career. It has always been a hobby, though I’ve always dreamed it could be more.”

“I don’t find that hard to believe,” he said. “Because I remember.”

It was the first spoken reminder of the past, and it was unsettling, to say the least, so she tried to change the subject. She pointed at the red mark on the label. “I’m surprised we got that price, but I thought you said you would never part with it.”

“I’m not parting with it.”

Then she understood. “You bought it,” she said with a grin.

His responding smile was infectious. “It was money well spent, to see you smile like that.”

Her body tensed at the heat of the flirtation. If she was not careful, this was going to lead somewhere very dangerous.

“You didn’t have to buy something you already own,” she told him.

“Ah, but I didn’t really own it. You had asked for it back, if you will recall. So now that I have purchased it, I will be its rightful owner, and no one will ever be able to take it from me. Besides,” he added, “I get a commission on the sale.”

“But it’s your money.”

He casually shrugged. “Now it’s yours.”

Annabelle shook her head at him. “I should refuse.”

“Please don’t. I’ll sleep better this way.”

Annabelle continued to look at the painting while she sipped her drink, realizing with some surprise that she was feeling more relaxed now that they had actually smiled at each other. It had to be the champagne. It was her third glass.

“But if you take this painting back to America,” she said, “I’ll never see it again. It feels strange to think of that.”

“It will remain here in the gallery until then,” he said. “You can visit it.”

She nodded. “I wonder if I could paint another one like it.” She tilted her head to the side. “Now that I see how I handled the brushstrokes, I think I might be able to do it.”

“I’m sure you could.”

A few gentlemen came to shake Magnus’s hand and thank him for inviting them, and they complimented Annabelle on her work.

“See?” Magnus said after they were gone. “You’ll be talked about.”

A few others came to say good-night, and before long there were only a handful of guests left in the gallery and it was much quieter.

Annabelle and Magnus wandered around the room, admiring the paintings and discussing each of them at length. Then, surprisingly, their conversation shifted to another subject.

“I know that Whitby came to see you,” Annabelle said frankly. “He told me what he said to you.”

“Did he indeed?” Magnus replied, not seeming the least bit surprised. “Which part?”

“The part about me.That if you ever did anything to hurt me, you’d have to answer to him.”

Magnus downed the rest of his champagne in one gulp, then set the empty glass on a mahogany table and casually leaned a shoulder against the wall. His expression was playful and lighthearted, which surprised her.

“That’s close, but not exactly it.”

“What do you mean?” Annabelle asked.

“I mean, that’s not exactly what he said. Let me see…If I remember correctly, he informed me that you were ‘off limits’ to me, and if I ever laid another hand on you, he would hunt me down and kill me.”

Annabelle drew a breath. “Good Lord, he said those exact words?”

“He did indeed.”

Of course she knew Whitby would never really kill anyone. It had just been a threat to emphasize how serious he was.

Even so, if he had said it, she would be extremely vexed with him. He could have foiled her opportunity to be included in this show.

But then again, this was Magnus. She had to be careful what she believed. She couldn’t let her desires overtake her common sense, no matter how powerful they were.

“I suppose there is a slight difference in the meaning, isn’t there?” she said, not wanting to reveal what she was thinking or feeling.

“It’s rather subtle, but yes,” he calmly replied. “The ‘killing’ remark, though—that has a rather firmer message attached to it, don’t you think?”