So Wild a Heart (29 page)

"Then one morning Leona brought me a letter. She had been to call on Constance and found her gone. She had left me a letter." He paused, drawing a shaky breath, and his eyes came up to meet Miranda's, laced with agony. "She said that she was carrying my child, that she could not bear to live with the shame. She wrote that she was going to throw herself into the ocean and spare both herself and the baby the shame of its being born out of wedlock."

"Oh, no!" Miranda's hand tightened around his. "How awful."

He nodded, his face drawn. "I went running over there like a fool, but of course she was gone, just as Leona had said. They searched for her, but they could never find the body, only the spot on the rocks where she had discarded her shawl and shoes. Her grandfather was devastated. He nearly went mad with grief. He blamed me, of course. Everyone did. Leona was the only one who stood by me. I don't know what I would have done without her. That was the scandal over which my father finally broke with me. He had forgiven many sins of mine before, he said, but he could not forgive that—that I had seduced an innocent girl and driven her to her death."

"How could he have blamed you alone?" Miranda asked, bringing his hand up to her chest and cradling it against her. "You were not the only person involved. Constance was responsible for what happened, as well."

"Why did she not come to me?" The words were torn out of him, soaked with the pain of years. "I would not have turned her away. I did not love her, but I would have done my duty if I had known she was pregnant. I would have married her. I swear I would have."

"Of course you would have," Miranda agreed staunchly. "Your father could not have known you very well, or he would have known that."

“He was only one of many who believed it,'' Devin said flatly. “The things I had done, the manner of man I was.. .everyone found it easy to believe I would have played the cad. Obviously Constance never thought for a moment that I would have done the honorable thing." The corner of his mouth quirked up in an attempt at a smile. "Now you know what sort of man you married."

"I already knew what sort of man I married," Miranda replied. "This does not change my opinion. You have made mistakes—who among us has not? But you are not wicked."

"I don't know how you can even bear to look at me. Sometimes I cannot bear to look at myself."

Impulsively Miranda leaned forward and took Devin in her arms, resting her head against his and holding him close. "There is no need to keep grinding yourself into the ground about this. What you did was wrong, no doubt, but you were not alone in it. You did not force her. Constance was a grown woman, older than most of the girls, you said. She knew what she was doing and what could happen. She also could have told you. She did not even give you the chance to make it right. She should have come to you. She owed that to her child, if nothing else. There was her grandfather, too. She could have gone to him for help. Instead she chose to kill herself and her child. That is not the action of a fully sane woman. You cannot blame yourself because she was unbalanced. You do not deserve the entire burden of guilt."

Devin wrapped his arms around her tightly, burying his face in her hair. "You are an unusual woman, Miranda. Few would be so forgiving."

"What do I have to forgive you for?" Miranda pointed out reasonably. "It did not concern me. It is between you and God, and I think that you have punished yourself for it more than enough over the years."

They sat like that for a long time, holding each other, and Miranda could feel his taut body relax as the pain drained out of him. Gradually she realized the intimacy of their position, pressed tightly against each other, sitting in his bed. She wore only a nightgown, a flimsy barrier between his bare chest and her own skin. The warmth between them began to change and become more heated, and suddenly what had been only comfort and sympathy was now charged with sexuality.

Miranda released Devin and scooted back awkwardly. She looked at him and saw reflected in his face the same awareness of their position. Her cheeks flamed. She had scarcely noticed before how little Devin wore. Above the sheet his chest was bare. Miranda was unaccustomed to seeing a man's naked chest, and her eyes could not help running over his tanned skin, padded with muscle. She had to curl her fingers into her palm to resist the urge to reach out and touch the bony outcropping of his shoulders and collarbone, the rounded muscle of his upper arms.

She cleared her throat. "Well, ah...I should get back to bed now."

"Miranda..." He reached for her, laying his hand on her arm. He rubbed his thumb over her skin, searching for words. With a sigh, he released her and shook his head. “Never mind. Thank you. It was good of you to come help me."

"You're welcome. Good night."

Miranda slipped off the bed and walked across the room and through the connecting door to her room. But when she closed the door behind her, she did not lock it.

_{Chapter 15}

Miranda and Devin were in the library the next day, Miranda poring over old maps of the estate and Devin contemplating the way her dress fell over her hips as she stretched across the table, when one of the footmen entered.

"My lady, a package has arrived for you. A rather large one, from London. You had said to notify you—"

"Yes, of course." Miranda straightened up, her eyes bright and a wide smile curving her mouth. "Bring it in."

She turned to Devin excitedly. They were alone in the room for once, her father and the landscaper being outside walking through the overrun garden, the architect upstairs making notes to himself, and Hiram going over the books with Strong in Strong's office. Devin could not help but smile faintly at the happiness on Miranda's face; it was infectious. But he could not imagine what sort of package could have got her so excited.

"What is it? Dresses from London?"

"No. Better than that. At least, I hope it is. I hope you will like it. It is a wedding present."

"A wedding present? But you already gave me that." His hand went automatically to the ruby-and-gold pin in his ascot, part of a matching set with cuff links that she had given him on their wedding day.

"Yes, but that was different. That was a formal present. A— I don't know, something you expected. This is my own personal present."

Intrigued, he stood up as the footman came in, almost hidden by the large box he carried. With care, the servant set it down on the floor and bowed out of the room, closing the door behind him. Devin glanced at Miranda.

"Go ahead," she said, "Open it. If you don't like it, I promise I shan't cry. It is just a gift of...of possibility."

"Indeed." He cut the string that tied the package and opened the box. He went still, looking at the objects inside. He turned to Miranda, an odd, questioning look on his face, then reached into the box and pulled out an easel. Digging farther down, he brought up a wooden box containing tubes of pigment and glass bottles for the paints after they were mixed, then a palette, a box of brushes, pads of paper, a box of charcoal pencils, bottles of turpentine and linseed oil, until finally the library table was almost covered with the art supplies.

Devin stood looking down at the things on the table. He ran his fingers down a tube, touched the silken hairs of a brush. Miranda waited, watching him, wondering what he was thinking.

"You don't have to use them if you don't want," she said finally. "I just thought...you might miss it. While you were here, you might want to paint. To pass the time, at least."

He turned then and looked at her, shaking his head in puzzlement. "How did you know? I mean—I gave it up long ago."

"I saw your work at your sister's house," Miranda explained. "She told me that you were an artist."

He grimaced dismissively. "I dabbled."

"No. You are very talented. I saw the paintings. Your use of light, the colors..." Her voice picked up a little in excitement. "I couldn't believe it when I saw them. I realized then that you weren't just what one saw."

"A wastrel, you mean?"

"Well, frankly, yes."

Devin grinned faintly. "One can always count on you for honesty."

He looked back at the things on the table. "I can't believe.. .I don't know that I can do it anymore. It has been years. I lost interest."

"You might be rusty, but I don't believe your talent died. It is still there." She paused, then went on. "Rachel showed me the room in the west wing, the one where you used to paint. I've had it cleaned. You could use it again."

"It has good light in the afternoon," he agreed absently. Even when he had tried to sketch Miranda, he had not actually contemplated painting her portrait He had assumed that he would never paint again. But now, suddenly, the idea tempted him. He remembered the smell of the oils, the feel of the brush in his fingers, the way light poured in through the windows of the room. He thought once more of the sketches he had done in private of Miranda.

"Why did you buy these?" he asked. "I mean, why do you care?"

"I hate to see talent wasted, and I think you have a tremendous talent And I thought you might...find something you had lost."

They stood looking at one another for a long moment. Finally he said, "If I decided to paint, would you pose for me?"

Miranda's eyes widened a Utile in surprise. But she said only, "Yes. I would."

"Then perhaps I will."

******************

Devin did not think he would begin to paint again. He had outgrown it years ago, as his father had always hoped he would. The supplies were a nice gesture and one that touched him, but he was not sure that he wanted to try them out.

However, later that afternoon, he found his steps turning toward the room Miranda had mentioned, the large, airy, sun-filled room that had been his studio when he lived at home. It had been cleaned, as Miranda had said, and all the supplies had been carried up and arranged on an old paint-bedaubed table there. The furniture in the room was minimal—besides the table, only a chair, a stool and a fainting couch.

He went to the box and opened it again, taking out the tubes of pigment one by one and laying them on the table, adding the small glass bottles. If he was going to paint, he would mix the pigments with linseed oil and put them in the bottles. He thought of mixing the oils together on his palette then, what colors he would combine, what mixture he would use to get the exact shade of Miranda's hair. What combination of white and black it would take to reach the gray of her eyes—and how to add the touch of silver to them.

Almost without thinking, he unscrewed the top from one of the tubes and squeezed out pigment into a bottle....

It was four hours later that one of the servants finally found him, standing in the studio, lamps lit around him, his coat off and his white shirt stained and smeared with paints.

"Uh, my lord...Lady Ravenscar sent me to find you," the footman said tentatively, never having seen the elegant Earl in such a state before. He had seen him tipsy, of course, buttons done up wrong or not at all, cravat rumpled and all askew. But as he had only been here five years now, he had never seen him with a smear of brown across the back of his hand and another of gray on his cheek—nor with that odd,distant look in his eyes, so that he stared at a man without really seeing him.

"What?" The earl frowned. "Miranda?"

"No, my lord. The dowager Lady Ravenscar."

"Oh. Why?"

"It is past time for supper, sir. The others are ready to sit down."

"Oh. Tell them to go ahead. Bring my supper up to me on a tray. I'm busy. And bring me more lamps. The light's damn poor in here."

The footman saw little sense in pointing out that it was nighttime and there was little likelihood of good light. He had long ago decided that the aristocracy were all mad, and this latest glimpse of the Earl of Ravenscar only confirmed that opinion.

When the footman relayed the news to the elder Lady Ravenscar, she frosted up. "We shan't wait on him. At least—" she turned to Miranda, acknowledging that she was now the lady of the house "—that is what I would advise, Miranda."

"Yes, I imagine you are right." But Miranda, unlike her mother-in-law, smiled when she said it, and the look she exchanged with Rachel was one of triumphant delight.

Devin painted through much of the night, finally going off to bed exhausted and disgusted by the rustiness of his skills. He would never recapture the ability he once had, he thought, though he knew he would try again.

The next morning, when he woke up, he was feeling less despairing and, given a fresh look at what he had done in the light of day, he thought that, while it was not worth keeping, it was not, at least, quite as horrible as it had seemed the night before.

He went down to the library, where he found Miranda in a discussion of numbers with Hiram Baldwin. He was growing more and more exasperated with his inability to get her face just right, and he reminded her that she had promised to pose. Miranda rose, smiling, and went with him without a murmur of dissent, leaving Hiram to sigh and return alone to the problem that had been vexing him.

Over the course of the next few weeks Devin was locked in his studio much of each day. Miranda sat for him two hours a day, one in the morning and one in the afternoon, all that she could stand of sitting still, she told him. The rest of the time he experimented with sketches and colors and still lifes or landscapes— whatever took his fancy. He was seized with a hunger, not quite the obsessive, unrelenting fevers that had often gripped him when he was younger, but still a need to create that made all other things recede.