Page 93 of House of Roots and Ruin
“That would be wonderful. Last night, they sounded so close I actually went into the hall, brandishing a poker from the fireplace.”
Those cries were the worst, high-pitched and throaty. It reminded me of when the twins had been born and all of Highmoor was kept awake with their wails.
“Oh, Verity,” Alex murmured, looking concerned. He ruined it a moment later by bursting into a snort of laughter.
“You find my predicament amusing?” I asked, peeking around the canvas. “You do know I’m more than capable of adding a series of warts across your face, don’t you? Your portrait will be resoundingly mocked by generations of future Laurents.”
He held up a hand, trying to stop, but doubled over again anyway. “I just pictured you, running out in the hall—obviously looking quite alluring in your nightdress,” he added quickly, “with the poker thrown outward, ready for harm.” Alex pantomimed slaying one of the beasts before glancing up at me. His eyes danced with happiness and despite my irritation over the birds, I found myself smiling back before I resumed painting.
The portrait was nearing completion. I only needed to add in the highlights and shadows that would make the work seem more realistic, and finish up a couple of details in the background before I started his face. I liked to save the face for last.
In truth, I didn’t want the sessions to end.
My moments with Alex were the best parts of my day.
Dauphine had every one of my waking moments planned andaccounted for. She always had a reason for us to go to town, pushing the portrait sessions to the often forgotten back burner. She seemed to take delight in overriding any suggestions or ideas I might have for the wedding. Or my clothing. Or my very appearance.
Earlier that morning, she’d declared we had an appointment at a perfumery to pick out my new signature scent, something to befit a future duchess.
“I don’t really wear perfume,” I’d said, looking up from my third cup of coffee.
She had nodded, as if more than aware.
Gerard spent nearly all of his hours in the greenhouse, delaying dinners and causing bright spots of anger across Dauphine’s cheeks, except for when he popped up at the most inconvenient times, ready to test my knowledge of the noble houses of Arcannia and peppering the conversation with veiled hints and increasingly unsubtle statements alluding to the long line of progeny I was meant to issue forth.
Stacks of books grew in my sitting room, filled with things he expected me to become well versed in. They teetered on my writing desk as tall as towers. I meant to read them, I really did, but by the end of the day, after portrait sessions and dress fittings, food tastings and luncheons with Dauphine’s friends, I often collapsed into bed, utterly spent.
And then…the peacocks.
It was as if I were trapped in a whirlpool, circling and spinning around, drawn in tighter, unable to swim out of its hold. Moments with Alex made me feel like myself. Our time together was still and sweet and…us. There were no ulterior motives, no barbed comments. I could breathe freely.
“The Peaseblossoms’ anniversary banquet is later this week,” he mentioned, his mind wandering.
I recalled the older couple from Dauphine’s dinner. It felt like an age had passed since then, though it had only been three weeks. “How many years have they been together?”
“Fifty-five.”
I raised my eyebrows, impressed.
“That will be us one day,” he predicted confidently. “Fifty-five years from now, I’ll look over to you in the middle of our party and say, ‘Remember that spring you painted my portrait? What a foolish young man I was then. I’d thought you’d never look lovelier, but, look at you now…magnificent.’ ”
“And I’ll lean in and squawk at you to repeat everything you said because I couldn’t hear it the first time.”
Alex beamed. “I’ve no doubt our love will be stronger then than it is today, even if our hearing is not.”
My smile froze, then faltered.
“What are you thinking about?” Alex asked, astute as ever.
I pushed a bit of paint about the palette, buying myself a moment. I hadn’t yet told Alex about my encounter with Gerard’s mistress on the day of our engagement. I knew I needed to—I kept far too many other secrets from him to let another add up—but I wasn’t sure how to go about it. It wasn’t something that found a natural outlet into everyday conversation.
“Verity?” he prompted, rolling forward. He reached out for my hand but stopped short of touching me. “Did I say something wrong?”
“Of course not.”
“Sometimes I worry that—” He stopped short.
“What?”
