The Muse (23 page)

Graham craved her, couldn’t live without her, didn’t want to imagine it, and he would not.

THE next morning Imogene woke late and alone in the master’s chamber.  Stretching and peering around the enormous room, she was able to see things clearly in the morning light.  The painting was huge.  It hung opposite the bed so as to be the first thing to view when you opened your eyes each morning.

It was of her.

Her in the Kent countryside, standing at the entrance to Kenilbrooke.  Terra was there, perfectly depicted.  Her hair as it was that day, blue riding habit, carrying the lamb in her arms.  The entire scene recreated as it had happened.

How does he manage these things?  Will I stumble upon one surprise to the next for our whole lives together?  I don’t know if I can bear it…

Imogene found her nightdress and donned it, exited his room and entered her own.  She attended to personal needs first, braiding her hair into one long braid, and dressing into a green brocade robe before wandering into their sitting room.  The first thing she looked for was a note.

There was no note.

Pouring herself a cup of tea from the breakfast tray, she took it with her and marched right back into Graham’s chamber to look at the portrait again.

She studied it thoroughly while sipping her tea, trying to compel its secrets, but couldn’t for the life of her understand how on earth Graham had managed this painting commissioned.

“I see you have found it this morning; you did not notice it last night,” he whispered into her ear from behind.

Imogene sputtered into her tea and nearly dropped the cup. “That would be a fair statement, sir, as I could not have possibly given my attention to anything in this room last night apart from you…and the bedsport.”

She looked him over thoroughly.  Noting he was dressed for the day, waistcoat and cravat in place, hair neatly tied back.

“Always correct in your assessments,
chérie
.  I did quite monopolize your concentration last night, I know, but it was memorable, was it not?”

She nodded once and took another sip of her tea.

“There is some business that needs attending to in here before we can start our day.”

“Is that so?”

He took her tea cup away and set it on a table.  Then he pulled a winter rose in blush pink from his pocket and tucked it above her ear.

“First, good morning.”  He kissed her forehead.  “I love you.”  He kissed her left ear.  “I adore you.”  He kissed her right ear.  “You look beautiful.”  He kissed her lips and held her chin up to him ever so gently.  “There, business done now.  Did you have something you wished to ask me?”  A wicked grin graced his face.

“Oh, my God, Graham!  How do you manage this kind of thing?  I am beginning to think you delve in the occult.  The constant plotting and planning, doesn’t it exhaust you?  Because it exhausts me.”

“No, not at all.  I find it very invigorating.”  He reached for her. “Now do you understand why I want to sleep in this room?”

“Yes.”  She touched his cheek.  “But how
did
you manage it?”

“I have a friend, an artist who conspires with me.”

“You do?  And have I met this person?”

“You have not met him.”  Graham shook his head.  “He is a more mercurial sort.  Not someone who would display himself with the staff for the new mistress’s arrival.”

“He is here at Gavandon then?  Who is he?”

“Tristan Mallerton, an old friend.  We met many years ago at school, at Harrow.  I went on to Cambridge.  He went on to Paris, painted and lived large.  I joined him there for a short time before—”

Graham stopped abruptly, a look of wistfulness coming into his expression.

“Before?” she asked.

“Mallerton has lived the life I might have lived under different circumstances.  He returned to England just before the time I inherited.  While he was poor, I was not.  I had need of a painter at my disposal, so I offered to be his patron and he accepted my offer.  Now he has a home and money enough to keep him supplied in paint and canvas and other wants, and the exposure to people of wealth who will probably eventually steal him away from me one day.  He is about the place.  You will meet him soon I am sure.  I hope you like him for I want him to paint portraits of you.”

“Interesting, but how could he have painted this one?  I have never met him and we, you and I, have only known each other for a few months.  Paintings like this take time and sittings.  How could he have possibly painted my likeness so perfectly?”

“Oh, he was busy to be sure.  I had him working on it immediately after you accepted my proposal.  I described the Kent scenery and sketched it out for him.  I sent off for the Opie portrait from Drakenhurst as soon as we were engaged.  He used the camera obscura to get the image of your face from it, and transferred it to this portrait.  Terra arrived here some weeks ago, other horses stood in at first; he filled her in once she got here.  You gave me your hair, which was so perfect.  I was able to describe colours the way they should be, and your hair and figure, and was able to lay out the canvas for him.  I think it skillfully done.  He has captured the moment for me, the first moment I spied you and was pierced through the heart with Cupid’s Arrow.  I can remember with clarity the moment.  There was pain in my heart when I first saw you.  But instead of it killing me, I was awakened.”  His eyes had grown very dark green, drawing her in, as he retold the moment when he first saw her.

Could it be possible for any man to love her as Graham did, she wondered.  Why was she so blessed in love?

I need him again.

Imogene reached for his shirt buttons to open it, but found that first she must deal with his knotted cravat.  “I find these to be most devilishly inconvenient,” she hissed, struggling with the offending length of fabric.  Finally pulling it free, she opened his waistcoat and then his shirt wide to expose his heart.  She then pressed her lips to the place where she could feel it pounding inside his chest.

The moment her lips touched him, Graham gathered her up and took her back to bed where he loved her ravenously.  The carefully orchestrated control of their encounter from the previous night was nowhere to be found in this one.

AT breakfast Imogene was thoughtful as she sat across from him.  She’d admitted she was still in shock at finding the portrait of her carrying the lamb.  It made him happy to surprise her so he imagined she would have to get used to it.

“So many secrets.  How many secrets do you have, Graham?”

“I don’t have any secrets from you.”

Liar.  You know that you lie.

She gave him a hard look. “When you were a little boy, did the parson not tell you that all liars will go to hell?”

He laughed at that, amazed again at her skills of perception in reading him.  “I am sure he did, but I do not count them as secrets or lies.  Rather, they are surprises, gifts, arranged with love for you.”

Graham simply smiled at his wife and changed the topic of their conversation.  He’d decided that he would not allow any ugliness to invade upon his happiness of bringing Imogene to Gavandon.  He would deal with those problems later.

“You know, these robes or wrappers you have are very beautiful.  I especially like this green one you’re wearing today.  It is very elegant.  You quite remind me of a wrapped package with the bow just here.  The image is so…so emotive.  Quite perfect.”  He continued to enjoy his view of her for a moment until she narrowed her eyes.

“I know what you are doing right now.”  She held one finger up.  “I know exactly what you are thinking and it is shocking.”

He laughed again.  “Please tell me,
chérie
.  I want to know if you are learning to read my mind.”

“Fine.  You are thinking that you wish to arrange a portrait of me, in
dishabille…
wearing one of these robes, and looking—looking like you have just loved me.  Don’t you dare try to deny it.  I could see right into your mind just now as if I had a mirror.  And before you ask, you must know it is out of the question.  I could not possibly sit for such a thing, even with your friend.”

“Your mental power is razor sharp,
chérie
, and I confess you have routed me out.  So, I will have to work very hard to convince you then?”  He gave her his best hopeful expression.

“For now I think I shall keep the idea of it stashed away, my darling.  A bargaining chip for me.  A wife would be prudent to gather a few.”  She winked at him. “Maybe we could do a trade.  I would not mind having a
Professor Adonis
portrait of you.”  Her eyes opened wide and she clapped a hand up to her mouth.  “I cannot believe I’ve just said that to you.  You see how you have quite corrupted me?”

His heart was happy.

“It is so wonderful to have you here, finally.  You definitely liven this old place up, and a little corruption would probably do some good for all of us.”

“Hester told me last night that this is a kind house.”  Imogene got up from her chair and came to sit on his lap.  She put her hand to his cheek.  “I am happy to be here, and you must know, that for me it is not the place.  It is that I am with you, and we are together.”

Graham nodded his affirmation to her wise words and kissed her.  “What would you like to do today,
chérie
?  I am completely at your service.”

“I should like to see my sister.”

WHEN Philippa Brancroft received the note from the messenger that Imogene and Lord Rothvale would call upon them later in the day, she quickly dashed off two notes of her own.  One was a reply to the Rothvales anticipating their arrival, and the other to her husband at his surgery to get himself home by the arranged time.

She was finally to see her sister again after months of being separated.  Philippa rubbed her belly and spoke to her unborn baby, “Today you will meet your aunty.”

They lived at Harwell House in the cathedral town of Wellick.  Her husband, Dr. John Brancroft, did not see patients in his house as some physicians did, rather, he ran a surgery for that purpose and it was not far from home.  There was a hospital at Wellick, very new and modern, having been built less than a decade earlier.  It was a teaching hospital as well, and her husband, one of its founding fellows.  So, he divided his time between the surgery and instructing students at the hospital.  John saw the more affluent patients directly in their homes.