Portrait of a Lover

by Julianne MacLean

  JULIANNE MACLEAN

  Portrait of a Lover

  Contents

  Prologue

  Annabelle Lawson tipped her head back upon the rough bark…

  The Train

  Chapter 1

  “That shawl is entirely too young for her,” Aunt Millicent…

  Chapter 2

  Magnus Wallis sat across from Miss Annabelle Lawson on the…

  Chapter 3

  Struggling to banish such painful memories of her unforgettable first…

  Paintings

  Chapter 4

  The crumpled up note Annabelle had placed in Mr. Edwards’s hand…

  Chapter 5

  “You didn’t keep me waiting this time,” Annabelle said as…

  Chapter 6

  The following Sunday, Annabelle arrived at the lake and was…

  Chapter 7

  During the week that followed the painful end of her…

  Chapter 8

  Annabelle opened her eyes and found herself still lying on…

  Chapter 9

  When Tuesday finally came, Annabelle rode the train to London…

  Chapter 10

  After Annabelle left the gallery, Magnus closed the door and…

  Chapter 11

  Magnus was leaning over a table he had purchased at…

  Chapter 12

  On the night of the gallery opening, Magnus made his…

  Chapter 13

  The only thing that kept Annabelle sensible through the night…

  Chapter 14

  Annabelle walked the length of the train, and Magnus began…

  Chapter 15

  Forty-eight hours later Annabelle woke naked in Magnus’s bed, wondering…

  Chapter 16

  Magnus and Whitby grabbed hold of each other in the…

  Chapter 17

  Annabelle knocked firmly upon Rose Michaels’s door and was greeted…

  Chapter 18

  Magnus stood next to his coach on the street outside…

  Chapter 19

  “You don’t think he’ll really leave, do you?” Annabelle asked…

  Chapter 20

  The latest exhibition at the Duke of Harlow’s Regent Street…

  The New World

  Chapter 21

  With a glass of red wine in his hand, Magnus…

  Epilogue

  “Is it almost finished?” Magnus asked, reaching the top of…

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Other Books by Julianne MacLean

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Prologue

  June 19, 1892

  Dear Annabelle,

  You did not reply to my previous letter, so I have taken the liberty of writing again to request an appointment with you regarding the painting.

  I implore you—please do not let the past dictate your decision in this regard. Come and meet me at the gallery before the exhibition. The painting deserves this recognition.

  Magnus Wallis

  A nnabelle Lawson tipped her head back upon the rough bark of the oak tree on the hill and laid a hand upon her stomach. Her heart was pounding uncontrollably. She’d always feared this day would come—that after all these years, Magnus would be bold enough to contact her.

  She took a deep, slow breath, telling herself that at least this way she’d been warned that he had returned to London. It would have been excruciating to meet him unexpectedly somewhere. Not that this wasn’t excruciating enough on its own.

  Meet me at the gallery.

  Her stomach began to churn. He wanted to see her. But how could she see him? She had not forgiven him for what he’d done all those years ago. He’d ripped her heart to shreds and stomped on it. He’d treated her appallingly. Inexcusably. He was her brother’s enemy, and he was vengeful. He had no heart of his own.

  No. She could not see him. It would be too painful and agonizing to revisit all those feelings.

  A cool breeze fluttered the letter in her hand, and Annabelle gazed beyond her easel, down the grassy hillside toward her home. Or rather, her brother’s home, which she had been struggling to capture on canvas.

  She folded the letter and stuffed it into her pocket. Picking up her palette and brush, she took a step forward, but stopped and laid a hand on her stomach again, waiting for the churning sensation to pass.

  She had not felt anything quite so intense in years, she realized suddenly. Eight, to be exact, because that was the last time she had dealt with Magnus—the day he left England for America. Permanently.

  She had been so very relieved that day. Relieved that he would disappear and never bother her or Whitby again. Whitby had made sure of it. He paid Magnus handsomely to leave, with an allowance forthcoming as long as he remained in America. Magnus knew that if he ever returned, the payments would cease.

  But he was here now, wasn’t he? Here on English soil, opening old wounds and causing her to question whether he had ever really been gone. Because the scars he had left were still etched sorely on her heart.

  Forcing herself not to let those thoughts distract her any further, because she wanted this painting finished, she assessed and appraised her work.

  It was nearly complete, but did not yet convey what she wished it to convey. Determined to get it right, she dipped her small flat bristle brush into the black paint and redefined the outline of the far side of the house. She tried to touch up the other side as well, then used her painting knife to delineate the lines she’d just added.

  Annabelle stepped back again to examine the subtle changes.

  Good God. She’d been working on this for what seemed like forever, and still she wasn’t happy with it. It was dull; it evoked no emotion. Anyone could have painted it. Whitby would be just as well off with a photograph.

  Letting out a frustrated sigh, she set her palette down upon her paint box and backed up against the tree. She continued to stare at the painting. What was wrong with it? What was missing?

  The same thing that was missing from all her paintings, she supposed. Originality. Passion. Life. She never took chances with them and she was never happy with them, and she would tinker with them forever if she could.

  Another breeze blew by, gusting through the leaves overhead. Annabelle spent a few more minutes staring with dissatisfaction at the painting, wondering what she could do to fix it, then at last shook her head and decided to give up. The truth of the matter was—she hadn’t the slightest idea how to make it better without taking the chance of spoiling it. Best not to risk it.

  Consequently, she cleaned her palette and brushes, set all her supplies into the paint box and closed it.

  Perhaps Whitby would think it was fine. He always disagreed with her about her paintings, after all, and fought to convince her they were marvelous, when she invariably thought they were catastrophes.

  Lying back on the grass to give the paint time to dry, she laced her fingers together over her stomach—which thankfully had settled somewhat—and crossed her legs at the ankles. She squinted up at the leaves against the bright white sky, listened to the whispery sound they made in the wind, and thought of the letter in her pocket again.

  The painting deserves this recognition.

  She realized then that she had been so shaken by the thought of seeing Magnus again, she hadn’t considered the larger picture. He wanted to show one of her paintings in an exhibition.

  No, not just any painting. He wanted to show The Fisherman—which she had not seen in thirteen years. She couldn’t even remember what it looked like, and wasn’t even sure she wanted to see it. She’d always regretted painting it and had wished it did not exist in the world. Many times over
the years, she’d wished she could get it back and destroy it.

  But he seemed to think it was praiseworthy.

  Was it possible he was right, and this exhibition could be the key to her future as an artist? And if that was so, could she ignore this opportunity, because of her personal feelings toward Magnus?

  Surely she was stronger than that, wasn’t she? She knew the truth about him now, and she was a woman, no longer the naive girl she had once been so many years ago when she’d stepped on the train…

  The Train

  Thirteen years earlier…

  Chapter 1

  June 1879

  “T hat shawl is entirely too young for her,” Aunt Millicent said as she smoothed her skirts on the train seat. “She’s turning seventy-five, after all. The color is too daring, and it’s not even fashionable. Speaking of which, why in the world did you wear that hat? It’s the worst thing I’ve ever seen. It looks like a purple haystack on your head.”

  As always, Annabelle ignored her aunt’s narrow-minded taste in millinery, because she was not giving up the hat. It was satisfyingly unique.

  “I suppose it suits our surroundings,” she added with a self-important, haughty tone. She glanced around the Second Class carriage, looking down her nose in repugnance at the merchants and tradesmen.

  Annabelle ignored her aunt’s snobbery as well, for they’d had no choice about the traveling accommodations. First Class was full, and they couldn’t possibly wait for another train, for they were already late for Aunt Sadie’s birthday party as it was.

  “The shawl is a very tasteful shade of blue, Auntie,” Annabelle replied, trying to distract Millicent from her discontent. “It’s like the sky. It will accentuate the vivid color of her eyes.”

  “Her eyes do not need to be noticed in that way. Not at her age.”

  Growing frustrated, for she knew Aunt Millicent wouldn’t budge about the blue shawl, Annabelle turned her gaze toward the window. They were slowing down. The train was screeching to a halt at the Leicester station to pick up passengers.

  Steam spurted and hissed from the engine as a crowd gathered on the platform. Annabelle looked down and smiled at a family—a young couple standing in the shade of the station overhang with their baby in a brand new pram. The woman, wearing a fashionable green plumed hat, raised a gloved hand and waved, and Annabelle waved cheerfully in return.

  “Now that is a lovely hat,” Aunt Millicent said, wagging a finger. “See how it fits in with all the others?”

  Continuing to ignore her aunt’s harangue, and thinking they might be stopped for more than a few minutes, Annabelle reached into her bag for the book she’d packed. She was leaning forward, quite distracted by the inconceivable mess inside the bag—when in the world had she put a cigar cutter in there?—when the door to their carriage suddenly swung open, startling her, for she was seated right next to it. She jolted upright.

  “I do beg your pardon,” a man said, stepping up and looking around the full carriage.

  An elderly woman came along and entered behind him, and he helped her up, then gestured to the seats facing Annabelle and Millicent. “These appear to be the last available seats. If you don’t mind?”

  Naturally, Annabelle left it to her chaperone to respond, but even if she had been the one required to reply, she wasn’t sure she would have been able to speak, for her heart was racing in her chest and her mouth felt strangely tingly inside. Because the man standing before her, removing his black overcoat right in front of her eyes was, in a word, magnificent.

  The elderly woman behind him removed her coat, too, but Annabelle was only aware of the man—tall, broad-shouldered, and dark. His hair was shiny black, his eyes dark brown. He turned to face her again, and she had to struggle to keep her eyes downcast, though she did glance up briefly to observe the fine lines of his shoulders and back as he assisted the elderly woman by hanging her coat with his on a nearby hook.

  Then all at once he turned and glanced down at Annabelle’s feet—his eyes lingering there for a moment.

  For the first time in her life Annabelle was embarrassed by her boots. They were made for boys, and they were absolutely not fashionable, but they were so much more comfortable than ladies’ boots, especially when she spent most of her time tramping around the countryside with her easel under her arm.

  She quickly drew her feet under her skirts.

  When the man finally took the seat facing her, he smiled politely, first at Aunt Millicent, who was looking down her long, aristocratic nose suspiciously at him, then at Annabelle, who managed to smile casually in return.

  She hoped she wasn’t blushing. That would be mortifying.

  Determined not to stare, she raised her book and opened it, pretending to read. Yes, pretending, because she could hardly concentrate with such a handsome man sitting not three feet away from her, facing her squarely.

  Trains could be so decidedly awkward sometimes.

  The train blew its whistle and they lurched forward, rocking back and forth as the locomotive began to slowly move away from the station. Annabelle looked out the window at the young family again, and watched them through the spiraling coal dust until she couldn’t see them anymore.

  Soon they were under way, the pistons hammering fast beneath them as they gained speed on the tracks.

  Feeling the chugging sensation beneath the soles of her boots, Annabelle peered over the top of her book to steal another glance at the man across from her. He was gazing absently out the window, so she recalled her artist’s mantra—there is no substitute for close observation—and studied his face more meticulously.

  Of course, it was pure perfection—a straight nose, a strong chiseled jaw, and high cheekbones. Yet, along with all those sharp, manly angles was a set of full, moist lips that looked quite agreeably soft.

  What she wouldn’t give to paint him.

  It was an odd thought, because she never painted people. She only did landscapes, preferably rugged ones, which was perhaps where this marked fascination came from. He, too, was rugged, like the jagged English coastlines that captured her imagination more than any other place or thing. She loved the sound of the sea, surging and crashing up against the rocks, and she loved to try and capture the unfathomable depths and distances that were an intrinsic part of the ocean.

  She couldn’t explain it, but strangely, this man made her body feel the same way. He made her blood quicken, made her mind tick like a clock wound too tight. Just looking at him made her feel happy to be alive, when there were so many beautiful, wondrous things to comprehend.

  Though of course he was not a thing. He was a man.

  Just then the beautiful, wondrous man gazed directly at her, and she froze, caught in the embarrassing circumstance of ogling.

  She almost panicked and lifted her book to cover her face, but that would have been childish, and she was not a child. She was twenty-one.

  Instead, she smiled politely and lowered her book to her lap, lowering her gaze along with it. It was at that instant she noticed she had been reading the same page for the past ten minutes.

  “Are you all going to Edinburgh?” the elderly lady asked, causing Annabelle to look up again. “I’m going to Newcastle.”

  The wrinkles on the lady’s face were in happy places, at the outside of her eyes, suggesting a lifetime spent smiling.

  The handsome gentleman replied, “I’m going past Edinburgh and on to Perth.”

  The woman leaned closer, raising a hand to her ear. “Where?”

  “Perth!”

  The woman sat for a few seconds, as if trying to decipher what she’d heard, then nodded. “Oh, yes, yes! I once had an uncle in Perth.”

  The handsome gentleman looked curiously at Annabelle and her aunt, waiting for them to respond to the question as well, but Aunt Millicent turned her face away, no doubt finding the exchange intrusive.

  The elderly woman then turned to the gentleman beside her and began a conversation about whom she was goi
ng to visit in Edinburgh—her daughter and children—and how long she would be there, but it was a rather awkward conversation, as the woman was almost completely deaf and had to hold her hand up to her ear every time the man spoke.

  The two of them were shouting by the end of it, and when they finally stopped talking, Annabelle glanced up and found herself sharing an amused grin with the handsome man.

  It was not a grin at the expense of the elderly lady; they were not making fun of her. On the contrary, Annabelle recognized a look of compassion in the gentleman’s dark eyes. He, like she, was able to see the humor in life sometimes. What a dear lady, they both seemed to be saying to each other.

  Afterward, Annabelle lowered her gaze to the book again, but the printed words on the page held little allure. For one thing, she was still on the same page as before, and for another, her dancing thoughts were making it difficult to make sense of the story in her brain.

  This was going to be a very long trip indeed, she thought as she crossed her legs at the ankles and struggled not to look up again.

  To be honest, she was afraid to, because—good God in heaven—she could sense that the intriguing man was now ogling her.

  About an hour into the journey the train was chugging along at full speed across the rolling English countryside, the sun was beaming in through the windows, and Aunt Millicent’s head was beginning to nod. Millicent resisted sleep as best she could, jerking her head up every time it fell forward, but it wasn’t long before her eyes dropped closed and her mouth fell open. She tipped her head back on the upholstered seat and at last began to snore.

  Annabelle noticed her aunt’s open book sliding off her lap, so she reached for it and carefully dragged it from her aunt’s limp grasp. She put the ribbon in place to mark the page and set it on the seat between them before returning to her own book.