Then it occurred to her—he couldn’t be toying with her, could he? Flattering her as a means to an end? In a devious scheme to seduce her for some hidden purpose? To injure Whitby again?
Old fears and uncertainties came bubbling to the surface, because she had been flattered by all of this, and she caught herself chewing a fingernail.
Then again, if he was asking a high price just to flatter her, she would find out at the opening, wouldn’t she? She would know very quickly if people thought the prices were unreasonable.
Annabelle sat up again and finally decided to take a risk and let Magnus ask whatever he wished. As difficult as it was, she would trust him—at least in this regard. And she would use the gallery opening as a way to test him, to see if he had been deceiving her.
She walked to her desk and penned him a quick note to approve his suggested prices, then dressed to go and visit Madame Dubois in the village, who required Annabelle’s presence for one last fitting of the dress she had designed for her. Annabelle could hardly wait to see it.
Chapter 12
O n the night of the gallery opening, Magnus made his way through the crowd, greeting some of the guests as they arrived.
So far, only a half hour into the evening, it appeared to be a resounding success. There was a noisy hum of conversation and laughter, some of the most respected names in the art world were present, along with some very prominent members of society, including the Duke of Harlow, who was a well-known art enthusiast, and Baron St. Clair, one of the wealthiest men in London since striking it rich in the American railroad, of all things. He was one of the few English aristocrats with whom Magnus felt he had anything in common.
But despite the impressive showing of prestigious guests, Magnus felt no true satisfaction—for the one guest who truly mattered had not yet arrived. He hoped she had not changed her mind.
Then the door swung open and there she was—Annabelle—stepping into the gallery alone.
Magnus was jolted with a sense of urgency when he saw her, and was pleasantly surprised she had come alone, for he’d expected her to bring someone, perhaps even Whitby, which would have made a blatant seduction considerably challenging. This, however, was an unquestionable advantage.
She appeared nervous and flustered, so he interrupted the gentleman who was complimenting him on his choice of champagne and shouldered his way through the crowd to greet her.
“Good evening, Miss Lawson,” he said, making a conscious effort to speak in a businesslike manner, though beneath his surface politeness he was struggling to harness a most uncompromising, sexually aroused state of mind. How in the world could he help it, when she looked so delectable in an elegant, plum-colored evening gown that accentuated the fullness of her breasts and the tempting, lavish curve of her hips?
Quite frankly, it was an injustice that he’d never seen her dressed this way before—in jewels and French heels and long, sleek black gloves. Even her fragrance aroused him. It was the sweet, spring perfume of lilacs.
“Good evening,” she replied, handing her cloak over to the doorman.
Magnus waited for her to smooth out her skirt and take a perfunctory look around the room. “Can I offer you a glass of champagne?” he asked.
“Yes, thank you.”
Magnus caught the eye of the waiter and signaled to him. An instant later Annabelle was lifting a champagne flute off the shiny brass tray.
“Please come in,” he said, guiding her through the crowd. “There are some guests who have been waiting to meet you.”
Annabelle allowed Magnus to lead her into the room, hoping no one could make out how nervous she was, for not only was she attempting to enter into the London art world—when in reality she was a thirty-four-year-old spinster aunt who lived in the country—but she was also interacting with the man who was, and would always be, her first love. Her only love, really, although those old feelings were now mixed with so many others—like anger, distrust, and trepidation.
As she followed him through the crowd, however, she realized with some anxiety that those off-putting feelings did not overrule the disturbing way she was reacting to him now—because seeing him again felt just like it had in the old days, when she would come to him at the lake after an agonizing week away from him and find him lounging back in the boat, looking handsome and virile. Unfortunately, the very minute she had laid eyes upon him tonight, her body had awakened the same way—with exhilaration and desire, and she did not understand how she could possibly be feeling that way. How could she forget the hatred that had crippled her all these years?
She noticed uneasily that her hands were trembling, so she strove to focus only on the gallery exhibition. She could not let him do this to her. She could not.
Magnus directed her to a group of gentlemen toward the back of the room, and they all stopped talking as soon as they noticed Annabelle. They studied her curiously, hesitantly, for there were not many women present, and one of the men in particular—older, with gray hair and spectacles—looked down the long length of his aristocratic nose at her before Magnus made the introduction.
“Harlow,” he said, with a confident smile, “allow me to present Annabelle Lawson, my latest discovery. Miss Lawson, the Duke of Harlow.”
Annabelle felt her face flush with surprise, then she gathered her composure and gracefully curtsied. “Your Grace, it is an honor.”
The duke’s eyes warmed instantly, his voice friendly and open as he spoke. “So this is the elusive new artist,” he said as he bowed to Annabelle. “My dear, the honor is all mine. I am enchanted to meet such a remarkable talent.”
Annabelle lowered her gaze. “Thank you, Your Grace.”
He patted Magnus on the back. “My good man, you didn’t mention she was not only gifted, but lovely as well. Miss Lawson, will you be so kind as to discuss your seascape with me? I just acquired it.”
Annabelle sucked in a breath. “You did?”
“You sound surprised,” he said.
She could feel Magnus’s eyes on her, waiting for her reply.
“No, it’s just so early in the evening. You must be confident in your tastes, Your Grace.”
The duke seemed pleased with her answer, and offered his arm. “Shall we?”
Annabelle smiled and wondered if this would answer her question—whether Magnus had been merely flattering her with his extravagant asking prices.
She supposed he could have exerted some influence and worked something out with the duke as part of his scheme, but then she feared she was being overly suspicious to the point of absurdity.
But Magnus had always possessed a talent for knocking her off kilter, hadn’t he?
The duke escorted Annabelle across the gallery to where her painting was hanging on the wall next to a few others, none of which she recognized. She and the duke discussed all of them in addition to hers, and Annabelle soon began to relax.
She eventually met the other three local artists who were present, and they were all friendly except for one, who was a member of the Royal Academy. He seemed rather vain about his own work, and spoke to her with a belittling tone.
“You may feel differently about Wright’s work when you’ve gained more experience, Miss Lawson,” he said to her, when she expressed her high regard for the American artist.
She did not bother to argue with him, for she could sense he was envious of Wright’s talent. Instead, she turned her attention to the other gentlemen, who shared her appreciation, and enjoyed the delicious spiced shrimp hors d’oeuvres.
As the evening wore on, she realized that all her worries about seeing Magnus tonight were for naught, for he remained respectfully in other areas of the gallery, keeping his distance, leaving her to mingle on her own, and never once did he reveal that they had known each other before. He treated her exactly as he treated the other artists—with a professional reverence and respect.
She should have been relieved. She told herself she shouldn’t even be noticing that he was
ignoring her, but alas, she felt something very different, which was upsetting to say the least—for she was disappointed.
The sad truth was, she had been acutely aware of his location every single second during the night. Despite all the terrible things she knew about him, she’d had to fight to keep from glancing over at him constantly just for the mere pleasure of watching him talk, laugh, sip champagne, or run a hand through his hair.
Yes, she still thought him the handsomest man in the world, the most intriguing, the most irresistible, and she could not deny the foolish yearning for him to merely glance her way. She wanted the excitement, the thrill of his eyes meeting hers. And even though she had done everything in her power to convince herself she didn’t care and was only here for the exhibition, she had to accept the fact that she would always be drawn to him, and she hated such weakness in herself—for wanting something that had once been so destructive.
Later, as the evening drew to a close and the guests began to disperse, Annabelle stood alone in front of The Fisherman, looking curiously at the little red mark on the exhibition label and feeling weary of the battle going on inside her head.
She glanced across the room to where Magnus was speaking to some of the guests, and as soon as their eyes met, she knew she was simply incapable of fighting the attraction anymore. She felt a powerful surge of longing course through her, and didn’t have the strength to resist it. She had been suppressing her emotions for too long—thirteen years to be exact—and she was exhausted.
Whether he felt what she felt, she did not know. All she knew was that he was picking up two glasses of champagne and blazing a direct path toward her.
She took a deep, steadying breath, not sure what would happen if she ever completely let herself go free.
“You did well tonight,” he said, handing over one of the glasses. “Let’s make a celebratory toast.” He raised his glass, and Annabelle joined him by doing the same. “To a successful opening and the launch of your career.”
Annabelle drank to his toast, then endeavored to initiate some relaxed conversation, for she did not want him to know how shaky she felt just from the mere fact that he was standing beside her.
“You may find this hard to believe,” she said, “but I never considered my art as a career. It has always been a hobby, though I’ve always dreamed it could be more.”
“I don’t find that hard to believe,” he said. “Because I remember.”
It was the first spoken reminder of the past, and it was unsettling, to say the least, so she tried to change the subject. She pointed at the red mark on the label. “I’m surprised we got that price, but I thought you said you would never part with it.”
“I’m not parting with it.”
Then she understood. “You bought it,” she said with a grin.
His responding smile was infectious. “It was money well spent, to see you smile like that.”
Her body tensed at the heat of the flirtation. If she was not careful, this was going to lead somewhere very dangerous.
“You didn’t have to buy something you already own,” she told him.
“Ah, but I didn’t really own it. You had asked for it back, if you will recall. So now that I have purchased it, I will be its rightful owner, and no one will ever be able to take it from me. Besides,” he added, “I get a commission on the sale.”
“But it’s your money.”
He casually shrugged. “Now it’s yours.”
Annabelle shook her head at him. “I should refuse.”
“Please don’t. I’ll sleep better this way.”
Annabelle continued to look at the painting while she sipped her drink, realizing with some surprise that she was feeling more relaxed now that they had actually smiled at each other. It had to be the champagne. It was her third glass.
“But if you take this painting back to America,” she said, “I’ll never see it again. It feels strange to think of that.”
“It will remain here in the gallery until then,” he said. “You can visit it.”
She nodded. “I wonder if I could paint another one like it.” She tilted her head to the side. “Now that I see how I handled the brushstrokes, I think I might be able to do it.”
“I’m sure you could.”
A few gentlemen came to shake Magnus’s hand and thank him for inviting them, and they complimented Annabelle on her work.
“See?” Magnus said after they were gone. “You’ll be talked about.”
A few others came to say good-night, and before long there were only a handful of guests left in the gallery and it was much quieter.
Annabelle and Magnus wandered around the room, admiring the paintings and discussing each of them at length. Then, surprisingly, their conversation shifted to another subject.
“I know that Whitby came to see you,” Annabelle said frankly. “He told me what he said to you.”
“Did he indeed?” Magnus replied, not seeming the least bit surprised. “Which part?”
“The part about me. That if you ever did anything to hurt me, you’d have to answer to him.”
Magnus downed the rest of his champagne in one gulp, then set the empty glass on a mahogany table and casually leaned a shoulder against the wall. His expression was playful and lighthearted, which surprised her.
“That’s close, but not exactly it.”
“What do you mean?” Annabelle asked.
“I mean, that’s not exactly what he said. Let me see…If I remember correctly, he informed me that you were ‘off limits’ to me, and if I ever laid another hand on you, he would hunt me down and kill me.”
Annabelle drew a breath. “Good Lord, he said those exact words?”
“He did indeed.”
Of course she knew Whitby would never really kill anyone. It had just been a threat to emphasize how serious he was.
Even so, if he had said it, she would be extremely vexed with him. He could have foiled her opportunity to be included in this show.
But then again, this was Magnus. She had to be careful what she believed. She couldn’t let her desires overtake her common sense, no matter how powerful they were.
“I suppose there is a slight difference in the meaning, isn’t there?” she said, not wanting to reveal what she was thinking or feeling.
“It’s rather subtle, but yes,” he calmly replied. “The ‘killing’ remark, though—that has a rather firmer message attached to it, don’t you think?”
Then, without warning, she actually began to find this whole conversation comical, and was suddenly looking at the man who had taught her how to fish, the man who had laughed with her, the man who had been amused by her unconventional boots and had somehow understood the silly misfit she had always been. It almost knocked the wind out of her.
“Well, if you were to analyze the wording…” she said, losing the humor in her tone.
Their smiles slowly faded and Annabelle felt as if she were back on the picnic blanket with her head next to his, staring up at the sky and seeing the same shapes in the clouds.
Feeling anxious, she shifted her weight. Unfortunately, she was not accustomed to wearing heels, and she heard a resounding crack as her shoe gave way beneath her.
With a gasp, she grabbed for Magnus’s arm to steady herself. “I think my heel just broke.”
Magnus looked down, but her feet were hidden beneath her skirts. “Is it still attached to the shoe?”
She wiggled her foot. “Yes, but it appears to be dangling. Well, this is quite a pickle, isn’t it?”
Magnus wrapped a hand around her gloved elbow to help her stay balanced, his voice calm and relaxed. “Not at all. I have glue in my office, and I can repair it right now.”
Thankfully, they were standing adjacent to the office door, so they discreetly went inside. The room was dimly lit by one Tiffany lamp in the corner, and Magnus left the door open behind them.
He escorted her to the sofa, but remained standing in front of her while she stared u
p at his darkly handsome face—the chiseled jaw, the fine straight nose, the soft, full mouth…
“Perhaps you could hand the shoe to me,” he quietly said, startling her out of what felt like a trance, for she was alone with him now.
“Oh, yes, of course.”
As she slid it off with her other toe, a secret part of her wondered what would happen if he got down on a knee and removed it for her. She could envision his large hand wrapping around her ankle, cupping her heel, holding the arch of her foot.
“Here you are,” she said with forced calm as she strained to hide her thoughts. She handed over the satin, lace-trimmed shoe.
Magnus went behind his large desk and opened the bottom drawer. “This is carpenters’ glue.” He withdrew a half-empty jar and set it on the desk. “It should do the trick until you can have the shoe repaired properly.”
He remained standing, spreading the glue on the heel while Annabelle watched his hands. They had always been callused and rough-looking, and despite his wealth and prosperity and the fact that he was the owner of a very fine art gallery, they were surprisingly still the hands of a common worker.
She could not deny that it was that very quality about his hands that had always excited her.
Magnus pressed the heel back into place, then set the shoe on the desk. “There. We’ll just have to give it some time to dry. Can I get you anything? Another glass of champagne?”
“No, thank you. I’ve already had quite enough.”
Far too much, she thought with some unease, for surely she had to be in some kind of drunken stupor to be feeling so attracted to him after so many years of feeling nothing but the pain of his betrayal. Most confusing of all, she still felt that pain, right alongside the attraction. Which made no sense.
“Tea perhaps?” he suggested. “Or I could go fetch the tray with the shrimp that you seemed to like so much.”
He had noticed. “Honestly, I couldn’t eat another bite,” she replied.
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