Portrait of a Lover

by Julianne MacLean

  She anxiously squeezed her reticule in her hand. The wretched truth was that what she felt for Mr. Edwards two weeks ago had proliferated into an ardent, sweeping desire more powerful than anything she’d ever known. She had butterflies in her belly constantly, and was either deliriously happy with the dream that he, too, was missing her, or was inconsolably miserable, thinking she would never see him again.

  The logical part of her brain realized that perhaps she had begun to idealize him. She was probably romanticizing their conversations and overestimating the level of desire he felt for her.

  Yet she could not stop herself from believing that she loved him, like no woman had ever loved before.

  She chuckled rather bitterly, finding some humor in the fact that she was finally grasping what the poets had been going on about for centuries.

  An older couple wandered into the room, and Annabelle made an effort to look as if she were just another gallery patron, admiring the paintings at her leisure. She stood before the Dupre, staring at it: Willows, with a Man Fishing.

  It was not a large painting. It was not even twelve inches wide, but it was a good choice for today—rather brilliant in its romanticism, she had to admit. It was a painting she wanted very much to show Mr. Edwards. She wanted to explain that the Barbizon style was very different from the way she painted, and if she were ever to paint him in his boat the way they had discussed on the train, she would approach the trees and the water very differently.

  Though that took nothing away from how she felt about this painting. She had always admired it for its quietness and intimacy.

  She turned away from the Dupre, glancing discreetly around the room, hearing only the echoed sounds of a woman’s heels as she walked quickly through another room, and the whispers of the other patrons quietly discussing the works of art.

  It was ten minutes past two.

  Annabelle tapped her gloved hand upon her thigh. She was beginning to lose hope. He wasn’t going to come.

  No, she mustn’t jump to conclusions. He was only ten minutes late. He could be dashing up the front steps of the gallery at this very instant, as eager to finally see her as she was to see him.

  She took a deep, steadying breath. Oh, how she yearned to see him. She was growing tired of picturing him in her mind. She wanted the real man—tall and strong and smiling at her. She wanted so badly to be alone with him right now…

  And so it was that two more hours passed, every minute painstakingly slow, and when a man finally entered the room where the Dupre was located and spoke Annabelle’s name with affection, she was barely able to keep the tears from her eyes. Tears of disappointment, heartbreak, anger. For the man coming to fetch her and take her home was her brother, Whitby.

  Over the next fortnight, Annabelle grew to despise the Dupre painting, each day hating it more than the last. She didn’t want to think about it; she was irritated on the days Cook served fish for dinner, and most of all, she was angry with herself for becoming so deeply infatuated with a man who had evidently toyed with her feelings and taken some perverse pleasure in leading her to believe there was something special between them, when there was no such thing.

  She had fallen victim to the charms of a thoughtless man, who no doubt flirted with every woman he stumbled across and had probably ruined more than his fair share of young innocents. He probably had a whole host of illegitimate children, too. Maybe he wasn’t even a bank clerk. Maybe he was one of those confidence men. Or worse—good heavens—a stage actor.

  She held firmly to the certain belief that he was a rake of the worst kind, until on the fifteenth day there was a surprise waiting for her in the formal gardens at her country house in Bedfordshire—that surprise being Mr. Edwards himself.

  Annabelle had taken a walk to be alone, and lo and behold, there he was, waiting for her beyond the tall lilac hedge, leaning at his ease against one of the columns of the open rotunda.

  Heart throbbing suddenly in her chest, she stopped dead in her tracks, not quite ready to believe she was seeing properly. But then he pushed away from the column, removed his hat and held it at his side, and she knew it was really him.

  He was wearing the same black jacket and trousers he had worn on the train. He looked exactly the same, just how she remembered him, tall and handsome and so darkly appealing.

  Annabelle struggled to comprehend what she was feeling. One part of her wanted to stick her nose in the air and storm off, for she was so angry with him for not being there to meet her that day in the gallery.

  But another part of her was melting into a puddle of forgiveness right here on the grass, because he had found her. He had come all the way to her brother’s country house. He had not forgotten her. Perhaps he’d had a good reason not to be there that day. She had certainly considered that over the past two weeks, but found it easier and safer to presume otherwise, for she had not wished to continue pining away for a man she would most likely never see again.

  But here he was…

  Magnus held his hat in a firm grip, his breath ragged, his mind in turmoil. It had been a full month since he’d seen Miss Lawson, and part of him had hoped that when he came here today, her effect on him might have diminished.

  But no, it had not. Seeing her now in her clumsy black boots and wildly knotted hair—her eyes as vivid and piercing as he remembered—sent him dangerously out of control with wanting her.

  He knew then, with devastating certainty, that he had failed in his valiant struggle to forget her.

  “Miss Lawson,” he said in an apologetic tone, because any fool could have seen she was angry with him. “Hello.”

  When she made no greeting in reply, he cut straight to the point. “I came to tell you I’m sorry…For not being at the gallery that day.”

  At least part of it was true. He was sorry. Sorry for disappointing her.

  But the truth was—he had been there. Unfortunately, Whitby had been there, too, so Magnus had been forced to retreat in order to avoid a confrontation with his enemy.

  Not that he feared confrontations with Whitby. He could handle himself, and there might even be a very serious confrontation about Annabelle sometime in the near future. In fact, over the past two weeks Magnus had begun to dream about it. He’d never been more determined to take what he wanted from his powerful, influential cousin, who had always enjoyed keeping him in his place.

  Because this time what Magnus wanted was Miss Lawson.

  Blood quickening in his veins, he slowly, cautiously, approached her as if she were a deer who might bolt at any second.

  Finally she spoke, her expression cool and stern. “I waited for two hours.”

  He nodded, because he knew how long she had waited. “I swear to you, I wanted to be there. I thought of nothing else after we parted on the train. I was counting the days until I could see you again, but on my way to meet you, I…”

  “You what?”

  He narrowed his gaze, considering whether he should speak the truth and tell her his real name, after tearing himself apart about it for the past month.

  I withdrew because my name is Magnus, and I am Whitby’s cousin. The one he loathes. Why am I loathed, you ask? Because I am my father’s son, and surely you’ve heard the disturbing stories about my father’s madness…

  He tried to imagine her response. She would probably be aghast. She would run back to the house and call out the dogs.

  Just then he experienced a twinge in his stomach—that old familiar shame and agony from his childhood, when he had been rejected and spat upon in the streets by those who knew that he and his father were banished by an earl. He’d been called a lunatic. A son of the devil.

  No, he couldn’t tell her. Not now, when he was standing on thin ice to begin with…

  “I had concerns,” he tried to explain, struggling to choose his words carefully, while pushing all thoughts of his childhood to the back of his mind.

  Suddenly he was aware of nothing but the need to conquer, to haste
n forth into an overrun battlefield, swinging his sword at an oncoming charge of enemy soldiers. He would do anything to have her—to win her heart and take her for his own.

  Swallowing hard, forcing his brain to formulate the right words so as not to scare her off, he continued what he had begun to say. “I had concerns about our situation. I’m not someone your family would approve of.”

  It was the truth.

  Annabelle stared uncertainly at him, her freckled cheeks flushing pink as she wet her full lips, until Magnus couldn’t resist her anymore. He’d been having erotic dreams about this woman for a month, and here she was at last, standing before him in the flesh. She was a unique, beguiling beauty, a sweet, ripe maiden, and he simply had to touch her.

  Moving closer, he raised her gloved hand to his lips and gently kissed each knuckle. Somehow, she would belong to him. No matter what it took.

  Annabelle did not pull her hand away. She stood motionless, watching the top of Mr. Edwards’s head while he dropped leisurely kisses across the back of her hand. His lips were soft and tantalizing. She could feel the moist heat of his breath through the thin fabric of her glove.

  She had to scramble to keep her head, for her body was aching and burning to be even closer to him, to step into his arms and feel his chest pressing against her breasts. She felt dizzy, intoxicated by something far more potent than wine.

  Somehow, however, she managed to withstand the pounding force of her desires. She could not give into those feelings, not so easily when she was still hurt by his failure to meet her that day, and she still knew so little about him.

  A moment later he gazed intently into her eyes. “I wish you would speak, Miss Lawson.”

  “I don’t know what to say. I was very disappointed when you did not come.”

  Something in his manner changed. His eyes glimmered with a sensual light and his voice softened, like a caress. “I wanted to see you, but there was another far more serious problem.”

  “What was that?” she asked, feeling shaky with longing.

  “I wanted only to be alone with you, and I was plotting ways to steal you away and take you home with me—to my bed.”

  His bed.

  Annabelle knew she should have been scandalized. He had said something very wicked, something no gentleman should ever say to a well-bred young lady like Annabelle Lawson.

  But surprisingly, she was not scandalized, because it filled her with a strange inner excitement that caused a passionate fluttering in her belly. And if she was understanding him correctly, he had not shown up that day because he had wanted her too much, and had not trusted himself to resist her.

  Forgiving him today was suddenly becoming very probable.

  “Why did you wait until now to tell me this?” she asked, nevertheless. “I’ve just spent the past two weeks thinking all kinds of hateful things—like how many ways there are to push a man like you out of a fishing boat.”

  He looked down at her hand in his and rubbed his thumb over her knuckles. “You had every right to be angry with me, and I probably deserve to swim with the fish.” He hestitated a moment before continuing in a quieter voice that was almost a whisper. “To be frank, Miss Lawson, I wasn’t ever going to tell you. I was never going to see you again, because I wanted to do the right thing. I didn’t want to complicate your life. I am not from your world, remember.”

  It was true, and she had known it would be complicated. He was not the kind of man her brother or aunt would accept as a husband for her, despite the fact that her parents were who they were. Whitby considered her his sister, and he was an earl.

  “We could have been friends,” she said.

  “Do you really think so? You and me?” He shook his head. “Even if we could be, I believe I would rather pound my forehead against a brick wall than spend every day trying to resist kissing you, then God forbid, congratulate you, while I watched another man take you as his wife.”

  Annabelle shook inwardly. Was he really saying all this? They barely knew each other. No man had ever spoken so candidly to her before.

  Mr. Edwards was either impossibly rakish and arrogant, or he was utterly and hopelessly in love with her.

  She placed an open hand on her chest. This did not seem real. She felt as if she were standing in the pages of a fairy tale. It was certainly magical enough.

  Except that he was, unfortunately, not a prince.

  “I don’t know what to make of you,” she said, stepping onto the cement floor of the rotunda and walking to its center. “You say you want to do the right thing, yet here you are, skulking around in my garden, telling me you wanted to take me to your bed.”

  Still holding his hat in his hand, he followed her into the shade of the tiny sanctuary and leaned a shoulder against one of the columns. “I’m afraid you’re right. I’ve behaved deplorably, but only because I’ve lost my bloody mind over you. And that, my dear, is the truth.”

  She turned to face him. He was gazing at her with blinding charismatic splendor, confidently amorous, as if he wanted to unbutton her bodice and thought she might be of a mind to let him do it.

  Heavens above, he was arrogant, but it stirred her blood like nothing she’d ever known.

  “Mr. Edwards,” she said very primly, lifting her chin and squaring her shoulders, “will you not even try to disguise the fact that you are attempting to seduce me?”

  She couldn’t help it—her lips betrayed her with a hint of a smile. And she had been trying so hard to be properly virtuous…

  He grinned at her in return, and with a sharply honed, animal-like instinct she couldn’t even begin to fathom, he seemed to perceive her willingness to flirt. Somehow, instinctively, he knew she was surrendering to him.

  But she supposed he was surrendering to her, too, for even she, in all her innocence, could not have missed the unmistakable spark that had flared between them from the first moment they’d made eye contact on the train. It had been blazing hotter every day since, hot enough to make him leave London for the countryside, just to see her again. In secret. She quivered with pleasure at the thought of it.

  “Seduce you,” he said, narrowing his eyes, as if he was pondering such a suggestion for the first time. “I suppose I am, but I simply cannot help myself. You are so very enticing.” He took a step away from the column and sauntered toward her. “This is all very wicked, isn’t it? I’ll wager right now you’re wishing you’d never met me.”

  “No, that’s not what I’m wishing,” she replied, revealing the truth without caring about the inappropriateness of it, or the consequences.

  Then she strove to be sensible. She had never behaved like this in her life. “You know…I should return to the house, because this is wicked, and I should not be out here with you.”

  But she probably couldn’t leave if she tried. Her feet were stuck to the ground.

  “No, don’t go,” he said.

  They were both breathing hard now. “But I feel nervous all of a sudden.”

  He moved forward, closing the last small distance between them, disarming her with his dazzling sexual brawn. “Do you indeed?”

  She considered it a moment. “To be honest, I’m not sure. Perhaps what I’m feeling is not nervousness, but rather…”

  Oh, she didn’t know what it was.

  “Excitement?” he suggested.

  She wet her trembling lips. “I’m not entirely sure.”

  With a slow smile, he backed her up against the column and rested a forearm against it, just over her head. Her heart was pounding like a drum now, so fast she thought it was going to bounce right out of her chest.

  He brushed his forefinger across her temple and leaned in close, whispering in her ear, “Have you never been excited by a man before?”

  She swallowed, finding it increasingly difficult to breathe. “Only once, by a man on a train.”

  He smiled at that, his face now barely an inch away. She could feel his breath on the tip of her nose.

  “Are
you flirting with me, Miss Lawson?” he asked in a husky voice that gave her shivers.

  Her knees were going weak. They might as well be made of cream. She closed her eyes. “I don’t know. Am I?”

  Yes, she was. To pretend otherwise would be futile, for her body was tingling with a thousand sensations she couldn’t begin to understand.

  Was this normal? Was it normal to feel so instantly aroused and enraptured by a man you barely knew? A man who was completely unsuitable for you?

  “I think you are,” he said with a hint of amusement, his whisper a hot, moist breath on her lips.

  She’d been kissed only once before in her life—by a naughty young man when she was sixteen. He’d surprised her and stolen the kiss behind the stable, then ran away. His lips had been cold from the winter air, and tightly puckered. That had been a swift, unexpected kiss that she giggled about afterward.

  This was nothing like that. Mr. Edwards was not trying to surprise her. He was preparing her, teasing her and patiently drawing out the intensity of the moment. She could feel the heat of his lips already, as he brushed the tip of his nose lightly like a feather over her cheeks.

  He was going to kiss her. She knew it, and she wanted him to. No amount of propriety or common sense could keep her from letting him do it.

  He touched his nose to hers and gently whispered, “Miss Lawson, since I met you, I haven’t been able to stop thinking of you, though I’ve certainly tried, and I anticipate this situation is going to become exceedingly complicated.”

  “Yes,” she replied.

  “If you are not completely certain of your feelings for me, tell me now and I will go. I’ll walk away and I’ll never bother you again. But if you truly want this as much as I do, then you must be prepared for a difficult time.”

  He pulled back slightly to allow her a moment to think about it, but he was still leaning that strong arm on the column over her head. His hand was relaxed, bent at the wrist, his finger still playing in the loose hair at her temple.

  She knew she should be contemplating the issue at hand and what the future would hold—but all she could feel was the magnificent bliss of his body so close to hers.