Portrait of a Lover

by Julianne MacLean

  She was just becoming absorbed in the story when she was interrupted by an unexpected question.

  “Suspenseful?” the man across from her asked.

  She lifted her gaze. “I beg your pardon?”

  He pointed at her book.

  Glancing at the other elderly lady, who was writing a letter and didn’t seem to be aware of any conversation, Annabelle paused uncertainly for a moment before replying. The man was a stranger, after all.

  “My apologies,” he said after a few seconds, apparently realizing that he’d made her uncomfortable. He went back to his own book.

  Annabelle immediately regretted her hesitation. She hadn’t meant to be rude. “No apologies necessary,” she said, closing her book over her finger, which she used to keep her page.

  The man’s gaze met hers again, making her feel strangely giddy.

  “It’s been very suspenseful,” she said. “Have you read it?” She showed him the cover.

  “Can’t say that I have.” He closed his own book and set it on the seat beside him, then held out a hand. “May I?”

  Annabelle passed the book to him. She noted the distance between their knees…a foot, or perhaps two at most, which gave her a rather naughty little thrill.

  He flipped through her book—using his own finger to keep her page—then handed it back. “I must pick that one up. I like a good mystery.”

  Gracious, he was exquisite to look at, she thought. A famous sculptor couldn’t have created anything more beautiful. She’d never seen such magnetic eyes before. How old was he? Late twenties perhaps?

  Annabelle glanced down at his hand and noted he wore no wedding ring. A deep feminine element of her being rejoiced.

  She noted also that his hands were large and rough-looking. He was no idle gentleman, that was certain, and the idea of his male strength and ruggedness thrilled her beyond all.

  “Are you on your way somewhere, or returning home?” he asked, his voice deep, yet soft at the same time. Just the sound of it made her feel womanly.

  “We’re going to my great aunt’s seventy-fifth birthday party. She lives near Newcastle. And yourself?”

  “Business.” His eyes roamed over her face from the top of her head down to her chin, and it felt like a sensuous caress.

  She couldn’t deny that she secretly enjoyed it, which felt rather wicked and exciting.

  A short time later, Aunt Millicent was snoring like a dairy farmer, and Annabelle had relaxed significantly regarding her conversation with the gentleman seated across from her, even though she didn’t know him at all and they had not been properly introduced and he was very handsome and she was…Well…she was young and unmarried and painfully aware of his attractiveness.

  “What kind of business are you in?” she boldly asked.

  “I’m a clerk in a bank.”

  “You live in London, I presume?”

  Another bold question. Annabelle glanced prudently at her aunt. Still dead to the world, thank heavens.

  “Yes. My mother is currently residing with me, and it’s just the two of us. My father passed away a number of years ago.”

  “That is very good of you to care for your mother. She’s a lucky woman, to have you for a son.”

  “As is your mother, to have such a lovely daughter.” He glanced at Aunt Millicent, whose mouth was still hanging open. She twitched and slapped herself on the cheek.

  Annabelle grinned. “She’s my aunt, actually.”

  “Ah.”

  “I never knew my mother,” Annabelle blurted out, realizing too late that such a personal admission was even bolder than her earlier questions. She didn’t even know this man’s name. Yet something made her continue. Perhaps it was the transitory nature of the circumstances. She would probably never see him again after today.

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” he said.

  “She died when I was not quite a year old,” Annabelle continued, “and my father passed away a year later. So I was adopted and raised by my mother’s closest friend. They had known each other since they were children.”

  He smiled warmly. “You were very fortunate to have such good people in your life.”

  “Indeed I was. My adoptive parents are gone now, but I still have my older brother Whitby—adoptive brother, that is—to care for me, and of course, Aunt Millicent, who has been living with us since I debuted in society.”

  He tilted his head to the side. “You were raised by the Earl of Whitby?”

  “Yes.”

  He stared at her for a long moment, appearing utterly staggered. Then his voice softened with an odd hint of resignation. “Well. It seems I am in esteemed company this morning.”

  He was looking at her differently. The fire in his eyes had gone out.

  Perhaps he thought she did not wish to be speaking to him because she was the sister of an earl, and he was a bank clerk. She wanted more than anything to assure him that was not the case.

  “I am hardly that,” she explained. “My parents were simple country people.”

  “It matters little what your parents were. I can see you are a charming, intelligent woman all on your own.”

  Annabelle’s cheeks felt hot all of a sudden.

  “I’ve embarrassed you,” he said, with an almost melancholy tone. “Please forgive me. My only excuse is that I couldn’t help myself. I was lost in thought, in awe of your friendly, open manner.”

  She raised an arched brow. “Who’s being charming now?”

  He stared at her for a few more seconds before he quietly laughed. Annabelle laughed, too.

  A moment later she leaned back and eyed him lightheartedly. “So tell me, sir, what do you do when you’re not banking? I see you like to read.”

  For a brief moment he looked as if he weren’t sure he should continue conversing with her in this manner, then he seemed to let go of his reservations and laid his hand on top of the closed book. “Yes, reading is an enjoyable pastime, but what I really like to do is fish.”

  “Fish?”

  He nodded. “Nothing can compare to the experience of rowing a boat across a calm lake at dawn, when the air is crisp and your nose is chilled, and steam is rising from the water. Then you cast your line and hear the sound of it slicing through the air, and the hook hits the water with a quiet splash. Everything is so peaceful in the morning, and the sky has a certain glow.”

  Annabelle imagined what he had described. She could see herself sitting in his boat. It was a lovely thought.

  “You make it sound wonderful,” she said. “I’ve never been fishing before.”

  “No?” His eyes were warm and his smile calm, almost soothing. “Perhaps one day someone will take you.”

  Annabelle recognized the romance in his voice. He was telling her in no uncertain terms that he wished he could be the one to take her.

  Desire burned through her body as she imagined seeing this man again in such a private setting, being alone with him in a rowboat, sharing such a moment.

  Heavens, no one had ever flirted with her like this before. None of the young men she had danced with at balls or spoken to at assemblies had been anything like this man, who seemed mature and capable and so much more sure of himself compared to them. Even his physical presence was more manly. He was tall and broad through the chest and shoulders. His legs looked more muscular, and his hands…Well, she’d already noticed how attractive and strong they were.

  But there was something else about him, too, something that stirred her blood and excited her in a way she’d never experienced before. It was the way he looked at her—as if he found her the most beautiful creature in the world.

  “I would like that very much,” she replied breathlessly.

  His eyes traveled from her face down the front of her bodice to her knees, then back up again before he slowly leaned forward. “Please allow me this impropriety,” he whispered, glancing briefly at Aunt Millicent, who was still snoring. “But may I ask your name?”

  Anna
belle experienced a surge of both apprehension and excitement. The whole tone of their exchange was highly improper and very wicked. She would never be speaking to him this way if Aunt Millicent were awake, or if the elderly lady beside him could hear what they were saying. Thankfully, she had barely looked up from her correspondence.

  Annabelle shifted nervously in her seat, then whispered in return, “It’s Annabelle. Annabelle Lawson.”

  He continued to stare at her face, almost entranced, as if he didn’t know what to make of her or what to say next.

  “And what is your name, sir, if I may be so bold?” The fact that she had also whispered the question gave the whole conversation an air of secrecy and subterfuge. It was without a doubt the single most exciting conversation of her life.

  He leaned forward even more. “John Edwards.”

  A long, lingering, and delightfully sensuous gaze passed between them. Their faces were scandalously close.

  “So tell me, Miss Lawson, what do you like to do when you’re not talking to strangers on trains?”

  Annabelle smirked at him. “I paint.”

  “Do you indeed? You’re an artist. I should have guessed.”

  “How would you guess such a thing?”

  “Don’t all artists have deeply tortured souls?”

  Annabelle laughed out loud, and Aunt Millicent stirred beside her. Both Annabelle and Mr. Edwards quickly sat back as Millicent opened her eyes, stared dazedly up at the ceiling, then closed them again and drifted back to sleep.

  Mr. Edwards swiped a hand over his brow, as if to say, That was close.

  Annabelle shook her head with mock disapproval, then leaned forward again. Mr. Edwards did the same.

  “Let me assure you,” she said, “I am not tortured.”

  “Are you certain?” he asked with a teasing glint in his eyes. “You don’t feel wretchedly miserable or trapped? As if the life you are supposed to lead is beyond your reach and nothing has meaning?”

  He was toying with her, of course, but she could not deny her astonishment that he had hit the mark exactly, because yes, sometimes she did indeed feel trapped. Especially when her aunt dressed her up like all the other London girls and paraded her around at balls—because she was not like other girls. She hated the Season, she had no interest in fancy gowns and heeled shoes, she had a strange fascination with Egyptian mummies, and she had a cow for a pet.

  To be honest, there were times when she was truly screaming inside her head, trying to fit into this polished, patrician world, and not be a disappointment to her family, who had taken her in and loved her like one of their own. She felt she owed so much to them.

  But she could not possibly express such an unconventional sentiment to Mr. Edwards.

  “I paint landscapes,” she told him. “And I would describe my experience of painting in the same way you describe fishing. Nothing compares to the bliss of standing before a view of an autumn forest, setting up my easel and contemplating the first brushstroke. Though my favorite thing to paint is the coastline. Unfortunately, we don’t live on the coast—though I wish desperately that we did—so I must content myself with the countryside most of the time.”

  He pointed a finger at her. “See? You are tortured after all. Frustrated by the geography of your existence.”

  She laughed. “Yes, I suppose so. You win.”

  He watched her laugh, and she could see as plain as day a gleam of desire in his eyes.

  Oh, how he flattered her, just by the way he looked at her. She didn’t think she’d ever felt so beautiful before.

  “I wish you could paint me fishing,” he said. “I would hang the painting over my mantel, and every time I looked at it, I would feel content.”

  Content because it would make him think of fishing? Or because it would make him think of her?

  She supposed she would never know the answer to that.

  “I’d enjoy painting you,” she said openly. “I’ve never painted a fisherman before.”

  “Perhaps one day we’ll make it happen. We’ll take your paints and a blank canvas out to my favorite fishing hole.”

  Annabelle gazed out the window, feeling dreamy. “Wouldn’t that be splendid,” she replied as she imagined such a wonderful day.

  It wasn’t long, however, before reality settled in and she had to accept that it would not happen. Ever. He was not the kind of man her aunt would approve of. He was a stranger on a train, after all, and he worked as a bank clerk.

  As she watched the trees fly by outside the window—so fast she could barely focus on them—she was distressed by the extent of her disappointment. She was not free to do as she wished, for she was a London debutante.

  Oh, how she hated that word.

  If only her life were just a little different. She could only imagine all the things she would do.

  Thinking such a thing made her feel guilty, however, for she had been blessed with so many privileges. She was grateful for her life. Truly she was. She had no right to feel frustrated.

  Chapter 2

  M agnus Wallis sat across from Miss Annabelle Lawson on the fast steam train to Newcastle and cursed the cards he had been dealt all his life—today in particular.

  He had not asked to meet her. If he had known who she was, he most definitely would have waited for the next train. But bloody hell, he had not known, and he’d been attracted to her the very first instant he’d noticed her—with her wild, frizzy, honey-gold hair and that outlandish purple hat.

  He’d known immediately that she was one of a kind, perhaps a bit of a rebel. Not just because of her unconventional attire—not to mention those intriguing black boots—but because her eyes were so full of life, as wild and blue as the irrepressible sea.

  And now he was in very deep, completely over his head as a matter of fact. He was sitting forward, listening to her describe her art with passion and hunger, gesturing with her hands as she spoke, her luscious smile dazzling and intoxicating.

  All this, after he’d lied to her and given her a false name.

  Magnus shuddered inwardly. He shouldn’t have done it. He’d known it was wrong, even as he was speaking the words, but he just couldn’t stomach the possibility that she would recoil in horror, which she would surely do if she knew who he was.

  Her aunt would probably go into convulsions, for he was Magnus Wallis, Whitby’s contemptible, undesirable cousin, whom they all blamed for Whitby’s brother’s death. They thought he was a monster—just like his father—and all his life he’d been feared and loathed and shut out by the very people who had given Miss Lawson a home.

  Lovely Miss Lawson…

  All at once he found himself glancing down for a brief, appreciative moment at her extravagant bosom, which heaved enticingly as she took a deep breath to continue talking. He thought of their earlier conversation about going fishing together, and imagined teaching her how to bait the hook and cast the line, then imagined her standing in front of her easel, dabbing paint on a fresh canvas.

  God, he wanted nothing more than to disembark from this train at the next stop and lead her out of here by the hand. To pretend they were two very different people. To continue talking like this—openly and passionately.

  But no…That could never be, because she was a member of that family. She had been raised within their walls, while he had been tossed over them, and she was under Whitby’s protection. Magnus knew she was untouchable, as far as he was concerned. He should not even be speaking to her. Nothing could come of it but frustration.

  Yet he was still drinking in her every word, wasn’t he? Still eyeing her full, sumptuous mouth and stealing glances at her lavish breasts, which continued to rise and fall with her enchanting enthusiasm. She was a delicious young beauty, to be sure, and God help him, he was a hot-blooded man.

  He was indeed in way over his head.

  When Aunt Millicent woke, Annabelle checked her timepiece to discover it was closing in upon noon.

  The elderly lady beside Mr
. Edwards had fallen asleep some time ago, so he and Annabelle had been free to chat for over an hour about everything imaginable—art, politics, books, the theatre, the pleasures and trappings of society, trains and coaches, the view outside the window.

  They shared many interests, and when they did not agree on something, they each respected the other’s opinion and expressed a general feeling of enlightenment at having never considered such a viewpoint before.

  Overall, Annabelle found Mr. Edwards to be the most fascinating, intriguing man she had ever met, and she could quite decisively say she was enraptured. She felt as if she had found the perfect companion—someone she could converse with about anything, even subject matters her aunt considered inappropriate genteel conversation.

  Perhaps this strange freedom she felt stemmed from the fact that Mr. Edwards lived outside her world. He was not bound by the same constraints as she. He was different, to be sure. He made her feel alive and alert, and more consciously aware of the physicality of her being. Her heart raced with excitement over a certain word he spoke or a particular way he moved. She could feel her skin tingling with arousal. She could hear her heart pounding in her ears.

  And she did not want this train ride to end.

  So it was with great disappointment that Annabelle watched her aunt awaken from her nap. Aunt Millicent smacked her lips a few times and gave a sleepy little whimper.

  Without uttering a word, Mr. Edwards stopped talking, calmly reached for his book and opened it on his lap before Millicent had even realized she was awake.

  “Good heavens, what time is it?” she asked.

  “It’s almost noon,” Annabelle replied, trying not to reveal her disappointment.

  Mr. Edwards did not even glance up. He behaved as if he hadn’t heard the question.

  Aunt Millicent nevertheless eyed him suspiciously when she noticed the other lady asleep. She glanced at him and Annabelle, looking concerned.