Page 61 of Passion Painted in a Lady's Heart
“Someone wants to make out I’m mad,” Sebastian said.
He feared these words would make him appear mad. To deny madness, to make out as though others were causing it, was that not madness? But to his surprise and relief, Rosalind nodded.
“I thought as much myself…well, perhaps not entirely. But it didn’t make sense. You’re not mad. I haven’t seen the slightest trace of it in you. It’s different for everyone, I suppose. But I don’t believe you’re mad, Sebastian. I just overheard your stepmother talking to Lady Helena.
I didn’t like it. It was as though Lady Helena wanted you to appear mad, to be mad…I had to tell you. And I heard them once before, too, discussing you. I wasn’t eavesdropping, but…” she said, her words trailing off, as Sebastian stared at her in astonishment.
“They were talking about me?” he asked.
This only served to add to his suspicions. Was the whole ton part of a conspiracy against him? He had never liked Lady Helena. She was a woman interested in the affairs of others for her own gain. The sort of person who gathered information with the intention of deploying it at the moment of her own advantage.
Was she in league with Sebastiana’s uncle? The thought filled Sebastian with dread. He could trust no one, except Rosalind, of course. She nodded.
“Lady Helena seemed very interested in the manifestation of your apparent madness. I didn’t overhear the whole conversation. I was out in the garden, you see. But it was clear they were talking about you, and Lady Helena wanted to know as much as possible,” Rosalind replied.
Sebastian sat down with a heavy sigh. The thought of his being discussed in such a manner angered him. His stepmother had no right to say such things, even if she believed them to be true. But the dilemma of what to do remained. Rosalind sat down next to him, and to Sebastian’s surprise and comfort, she slipped her hand into his. He looked up at her, and she gave a weak smile.
“I’m sorry you’re involved in all of this. You shouldn’t have to be. It’s not fair,” Sebastian said, but Rosalind shook her head.
“I want to be. I am. I don’t believe you’re mad. I know you’re not. But I wish you wouldn’t let it hold you back,” she said.
Sebastian looked at her with a confused expression. What did she mean? He was not holding back. There was nothing to hold back from. She was an impossibility, even as his feelings for her could not be denied.
“From what? I don’t understand,” he said, and she took both his hands in hers.
“You’re forever denying your feelings, Sebastian. I suppose I am, too. I was upset this evening when you didn’t talk to me. I wanted… oh, it’s all so difficult. I don’t want to marry the Duke of Northridge, but if you won’t… if I don’t know… I don’t think you’re mad, and I don’t want you to hold back. Perhaps I’m making a dreadful fool of myself…” she said, stammering, as Sebastian now realized what she meant.
His heart was beating fast, their hands clasped together, and now, hardly thinking of or caring for the consequences, he drew her into his embrace. Their lips met in a passionate kiss, the sort of kiss they had so often seen depicted in the works of art they had gazed at together.
The paintings Sebastian knew Rosalind imagined herself to be a part of. He clasped her in his arms, their foreheads resting together, their lips parting for just a moment, before their kiss continued, their unchained desires overtaking them in the passion of what they now shared.
“You’re not making a fool of yourself. It’s me who’s been the fool. I held back Rosalind. I didn’t know… I desired you, but it seemed an utter impossibility. Now I know it isn’t, but… what about the rest… what about your mother? The Duke of Northridge?” Sebastian asked, momentarily brought back to his senses by the thought of the consequences of what they had just shared.
Rosalind drew back, gazing into his eyes. She smiled, a smile of such affection, such reassurance, as to make him actually believe what they had shared was a possibility of something more to come. He had held back on his feelings for too long, his true feeling. Even as he had wanted to protect her from the apparent madness engulfing him.
“What about us? What about how we feel?” Rosalind asked, and Sebastian breathed a deep sigh of relief.
He had denied himself for too long. He had held back his feelings, even as they had only grown stronger. To deny such feelings was an impossibility. He could not do so any longer. He loved Rosalind. He loved her more and more with every passing day. She was like a scene from a painting, now come alive, inviting him into her portrait. They could be lovers, just like those they had seen depicted at Somerset House. Painting their own picture, a picture of love.
“Then nothing else matters,” Sebastian replied, as leaning forward, he kissed her again, the fullness of his desire now given over to her, the truth of his feelings revealed.
***
As their lips parted, Rosalind smiled. Sebastian brushed the hair back from her cheek, and she rested her forehead against his, glad to be in his arms, and grateful for the reassurance of his embrace. This was what she had imagined; what she had desired. It was just like one of the paintings, but now, Rosalind really was a part of it, no longer in her imagination, but in truth.
The alcove, with curtains held back by plush cords, and the window seat with its cushions, was like a frame itself, and for just a moment, Rosalind allowed herself to believe the scene could last forever.
“Nothing else matters. No, just the two of us together,” Rosalind whispered.
She had searched everywhere for him, and had almost given up, when a corridor had led to the back stairs and up to the place where she had found Sebastian sitting in the alcove. She had wanted to tell him about what she had overheard in the garden, even as she had feared it might cause more problems for him. But the truth was what mattered, and Rosalind wanted to reassure Sebastian as to what she knew to be true.
“There’s more, too. I’m sorry about earlier. I’ve been terribly distracted. But I discovered something terrible,” Sebastian said, and now he explained to Rosalind what he had discovered about the cigar case and the note to the land agent.
“But you’re right. You couldn’t have written the note. The shaky handwriting is obviously a forgery, isn’t it? Someone’s trying to make you believe these things, but who would do such a thing?” Rosalind asked.
She had her suspicions, even as it seemed wrong to accuse Lady Soutbourne of such a thing. There was no proof, and yet it was all so clear to see.
“My uncle, perhaps. He’s here tonight. You might’ve seen him when we arrived. My father never trusted him, nor do I. I haven’t seen him for years. Then all of a sudden, he returns, filled with concern as to my apparent condition. But if I know I’m right about the note, and the cigar case, I could be right about other things, too,” Sebastian said.
