Page 66 of Passion Painted in a Lady's Heart
The drape burned first, revealing the faces of Ariadne and Dionysus, of Rosalind and Sebastian. The heat liquified the paint, and their expressions, so fixed on one another, now melted away. Last to go were the eyes, still gazing at one another with that same look of love and longing. Sebastian was gone, and tears rolled down Rosalind’s cheeks as she realized the impossibility of what she had placed her trust in.
“How could you?” she said, turning to her mother, who looked at her stiffly, unmoved, it seemed, by the destruction she had just wrought.
“It’s for the best, Rosalind. We had our suspicions. I had Molly let me into your bedroom, where I found your unpleasant creation. No more. Do you understand me?” she said.
Rosalind made no answer.
“And what’s more, I’ll be ensuring the Duke of Northridge formalizes your betrothal as soon as possible, Rosalind. It’s high time you were married, and all this nonsense was over. You can put a stop to it tonight,” her father said.
Rosalind was too angry to think properly, too caught up in the awfulness of what was being said. But her father’s words made her pause, and she looked at him curiously.
“Tonight?” she asked.
“Yes, the Southbourne soiree. The earl’s stepmother invited us. I couldn’t very well say no. It would look suspicious, as though we were purposefully avoiding. You know how people are. I don’t want any hint of a scandal. But I’ll be watching your every move, Rosalind,” her mother said.
Rosalind sighed. She knew she could not win, and now she feared this would be the last time she would ever see Sebastian. Certainly if her parents had anything to do with it. She felt betrayed, and her heart was broken in two.
Tears rolled down her cheeks as she glanced at the charred remains of the painting, smoldering in the fireplace. It represented a final ending, the ultimatum of a choice made for her. Sorrowfully, Rosalind made her way upstairs, finding her bedroom in disarray, the pots of paints and brushes scattered over the floor.
“I’m sorry, my Lady. Your mother gave me no choice. She suspected something,” Molly said, when she brought Rosalind a cup of tea later that afternoon.
“It’s not your fault, Molly. She’d have found a way, one way or another,” Rosalind replied.
The maid set down the tea on the table by the window and placed her hand gently on Rosalind’s shoulder.
“But still, my Lady, I’m sorry. You should be allowed to marry who you want to. I know it’s not my place to say it or express my opinion. But that’s how I feel,” she said.
Rosalind smiled. Molly had always been a loyal maid, and a dear friend, too. She had kept the secret of the paintings, but there had been nothing she could do to prevent their discovery by Rosalind’s mother.
The secret was out, and while Rosalind felt resigned in her sorrow, she was glad she had told her parents the truth. She loved Sebastian, and there was nothing more to it than that. Her mother could force her to marry the Duke of Northridge, but she could not force her to love him.
“It’s very kind of you to say so, Molly. I’m so grateful to have you,” Rosalind replied, taking out a handkerchief and dabbing at her eyes.
“What will you do now, my Lady?” she asked.
Rosalind sighed. She had not thought that far ahead, the shock of the confrontation over the portrait enough to make her feel only despair as to the future. She had not expected things to be easy, but she had hoped to explain the truth of her feelings in her own words and in her own time.
Now, all she could do was imagine the possibility of her father carrying out his threat. Richard would be summoned. The matter discussed, the betrothal formalized. It was a business arrangement, and Rosalind was the commodity.
“I don’t know, but… I won’t stop painting, Molly. I can’t. She won’t stop me. Did she find… everything?” Rosalind asked, and the maid smiled and shook her head.
“No, my Lady. The painting was enough to scandalize her. The rest of the things you hid, the blank canvases, the unopened paint pots, they’re all still hidden away,” Molly replied.
“Then I’ll start again,” Rosalind said, determined not to be downhearted, even as it seemed her dreams of Sebastian would now be confined to her mind, rather than depicted on a canvas.
Chapter 28
“There you are, my darling, immortalized,” Sebastian said to himself, stepping back and smiling at the sight of Rosalind depicted on the canvas before him.
He had been working on the portrait all day, hiding himself away from the preparations going on downstairs. Sebastian had no desire to play host at a soiree, to find himself the object of whispers and gossip. The ton would come, of course, to view the madman was a pastime few would miss, and Sebastian shuddered to think of himself as both of an object of ridicule and pity.
“Perhaps I should just leave,” Sebastian thought to himself, remembering John’s words about a visit to Norfolk or Bath.
The thought was appealing. A chance for the fresh sea air of the Norfolk coast, or to take the famous waters in the baths that gave the city its name. Sebastian paused, looking at the portrait of Rosalind, his feelings torn. He could not just abandon her. He did not want to abandon her. He wanted to be with her. She was his every desire, and yet.
“An impossible one, too,” he told himself, shaking his head, as he took a fine brush and began to paint the detail of Rosalind’s eyes.
He knew them intimately, and as he gazed at the canvas, it was as though Rosalind was looking back at him, just as she had done at the parting of their lips in the alcove at Thornbury House. She was beautiful, in his mind’s eye, on the canvas, in every way.
