Page 108 of The Art of Sinning
Instead of answering, she flashed Bonnaud a stiff smile. “Your wife said to tell you she’s in the nursery and could use your advice on furniture.”
That sounded like a trumped-up tale if Jeremy had ever heard one, but Bonnaud merely headed up the stairs.
Only then did Jeremy ask, “Where are Mother and Amanda? Are they all right?”
When he tried to take her arm, she shied away. “They’re fine,” she said, not meeting his gaze. “But you and I need to talk.”
The words curdled his stomach. He managed a nod, then followed her into the drawing room. When she shut the door, dread spread through him like a noxious weed.
“What’s this about?” he demanded.
She faced him, a hollow look in her eyes. “Why did you never tell me that I resemble your late wife?”
That threw him off guard. “Because you don’t.” If that was her only concern, he could clear this up right now. “Why? Did my mother tell you that you did?”
“According to your sister, Hannah was a tall, green-eyed, dark-haired—”
“Oh, for God’s sake, you’re listening to Amanda? My sister has no visual sense; haven’t you noticed her poor taste in clothing? She’s bad with faces and colors. She only notices such things in broad terms.”
Yvette fixed him with an unrelenting stare that made him desperate to convince her.
“Hannah was tall, yes,” he went on, “and dark-haired and green-eyed. But she was also thin and frail, a delicate woman whose features bore no resemblance to yours. You’re nothing alike, either in temperament or in appearance. If you give me a moment, I’ll go find the miniature of her that’s somewhere in my belongings and show you.”
That made her pale. “You keep a miniature of her?”
“She was only my wife briefly, I’ll grant you, but still my wife. Would you have wanted me to forget her entirely after what she suffered?”
“You mean what she suffered in childbirth. When your father told the physician attending her that he should save the babe at all costs. Even if it meant the loss of your wife.”
His heart dropped into his stomach. Oh, God, no. No, no, no. “Amanda told you,” he choked out.
“Yes.” She continued in a halting voice. “She said the physician informed your parents that the babe’s head was too large and he could only be removed if your wife were cut open, or if the child was... destroyed. Your father gave the order to save the boy. But they’d delayed too long, and the child was stillborn. Your wife died a few hours later.”
Hearing the events described in Yvette’s heart-wrenching tones was bad enough, and she hadn’t even touched upon the worst part—that Jeremy hadn’t been there to stop it.
“Amanda had no right to tell you,” he said hoarsely.
“Youshould have told me.” Concern filled Yvette’s face. “She’s worried about you. And nowI’mworried about you. About us.”
He could hardly breathe. His worst fears had been realized, and it hurt even more than he’d expected. “It has nothing to do with us.”
“It has everything to do with us, if you can’t get past the death of your wife and son!”
He fought to sound reasonable, normal. “That’s absurd. It’s been twelve years. Of course I’ve gotten past it.”
“Really? I don’t think you realize how little you have.” Her cheeks ashen, she stalked over to a sofa and pulled something from behind it, then set it in front of him.
Art Sacrificed to Commerce.
“What in thunder? You broke into my luggage? Took out my unfinished work, which I expressly forbade you to view before it was done?”
“I impressed upon Damber the importance of the situation, and he pried open the box.”
“The ‘importance of the situation,’” he said, mocking her serious tone. “I can’t see what my painting has to do with anything.”
“For one thing, the woman doesn’t resemble me in the least.”
“I know! I keep working to get her face right, but I can’t. I think it’s the shadows or... Damn it, I don’t know. But I don’t understand why my incompetence as an artist has anything to do with us.”
