Page 74 of Seductive Reprise
She dropped her eyes, ignoring him.
“Your painting, while excellent, is not the be-all and end-all. I’ve no doubt you’ll find another commission. Many more commissions.”
Only moments ago she’d just started to believe that everything could work out, that all would be well. That she could have her cake and eat it, too; that she could be both a successful painter as well as his wife. And now here she was, months of work gone off down the street, no doubt to end up in some second-hand shop without even a proper stretching, let alone a frame. It might as well be on Yusef’s wall, far from the view of anyone else. Her body shook with a sob, and she wrapped her arms around herself.
Yusef was alongside her once more, pulling her into him.
“You needn’t even accept my suit.”
Her stomach fell. “What?” she croaked, still unwilling to meet his eyes.
“Rose,” he sighed, then stood back, though no one was likely to recognize them in the dark. “If it’s not what you wish…” he began, his eyes sorrowful.
“Oy!” called out a cabbie on a hansom, his path hindered by their doleful presence in the middle of the street. “Get off the road!” he hollered, flinging an arm out toward the pavement.
“I wish to go home,” Rose whispered, though she wasn’t sure she believed it. She didn’t know what she wished anymore.
Something flickered in his eyes, and he nodded.
She couldn’t even bear to look at him as he handed her up onto his horse. When he mounted behind her and wrapped one arm around her middle, she allowed it. Closing her eyes, she leaned back against him, allowing the gentle sway of the horse’s gait to soothe her.
But nothing could fix this. Nothing could restore the portrait. Her body shook with another sob. What a fool she’d been.
Yusef’s arm tightened around her.
“You’re a wonderful artist—”
“No,” she said, not wanting to hear any more platitudes. It felt as though her life had been torn asunder again. “Please don’t. Please don’t pretend all is well, for it most assuredly is not.”
They rode in silence until she opened her eyes. With a start she realized they were back in Lambeth. Her body flooded with anxiety. She wished to be at his house, with him, safe and coddled in the luxuries of his home. But how could she ask for that, when she could not even open her heart to him, accept his hand? She shook her head sadly.
“What?” he asked. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” she lied.
Then, once they were close enough to her tenement that it would soon be too late, she finally admitted, “I’m going home tomorrow. To Worcestershire.”
“I know. I received your note.”
“I mean to speak with Ipsley.”
“Oh?”
She sighed. Why was every emotion so difficult, other than anger? Anger was thrilling in its simplicity.
“I had hoped—” she said tentatively, searching for the rest of the sentence. But she spied the cabstand, and she gave up. “Please, give me some time.”
She felt him stiffen behind her.
“Pray, do not write me.” She squeezed her eyes shut, forcing two more tears down her cheeks.
“Very well,” he said, his voice distant.
Rose did not sleep that night.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Rose declined the driver’soffer of assistance, and hauled her own bags from the wagon.If I were to marry him, I’d need not ever haul my luggage…
