Page 46 of Tamed By a Passionate Lady
He opened a drawer beneath his desk, intending to put some items in there, when his gaze was arrested by the sight of a portrait, lying on top of a pile of papers. A portrait of a woman’s face, in a medium sized oval frame.
His hand hovered over it. He felt almost frightened to pick it up, and yet he had no idea why. He could not remember it at all; he could not remember placing it in the drawer.
He took a deep breath, picking it up, studying it closely.
The woman was sitting, staring directly at the artist. She was fine featured, with a small, delicate nose, and a heart-shaped face. She had large, intensely blue eyes. Her golden hair was almost white, curling into ringlets around her face. Her hands were resting in her lap, clutching a pale yellow fan which matched the colour of her gown.
He took another deep breath. The woman was very beautiful. But he had no idea who she was, nor why he would have kept her portrait in this drawer. If she was known to him, why wouldn’t he have displayed it in the room? And what was even more disconcerting was the fact that he was sure he had opened this drawer since the accident, and it had not been there.
He put the portrait down, gently, on top of the desk. Someone must know who this woman was; even if he did not recognise her, someone in this house surely would, wouldn’t they? But as he kept staring at the portrait, a strange, uneasy feeling started to swirl around in the pit of his stomach. He could not identify it, but it was strong. His hands itched to put the portrait away, back in the drawer, and lock it. Why?
His hand hovered over it, fighting the desire to push it away. It might be a key to unlocking his memory. He didn’t remember it being in the drawer, but perhaps he was mistaken. It was his duty to follow any such lead, wasn’t it? He owed it to himself, and he owed it to Adaline.
Firmly, he swallowed down his odd misgivings, the strange desire to pick up the portrait and toss it out of the window. Adaline should be back from her walk by now. He would ask her to come here and see if she recognised the woman in the portrait. It would encourage trust and communication between them, at the very least.
He wheeled his chair to the door, opening it. A maid was passing by, her hands full of dirty linen. He frowned, trying to remember her name. Nettie? No, Nellie.
“Nellie,” he called.
The maid stopped, staring back at him, with wide eyes. She didn’t correct him. “Yes, sir?”
“Would you happen to know if Mrs. Townshend is back from her walk?”
The maid nodded. “Yes, sir. I passed her just now, in her room…”
He nodded. “Could you ask her to come down to my study? There is something that I need to show her.”
***
He wheeled the chair back to the desk, waiting for her. His eyes kept darting towards the portrait, a little fearfully. He had no idea why he was so reluctant to look at it, nor why that strange feeling in his gut refused to dissipate.
He turned as the door opened, and suddenly, she was standing there.
His heart leapt in his chest. He had only seen her a few short hours ago, at breakfast, but somehow, it felt like days ago.
She looked particularly lovely today, he thought, as his eyes swept over her. Windswept from her walk, her black hair falling from the bun, twisted on the nape of her neck. She was wearing a gown of the palest peach; so pale it was almost white. It contrasted with the duskiness of her skin.
Her large, velvet brown eyes were a little wary as she beheld him.
“You wanted to see me, James?” Her voice was like velvet, too, rich and warm.
Her eyes flickered around the room. She didn’t seem comfortable in here at all; almost as if she was intruding. But then, shehadtold him that it had always been his sanctuary, his own private space. Perhaps she rarely came in here.
He nodded slowly. If only he could jump to his feet and take her in his arms, sink his lips into her windblown hair. Or pull her towards him, tipping her onto his lap, while his hands roamed over that beautiful body…
“James?” Her head was tilted to the side, staring at him, a quizzical expression on his face.
“Sorry,” he said, shaking his head, to dispel the image. “You just look so beautiful. You take my breath away, Adaline…”
Her cheeks turned pink with pleasure, and she ducked her head, like a bashful girl. It never ceased to amaze him that such a beautiful woman seemed so uncertain about her loveliness, as if it was a surprise that he should say such things to her.
He tore his eyes away from her, picking up the portrait. It seemed to sit heavily in his hand, as if it weighed far more than it did. As if it were dragging him down, in some strange way.
“I found this in the top drawer of my desk,” he said, holding it out towards her. “I have not been in here much since the accident, but I cannot recall it being there before. I cannot recall anything about it.” He paused. “Do you recognise the woman? Is she perhaps a distant relative, or a friend of yours?”
Adaline took the portrait, staring down at the woman’s face for a long moment. Then she looked up at him.
“No,” she said slowly, shaking her head. “I do not know her at all. I do not think I have ever seen her face before, in my life.” She handed the portrait back to him. “You found it in your drawer, you say?”
