Page 67 of Passion Painted in a Lady's Heart
“I can’t leave her,” he said to himself, sighing and shaking his head.
On the walls around him, and stacked in piles against the walls, the paintings of his feelings, the swipes of paint, the streaks of color, the expression of his emotions. Sebastian had so often used the canvas to display his feelings, but now his feelings were clear, and before him, the object of those feelings looked back.
“I love you,” he whispered, touching his finger to his lips, and placing them on the smooth depiction of Rosalind’s countenance, the unflinching eyes gazing back at him with the look of love he had purposefully given her.
But a painting would not be enough. It could never be enough, just as a dream could never be enough, or even the depths of his imagination. Only she would do, in all her fullness, and despite every obstacle, every difficulty, Sebastian knew those feelings would never change.
***
“The Lady Augusta Shellington-Painswick, accompanied by the Honorable Lady Elizabeth Shellington-Painswick,” the master of ceremonies said.
Sebastian stifled a yawn. It seemed his stepmother had invited the whole ton to the occasion of her Southbourne soiree, and now Sebastian forced a smile to his face, as a large woman, dressed in a voluptuous purple dress, covered in pearls and sashes, and wearing a diamond tiara on her wig approached, accompanied by a gaunt young woman, whose face was overly powdered, matching her ivory gown.
“Lady Shellington-Painswick, how nice to see you,” Sebastian’s stepmother said, greeting the woman gushingly, as she had done every other guest.
“Lady Southbourne, it’s a pleasure to be here,” the woman replied, before turning to Sebastian with a sympathetic look on her face.
“My Lady,” Sebastian said, taking Lady Shellington-Painswick’s hand in his.
The sympathetic look was one Sebastian was now used to. All the guests had adopted it, even as they had not been explicit as to the reason for their sympathy. But the matter was clear. They had come to gawp and to do so would require a modicum of forced sympathy.
Lady Augusta held Sebastian’s gaze for a moment, perhaps trying to discern something of the madness she had no doubt discussed at length in every salon and drawing room she had visited during the season.
“It’s a pleasure to see you, my Lord,” she said, and her daughter said the same.
This process was repeated over and over again, as footmen hurried back and forth, ushering guests into the rooms set aside for the soiree. Sebastian’s stepmother had spared no expense in making the arrangements, and along with the master of ceremonies, she had hired a considerable number of staff for the evening, instructing that glasses were to be constantly replenished, and having ordered far more food than could possibly be eaten.
“You’re doing very well, Sebastian. It helps having the master of ceremonies. Even I can’t remember who I’ve invited,” Lady Southbourne whispered.
Sebastian nodded, and he was about to reply when a familiar name was called out.
“The Duchess of Lonsdale, accompanied by her daughter, the Lady Rosalind Fairchild,” the master of ceremonies called out.
Sebastian’s heart skipped a beat. He had been waiting for the name to be called out, and yet somehow, it now came as a surprise, too. He glanced towards the door, and there she was, resplendent in a beautiful red dress, wearing a necklace of diamonds, the perfect picture, just as Sebastian imagined her to be. He smiled at her, their gaze meeting as Sebastian’s stepmother held out her hand to Rosalind’s mother.
“Your Grace, how glad we are to have you here,” she said.
Sebastian had been surprised to think the Duchess of Lonsdale would deign to be seen at the home of a man she had so readily denounced. But society was fickle, and the duchess showed no qualms in acceptance of the invitation.
“It’s a pleasure, truly, a pleasure, Lady Soutbourne,” she said, glancing at Sebastian, who smiled back at her, not wishing to give her the satisfaction of confirming what the duchess believed of him.
“And Lady Rosalind, how pretty you look,” Sebastian’s stepmother said.
As Rosalind moved to greet Sebastian, he could feel the duchess’ eyes on them both, and there was nothing Sebastian could do but greet Rosalind with the formality he had assumed with every other guest, too. It broke his heart to do so. All they had shared, all they knew of one another, the feelings welling up inside them.
“Good evening, Lady Rosalind,” Sebastian said, almost choking on his words, and Rosalind, too, appeared to be fighting back the tears.
“Good evening, my Lord,” she said, offering Sebastian her hand.
He raised it to his lips, imagining what could be between them, even as so much as held them back. He thought about the kiss they had shared and the passion of their being together, unbridled by the expectations of society. But here, in the starched formality of his stepmother’s soiree, only a look and a memory were permitted.
“Come along, Rosalind, we mustn’t delay the introductions,” the duchess said, and with a final glance, Rosalind stepped away.
“I’m going to take the air,” Sebastian said, stepping back, as his stepmother looked at him in surprise.
“Are you all right, Sebastian?” she asked, but Sebastian had already turned away, the master of ceremonies having announced the arrival of the Duke of Northridge.
“He’s come to gloat, and to watch our every move,” Sebastian said to himself, slipping away from the line and hurrying into his study.
