He had worked night and day since his return to Vykhurst Hall to finish the thing because he still intended to give it to Phoebe on what would have been their wedding day. Before, he had wanted to present it to her as his special gift to honor the day in a way he knew she would appreciate. Now, he would present it instead as his final farewell.
Slipping into his greatcoat, he spared a glance at the wedding finery hanging upon the mahogany hall tree near the door. Matthew had lain the garments out in his room earlier, in preparation for today's grand occasion, but Edward knew he would never wear them. He planned to return the entire ensemble to his tailor this afternoon, immediately after he delivered the painting to Phoebe.
“Matthew, see that the painting is kept flat as it is loaded into my carriage and take special care not to wedge it against the padding, eh? The oils are still far too pliable and I'll not have it damaged.” He reached out to open the door but it swung free ere he touched it, leaving him standing, surprised and face-to-face, with a very irate Tristan St. Daine.
Ignoring the look of pure disgust on the man's face, Edward bowed slightly from the waist while his fingers busied themselves with straightening his cuffs.
“Greeding,” he offered in acknowledgment. “I expected you would be at St. Paul's by now.”
“I could say the same for you, Claybourne, only despite Lucien's assurances to the contrary, you have failed to step up and meet either of our expectations.” His gaze narrowed. “What I should like to know is why?”
Edward's brows rose. “Why will I not be attending the wedding? Come now, Tristan. I am certain you are well aware of my excuse—” he started, but his words were abruptly halted by way of his being thrown hard against the surface of his own front door.
The next thing he knew, St. Daine was nose-to-nose with him, breathing down his neck and snarling like a rabid pup. “There is no excuse for hurting my sister, damn you!”
Hurting Phoebe? Making no move, Edward merely stared at him, confused.
“I have done no such thing.” In fact, he had been quite gracious in allowing her to maintain her peace this past week while he worked like a man possessed to finish the portrait he felt all but obsessed to create for her when what he had truly wanted was to crash through Rothwyn's door and demand the name of the man who had supplanted him in her heart. How many times had he been tempted to fly to London to plead for her forgiveness over whatever slight she perceived he had given her and to beg for a second chance?
“You have ten seconds to explain why you are not at that church even now, dressed and waiting in happy anticipation of spending the rest of your life attending to my sister's slightest whim,” Tristan growled.
Aghast at the man's audacity, Edward's brows arched ever higher. Had Phoebe told her brother nothing? Pointedly pausing between each word to be certain their meaning was clear, he said, “She. Doesn't. Want. Me.”
“She doesn't want—” Spitting curses beneath his breath, Tristan released him and then stood staring at him in baffled amazement while he stepped to the side. “Of all the feeble, misguided, utterly blind excuses I have ever—”
Not bothering to hide his obvious offense over Tristan's ridiculous assumptions that he had caused Phoebe some pain, he said, “I would never hurt your sister, St. Daine, and I think you know that.”
Picking at his cuffs once again, Edward confessed. “Your sister does not wish to marry me. She told me as much the day of your proceedings with the magistrate. Trust me when I say the last thing your sister wants is for me to join you in wait for her at the church.”
“Why?” Tristan demanded, obviously as confused as Edward. “Why would she not wish for you to be there when everything she has said to me during the past month since my return has been an argument meant to convince me her marriage to you is more than worthy of my blessing?”
Edward's lips quirked and his tone turned sarcastic. “Aye, but you are no longer under threat of hanging. Perhaps I should have said your sister doesn't want me anymore?”
Tristan's gaze narrowed. “Do not make me kill you, Claybourne. Are you saying my sister only went along with the bargain between my brother and your grandfather until she was assured of my good health?”
Edward held his silence, and Tristan shook his head, the action mirroring the disgust clearly evident in his expression. “If that is what you believe, I must say Phoebe is far better off without you and good riddance.”
“Phoebe does not want to marry me,” Edward repeated, unable to make himself say aloud that she wanted another man. “Can knowing that not be enough?”
“What of you?” Tristan demanded, his gaze speculative. “What do you want, Claybourne?”
The truth battered at the edge of Edward's will, demanding to be said, but he squeezed his eyes tightly shut and forced it away with a nonchalant shrug. “I only want her to be happy.”
“Truly? If what you have said is truth and Phoebe truly does not wish for you to be there for her at St. Paul's when she and Claire walk down the aisle, then I must assume you no longer mean anything to her at all, so—why do you care what she wants?”
This, Edward thought. This was why he had frequently pondered ways to be rid of Phoebe's brother, and if only he could have found a way to hide the body... the man was worse than a nagging fishwife with his constant questions! Opening his eyes again, this time to glare furiously at his tormentor, he said, “I suspect for the same reason you looked like a haunted man who had been newly revived from the dead when Lady Chelsea walked into that hearing room a week ago.”
Tristan scoffed and looked quickly away but his brows rose in question. “Are you saying you love her?”
Debating whether or not to answer at all, Edward considered the merits of replying in earnest. For reasons he might never fully comprehend, in that moment it seemed imperative to him that at least one person who was close to Phoebe know the truth of his feelings for her.
“Aye. That is the reason I want your sister to be happy—and I am telling you, she is not happy with me. On the day you went to stand before the magistrate, your sister told me she had fallen in love.” His lips twisted wryly. “Me being the glutton for pain and punishment that I am, I sat docilely across from her and listened with genuine interest and concern as she explained the joy and wonder of loving another man, while I—”
Pinching the bridge of his nose between his finger and thumb, Edward dragged a hand across his face in frustration and growled out his next words. “What would you have me do? Force her into a loveless marriage? I tell you, she does not want me.”
Pinning Tristan with a hard glare, he offered a sarcastic reminder. “I am merely the fortune-hunter she agreed to marry in order to save you.”
Tristan smirked. “And you are going to allow her to go back on her promise? Get over to the church, man.”
Shaking his head in refusal, Edward turned away. “I cannot. I love her to much to destroy her chance at happiness—whether it comes with me or with another.”
This time, Tristan merely snorted, and Edward glanced back over his shoulder just in time to catch the cynicism clearly written on his expression. Tossing his hands into the air in a gesture of defeat, Edward growled. “Take it as you will, you cynical ass, but that is the truth, and it is also why I will not be joining your brother at the altar of St. Paul's.”
Shaking his head now in obvious amusement, Tristan's shoulders shook with silent laughter. After a moment, he said, “It is laughable is it not? This entire farcical situation? Oh, but you could not possibly know, could you? You had already gone, fled back to Vykhurst with your proverbial tail tucked between your legs.”
Biting back his humor—at what, Edward could not begin to understand—he said, “No matter. I shall tell you now. After you excused yourself from my sister's company at Rothwyn Manor, I waited to speak with her before Chelsea and I departed to our new estate in the country. Curiously enough, Phoebe expressed the exact same sentiment to me about preserving your chanc
e for happiness and love.”
Stepping through the doorway, his laughter now fully under control, Tristan turned back to ask one last question. “Tell me, Claybourne, if you can possibly recall—did my sister, at any time during her wondrous explanation for why she was releasing you from your promise to marry her, happen to mention precisely with whom she had fallen in love?”
20
Edward was not there.
On Chelsea's advice, hopeful if not convinced that perhaps Edward did care some small whit for her after all, Phoebe had decided to take a chance and send a message to Edward at his grandfather's townhouse. But the footman she had dispatched had returned with word that the gentleman was not available. When pressed, his butler had said only that he expected Mister Claybourne to return soon but that he was not aware of his present direction. All but despondent after receiving the news, Phoebe was barely able to force herself through the motions of preparing herself for Lucien and Claire's wedding.
Elise had fussed with her hair, scolded her over her choice of gown—Phoebe had refused to wear the one she had planned to marry Edward in—and then practically wailed over the dark circles and puffy rings of redness beneath her mistress's eyes.
All the while, Phoebe sat before her dressing table, barely able to think from within the thick cloud of her despair, hiding silent tears of hopelessness beneath the cool cloth her maid had insisted upon placing on her brow.
Finally, after what seemed like hours, she was deemed presentable, but her knees felt every bit as weak and weighted as her heart, her fingers had gone icy cold, and she desperately wanted nothing more than to climb beneath the covers of her bed and hide until the pain of her broken heart disappeared though she knew it would take forever and even that would likely be too soon.
If ever there was a time when she would consider it perfectly permissible to ignore her duty to family, that time was now. When she had released Edward from their betrothal, she had believed she would be able to present herself without him before the hundreds of friends, family, and acquaintances who would be waiting at the church to witness the exchanging of the vows, but ... how could she ever face them all?
Grandmother Amelia and Claire's mother had taken the first carriage along with Claire, Chelsea, and Melisande a full quarter of an hour ago, leaving Phoebe to ride in the second carriage with the twins and she had delayed the moment as long as she possibly could. She had hoped to give Edward time to return, time to learn of her inquiry, time to change his mind. But she knew even before a knock on her bedchamber door warned her the time for waiting was past.
It was now time to go.
With a heavy sigh, Phoebe mustered what little spirit she could dredge up from the depths of her aching soul and pushed the cloth aside. Forcing herself to her feet, she slipped out the door and moved slowly toward the stairway, carrying herself as if the weight of the world rested upon her fragile shoulders.
Edward was waiting for her at the bottom of the stairs. His feet braced wide and his hands tucked deeply into the pockets of his waistcoat, his stance reminded her of the day he had brought her news of Tristan at Rothwyn House.
Her stomach clenched and her heart lurched in her chest. When she stepped off the last stair into the wide marbled foyer, his gaze locked with hers. The look in his eyes was piercing. Cautious. Bold. Her heartbeat doubled in response to the barely concealed heat in his gaze and she drew up, her steps halting. Nervous now, she buried her fingers within the length of her pale silk skirts and held tight to the material to prevent their trembling. Hesitant, she moved forward. “Edward. What are you doing here?”
For the longest moment he merely stood there, his eyes searching hers in the silence, though for what she did not know. Finally, he cleared his throat and offered a wry but apologetic smile. “I apologize for dropping by unannounced when I know you've a wedding to attend, but there was something I needed to deliver personally before we go our separate ways.”
Turning, he gestured toward a cloth covered rectangular object behind him, and then shrugged. “You may consider it a parting gift, if you will.”
Her hopeful spirits fell. Clearly he had not received word of her inquiry.
“A portrait?” Phoebe guessed, remembering the many such shaped objects lining the walls at Vykhurst Hall.
Edward nodded and his lips quirked wryly. “A very special portrait, actually. One I had thought to present to my bride—as a wedding gift.”
Phoebe felt her cheeks heat at his mention of their broken betrothal. Uncomfortable with the subject of the wedding and uncertain what to say now that he was here before her, she turned her attention to the unexpected gift he had brought instead. There had been something in his tone when he spoke of it that made her curious. “May I see it?”
Again, Edward hesitated, his eyes once again studying hers for a long moment before he finally turned and lifted the cloth to reveal the artist's creation immortalized on the canvas beneath.
Phoebe gasped.
Her fingers flew to her lips to still the sound but she could not halt the sudden stir of emotions her first sight of the image wrought and set to churning inside her. It was a portrait depicting a man and a woman over a whimsical background of swirling, feathered clouds that were almost mystical in their presentation. To Phoebe, it seemed to portray the world having fallen away and faded around them, leaving only the two of them caught together in a hazy, dream-like stasis. But it was not the background upon which Phoebe gazed, utterly enthralled and unable to tear her eyes away.
The level of detail the artist had rendered upon the canvas was stunning. Never before had she seen such minute intricacies in a flawless reproduction of human likenesses—and the painting before her held not one but two perfectly depicted subjects, each of whom she had recognized immediately.
Tristan sat in profile, his entire attention caught and held by his vision of the woman coming toward him. There was a world of emotion in his expression but it was the look in his eyes that told his story best—it was the look of a man spontaneously caught within the throes of surprise, equally battered by confusion and wonder, agony and relief.
There was a hint of fear, as well, though that emotion was practically swallowed up by such pure longing and adoration for the woman upon whom he gazed, Phoebe thought it may well have bordered on worship. Tears stung her eyes and she blinked them away, turning her attention instead to Lady Chelsea, the woman her brother clearly loved more than life itself.
Chelsea stood facing Tristan, her delicate features revealing a perfect study of emotion as well. In quiet supplication, her hands reached out to him. Uncertainty curved her smile. But her eyes, much like Tristan's, bespoke every word her lips and heart could neither form nor speak.
How the artist had managed to capture such a wide range of emotional expression was beyond any explanation Phoebe could even begin to imagine. Whoever had created the piece before her was indisputably a master of his art.
“It is so beautiful! But this can only be from the day of the hearing. But I was told only a select few were allowed into that room, so why would an artist—” She broke off, her gaze furtively searching now for the painter's name. Her eye caught and held upon the artists signature low in the far right corner. It was a name instantly familiar to her for not only had the gentleman in question painted a number of historical masterworks and portraits for the Duke of Kelsing, she remembered also that he was the artist who had created the life-sized portrait of Edward's mother. Her portrait had been reproduced with such vivid, startling clarity it seemed the lady might actually have continued to live and breathe within the world depicted upon the background on the canvas at Vykhurst.
“E. C. Vyk,” she murmured quietly, her fingers moving to skim lightly over the carefully flourished name, but she snatched them back the instant she realized the oils were still quite damp. With a sudden flash of unexpected insight, her mind put together pieces of a puzzle she had not realized bore assembling until now and her eyes flar
ed in surprise, her gaze snapping up to meet his before narrowing again in speculation.
“It is yours.” Staring at him now with something akin to awe, she said. “This is your work, is it not? You are the artist. Why didn't you tell me?”
Shrugging off her obvious admiration, he said, “It did not seem important.” But Phoebe noted the light flush of color blooming along his cheekbones. She found his reaction to both her realization and her praise endearing, but she could not seem to keep her gaze from returning to the painting. Turning back to it now, she asked, “However did you manage to complete it so quickly?”
He sighed. “Does it really matter so much for you to know I've spent more hours before a canvas this past week than I have lying in a bed or indulging my need for food? The lady with whom I would have spent my time sent me away, leaving me with nothing but time and my brushes and oils to fill the long, lonely hours of my days and nights since.”
Phoebe held her silence, her gaze continuously drawn, almost as if by magic, to the portrait but she knew he had spoken the truth. Spending every minute of the past several days with a brush in his hand was the only possible way he could have created the breathtaking scene before her so quickly. “It is a beautiful rendition, Edward. Thank you for doing this for me, although I still am not sure why you went to such trouble to finish it before—”
Unwilling to mention again the wedding he most certainly would not attend, she broke off, but rather than move away, he stepped up close behind her to join her in admiring the portrait. Phoebe could feel the heat of his body reaching out to hers across the brief distance separating them and her senses whirled. The familiar, warm male scent of him rose up, permeating the air around her, making her yearn for the comfort of his embrace. Though she said nothing, her breathing slowed and her heart had begun to race. How she ached for his touch, his kiss. If only she had not sent him away. If she had only had the courage to tell him how she felt—both before and now, perhaps he might …
An Unexpected Passion (Unexpected Series Book 2) Page 17