He had suffered for it each and every minute, constantly vowing he would tell her the following week. But then she would arrive at the dock with her easel, all smiles and playful teasing, and he had never been able to say the words. He hadn’t been able to bear the thought of her reacting to him with revulsion.
Just one more day, he’d tell himself. If he could just make her love him a little more, it wouldn’t matter when he told her. She would forgive him for keeping the truth from her, and love him regardless. He’d wanted only to wait until they were stronger.
But now, on this day, he found himself facing the reality of what their future would be, even if she did forgive him. He thought of the bed he’d gotten out of that morning—the coarse, wool blanket and the mattress full of holes. He’d gotten dressed, then shoveled the coal into the stove himself, but not until after he tramped down the road at dawn to purchase a jug of milk from the worn-out dairymaid.
He thought of the breakfast he’d eaten—the same breakfast he ate every day of his life: bland porridge in a chipped bowl.
And his mother was run-down and depressed again, drinking too much as usual. The previous night, he had returned home to find her in a drunken swoon with her head on the kitchen table, a half-empty bottle of whiskey in front of her.
He quietly slid the bottle out of her loose grip and poured it out in the muddy yard, knowing he’d never hear the end of it when she woke, but he followed through nonetheless.
Magnus lifted his weary gaze and looked down the hill at Century House again, and imagined Annabelle waking this morning under clean, white embroidered sheets, eating a breakfast prepared by a devoted kitchen staff. Her maid would have helped her dress and knotted her hair, and another set of maids would have cleaned out the grate in her fireplace, swept her polished floor, and fluffed her feathery pillows.
It was a world very different from his.
He felt nauseous all of a sudden, and slid down the side of the tree to sit on the ground. Resting his elbows on his knees, he raked both hands through his hair.
What did he think he was doing? How could he be so selfish, thinking he could take Annabelle away from the life she knew and force her to alienate her family, then drag her down into the hell that was his life?
He supposed the problem was that he felt something for her that he’d never felt for any other woman. He loved her laughter, her intelligence, her nonconformity. She inspired him with her artistic creativity, challenged him and made him think, and she made him feel at ease and at home—which was something he rarely felt with anyone.
He had grown to care for her so very deeply and devotedly that it was now much more than a simple matter of lust. What concerned him today was her welfare and well-being. Her future happiness.
Yet with his feelings as profound and passionate as they were, he wasn’t entirely certain he could be noble and self-sacrificing enough to do the right thing—which was undoubtedly to give her up.
“Are you ready to see it?” Annabelle asked later that afternoon, meeting Mr. Edwards at the water’s edge as he dragged the heavy boat onto the beach.
“I’ve been ready for six weeks,” he replied.
She had noticed with some concern that he’d seemed downtrodden most of the day. He was not his usual flirtatious self, and had been very quiet. During lunch she’d asked him if he was all right, and he’d assured her he was just tired after a long, busy week. She had accepted his explanation, hiding her fear that it might be something more.
“Well, come and see it, then,” she said, holding out her arm. “But close your eyes.” She took him by the hand and led him to the easel. “All right. You can look now.”
Mr. Edwards opened his eyes and stared at her painting for the longest time while she watched him apprehensively. His eyes moved over the details in the center of the canvas, then he studied every corner.
At last he looked at Annabelle, who warmed at the tenderness and wonderment in his expression.
“What do you think?” she asked hesitantly.
He slowly approached. “It’s beautiful, Annabelle. Too beautiful to give to me. It should be in a gallery somewhere.”
She shook her head. “I’m not famous enough to be in a gallery.”
“You should be. You will be.”
Annabelle smiled, dumbfounded by the astounding pride and elation that came from knowing someone truly appreciated her work.
No. He more than appreciated it. He was awestruck. Not just with the painting, but with her.
All at once she wanted to shout out loud across the lake and hear her voice echo back in return. She was so happy to be with him, and so proud of this piece! It was beyond a doubt the best thing she’d ever done.
“Can I assume you like it?” she asked.
He came to her. “I more than like it. I love it. It has movement, yet stillness at the same time. And the reflections in the water…” He returned to stand before the painting, and moved his hand over it as he spoke. “They look so real, yet when you study them, you are struck by the fact that you are seeing only the surface of the water, and there are deep, unknown depths beyond. It’s the most incredible thing anyone’s ever given me. I’m not worthy of it.”
“Of course you are.”
He returned to her and cupped her cheek in his large, warm hand, stroking with his thumb. His touch gave her shivers.
Slowly he lowered his lips to hers and kissed her while he held her face in both his hands. The kiss deepened, and Annabelle reveled in the taste of his tongue and the hot wetness of his mouth closing over hers. She let out a small whimper as she wrapped her arms around his broad shoulders, feeling all at once flooded with a rush of need so strong, she feared she would never be able to let him go.
She wanted more. She knew there was more. So much more…
He dragged his lips from hers and whispered, “No, Annabelle.”
But she refused to take no for an answer. She cupped his face in her hands. “Please, just this once.”
She could see in his eyes that he was straining to resist her, but soon he gave up the fight and kissed down the side of her neck.
Annabelle began backing up toward the trees, leading him by the hand. This time he did not resist. He followed willingly, his eyes laden with desire. As soon as she reached the shade of a tall oak tree where the scents of pine and chamomile were thick in the air, she sat down on her knees in the grass, still holding his hand as she looked up at him.
He hesitated, but only briefly before he knelt down before her and eased her onto her back. His body and mouth covered hers, and emotions welled up inside her.
She wanted to tell him she loved him, but she was afraid, because she knew if she did, he would stop. He would remember their impossible situation—that she was forbidden to him, just as he was to her. He would stop kissing her like he always did.
Suddenly driven by a sense of urgency, she reached for his hand and held it firmly to her breast.
Their gazes locked.
Annabelle’s body quaked with both excitement and fear as she recognized the passion in his eyes and felt his physical strength as a man. He was heavy on top of her, powerful and aroused, pressing his hips into hers, looking as if he wanted to take her completely—and if he decided to, there would be nothing she could do to stop him.
But she did not want to stop him.
She could see, however, that he wished to stop himself. It was clear in his eyes, so she quickly parted her legs and wrapped them around his hips.
The rock-hard stiffness of his arousal pressed against the pulsing ache between her thighs, and she took in a deep, shuddering breath.
“This is dangerous, Annabelle,” he said, his voice strained with a firm warning.
“But please don’t stop.”
She wiggled her hips, her body flooding with a willful desire for pleasures beyond anything she knew. She wanted to give herself to him completely and love him forever, and those emotions were so strong, her awareness
of duty and responsibility to her family meant nothing.
Something about the way she moved must have aroused him further, because he lowered his weight upon her and covered her mouth again with a deep, rough kiss that threatened to steal her soul.
She moaned huskily as his tongue drove into her mouth. It was nothing like any of the other gentle, tender kisses on the picnic blanket. This was powerful and demanding and it was the start of something new. She felt as if she’d just been dropped onto a moving train.
Annabelle slid her hands down his broad back, lifted the back of his jacket and tugged his shirt from the waistband of his trousers. She massaged the strong muscles at his lower back, marveling at the smoothness of his skin and wanting to touch the rest of him, everywhere.
He groaned and rolled off her slightly to lean on one elbow while he quickly unbuttoned her bodice. Then Annabelle unhooked her corset in the front, feeling a pleasurable freedom as it came loose. He slid a warm hand up under her chemise.
It was shocking—the feel of his hand upon her bare belly, then her breast. No one had ever touched her there before, and when his thumb stroked her nipple and his mouth came down upon hers again, she whimpered at the throbbing lust spreading through her body. It was incomprehensible, and the intimacy of his caress only made her love him more. She kissed him deeply and affectionately, wanting to show him with her body just how much she loved him.
Then Mr. Edwards raised her chemise and took one of her nipples into his mouth, and Annabelle thought she might die from the ecstasy of it—his tongue and lips and the feel of his hot breath upon her wet skin. She let out another little whimper.
“God, Annabelle,” he said, resting his forehead upon her chest, “I want you, but I can’t take you. I can’t.”
“Yes, you can. Please don’t stop.”
He paused there in silence for the longest time, his shoulders heaving as if he were out of breath from rowing the distance of the lake. A squirrel chirped somewhere in the distance.
For a moment Annabelle thought he was going to stop, as he always had before, but no…
He moved quickly and decisively, inching down and tugging her skirts upward until he found the tapes that fastened her drawers.
Lying flat on her back with her legs parted, Annabelle put a hand over her eyes, allowing him to remove her drawers, then her stockings and boots, not knowing what would come next.
Suddenly she was exposed to the cool air. Her legs were bare and still parted, her skirts bunched up around her waist.
Her heart began to pound with trepidation. This was happening so fast. Was he going to plunge into her right now and take her virginity? He could if he wanted to. She had told him to do it.
But was she really ready?
Before she had a chance to think anything through, he moved down between her legs and began kissing her knees, then her thighs, then his mouth traveled up to the place where her desire was centered and he stroked her with his tongue. Annabelle gasped in shock, but the shock quickly passed as pleasure consumed her. She took his head in her hands as a mad passion ripped through her body like a summer storm.
“What are you doing to me?” she asked breathlessly, all doubts and fears vanishing in an instant.
He made no reply. He only reached a hand up to hold hers.
She squeezed it, squeezing her legs together, too, cupping his head between her bare thighs. Annabelle bit her lip as all her muscles clenched and tightened. She lifted her head off the ground, shutting her eyes and blocking out the rest of the world. All she knew was the blinding heat of sensation—his mouth and tongue driving her to the wild realms of hot, tingling mayhem.
And wild mayhem it was, as waves of pleasure crashed and washed over her moments later. Her flesh throbbed and quivered. She cried out, tears spilling from her eyes. Annabelle grabbed for his head again, cupping it in both hands while he continued to drive her through the fierce, spiraling completion.
He did not stop until she went limp and her arms fell open onto the grass. Then he pulled her skirts down, before he lay beside her, leaning up on one elbow.
Finally, Annabelle opened her eyes and turned her head to look at him.
“What did you do to me?” she asked, her voice weak and listless.
He kissed her tenderly on the lips, his hand caressing her cheek. Then he slowly drew back. “You had an orgasm.”
She looked up at the white puffy clouds in the sky. “I never knew of such a thing.”
“Well, now you do,” he said, smiling, his voice quiet and gentle.
He rested his hand on her belly, and for a long time they lay in silence, relaxing and listening to the ducks quacking on the lake, until Annabelle’s breathing returned to normal.
Mr. Edwards gazed out across the water and said, “I think I deserve a medal.”
“Why?” she asked, laughing.
“Because you’re still a virgin.”
A breeze blew through the trees behind them, and Annabelle’s face grew serious. “It wouldn’t matter if I wasn’t.”
And she meant it. She wanted him to be the one.
She rolled onto her side to face him. “I wish I could do that to you. Touch you and give you that kind of pleasure.”
Annabelle reached for the front of his trousers, but he quickly caught her wrist in his hand.
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’d lose my medal, and you’d lose something else more important than your virginity. You’d lose your freedom to make choices.”
“Regarding a husband?” she asked.
“Yes, and I will not take that away from you.”
Annabelle bristled. She wasn’t entirely sure if he was doing this for her, or if it was a more selfish rationale. Perhaps he did not want to be obligated.
She kept her hand where it was, poised over his arousal, and he continued to hold her wrist, keeping her at bay until she finally gave up.
“What are we going to do,” she asked in a desperate haze as she sat up and hugged her knees to her chest, “now that the painting is done? I don’t want to say good-bye.”
He sat up, too, resting his elbows on his knees and linking his hands together.
But he said nothing.
“You could come and pay a call,” she suggested. “I could talk to my brother. I believe if he could come to know you, he would admire you as much as I do.”
Mr. Edwards took a moment before he rose to his feet and walked to the edge of the woods, leaning a hand upon the rough bark of an elm. “No.”
Annabelle was baffled by the firmness of his reply. “Why not? I would talk to Whitby first.”
Mr. Edwards shook his head and walked toward the water, where he bent down, picked up a rock, and pitched it hard, as far as he could into the lake. “I remember the way your aunt looked at me on the train.”
“I would talk to her, too,” Annabelle argued. “I would make her understand.”
He faced her. “Understand what? That you’ve been lying to her all summer? Sneaking off to meet a bank clerk alone on a secluded island? I’m sure she’d be happy to hear it.” He turned toward the lake again. “No, Annabelle, they’ll never understand.”
A sick feeling moved into the pit of her stomach. “You’re not even willing to try?”
He looked over his shoulder at her, tilting his head as if he thought she was very foolish.
She had seen him look that way only once before—the first time they had come here—and today she sensed there was a side of him she did not know very well. A darker side.
It worried her. She wanted suddenly to see where he lived, to see his home and his mother. This summer had been nothing but a fantasy after all, for real life was not an endless string of leisurely Sunday afternoons…
“We should go,” he said flatly, just like he had said that first day, when they’d argued. “I can’t miss my train.”
“Why do you do that?” she asked pointedly. “You always want to leave when
things get…” She didn’t know what they were exactly, but she knew something was different.
He went to pack up her easel and paints, while she sat bewildered on the grass, watching him. What had just happened? A moment ago he’d looked at her with desire in his eyes. Now all he wanted to do was get away from her.
“I don’t care what they think anyway,” she blurted out, referring to her family, as she pulled on her stockings, drawers, and boots.
He was crouching down, putting paint tubes back into the box, ignoring what she’d said. He didn’t even look up.
Annabelle walked to him. “Did you hear me? I said I don’t care what they think. I’d run away with you if you wanted.”
He went instantly still.
He closed his eyes briefly, then opened them and looked up at her. “You don’t know what you’re saying. You don’t even know me.”
“Yes, I do.”
“No. You don’t.”
He returned to his task, quickly dropping the brushes into the box and closing it. He slid the box into her bag, then walked to the boat and set it inside.
Annabelle stood watching him, feeling hurt and confused. “I don’t understand. Did you just come here every Sunday because you wanted a painting of yourself, and now that you have it, you’re done with me? Or did you grow bored with me?”
She could feel her heart breaking as she spoke the words. He wanted to end it. She could feel it coming.
He folded the easel and carried it and the painting to the boat, then came back for the lunch sack. “You know that’s not true. I’ve enjoyed this as much as you have, but maybe we should be sensible and take some time to think about everything.”
He returned to the boat and stood by it, waiting for Annabelle to get in, but she couldn’t move. She was in shock over this change in him. It was as if the beautiful bubble of their love had just burst in front of her eyes.
“I don’t need to think about it,” she said, “but obviously you do.” She strode toward him. “Just tell me why.”
Portrait of a Lover Page 7