Page 34 of Portrait of a Lady
He offered her the flowers with a sheepish grin. “I know I was not due until dinnertime, but I couldn’t wait. I wanted to see you. When I first arrived, your footman knocked but received no answer, despite being quite certain you were in here. I convinced him to let me surprise you. I apologize if I gave you a fright.”
She accepted the arrangement of foxglove, crocus, and harebells, leaning against the desk and praying he wouldn’t try again to discover what she’d been up to.
“It’s all right,” she replied. “I am glad to see you. Have you just come from the Academy?”
“I have, and I am glad to see you, too.”
The bouquet fell onto the desk, forgotten for the moment as he gathered her into his arms, pressing her against the desk as he claimed her mouth in a slow, searing kiss. Evelyn went slack in his hold, tilting her head and falling headlong into the kiss. Her worries and disappointment over the events of last night fell away, and she allowed herself to enjoy his nearness. He was here now, and that was what mattered. He also seemed to be in better spirits, which she took as an encouraging sign.
He broke the kiss, reaching up with one hand to stroke her cheek. “And what have you been up to this morning?”
“Oh,” she murmured, reaching back with one hand to push her pages away. “Just composing a few letters.”
Hugh raised an eyebrow and smirked. “You must be quite a devoted correspondent. There have to be at least a hundred letters there.”
A shrill, nervous laugh tore from her throat, and her cheeks flushed. “Yes, well...keeping up with one’s friends and acquaintances is quite important, don’t you agree?”
“Of course. Should I allow myself to grow jealous wondering whether any of those are being sent tomaleacquaintances?”
He was teasing her, but she found it difficult to laugh when he stood so close to discovering how she spent her days. Would he think her utterly ridiculous, an untalented hack who dared to think herself good enough to put pen to page? God, she would be so mortified for him to actually read any of it.
He arched an eyebrow. “So many pages...one would almost think you were in here writing a book.”
She sucked in a sharp breath as she took in his words along with the smug expression twisting his mouth and making his eyes gleam. Heknew!
“Patience told you, didn’t she?” she grumbled, turning around and dislodging his hold so she could gather her pages into a neat stack. “I’m going to murder that woman.”
He hugged her from behind with a chuckle. “Don’t. She only told me so I’d understand why you might injure me with a paperweight should I disturb you. She mentioned that you were quite close to finishing your latest work, so I suppose congratulations are in order.”
Evelyn glanced at him over her shoulder, finding not a trace of amusement or ridicule in the eyes boring into her with such intensity. He appeared as if he were interested in her work, and...and something else.Proudof her for finishingThe Mad Baron.
“Th-thank you, I...I’ve worked on it for months.”
“Then you must be very pleased with yourself for finishing it.”
She turned to face him, unable to believe what she was hearing, but then realizing it was what she should have expected. The man hadn’t laughed at her when she’d thrown herself at him in a drunken stupor before accidentally tumbling off the bed. Of course he wouldn’t ridicule her now.
“I am,” she confessed. “You don’t think it ridiculous that I write Gothic novels in my spare time?”
Taking hold of her hand, he led her to a settee and pulled her down to sit beside him. “I finished my very first painting when I was only ten years old. I was so bloody proud of it. I had begged my mother to purchase a paintbox for me, knowing my father would never consent. He was never happy to see me sketching, and often derided my efforts. Well, one day my parents returned from a trip to London and my mother presented me with a gift...a watercolor paintbox and a collection of brushes. There were also canvases and an easel, everything I would need to try my hand at painting. My father hadn’t been pleased, but mother had insisted, so I was allowed to practice once I’d finished my studies for the day. I’d started several landscapes but never finished one, was never satisfied with what I’d accomplished, until one day I finally completed one. I had sat on the grounds of our country estate for hours on end, trying to portray the view, wanting to get it just right.”
Evelyn couldn’t help but smile. He must have been adorable, working so diligently with his watercolors at such a young age.
“I couldn’t wait to show my mother,” he went on. “I rushed into the house and dragged her and my sister outside to show it to them. The paints hadn’t even dried yet, but I was just so damned excited to show someone, anyone, what I had done. My mother told me I showed a good deal of promise, and my sister envied me for excelling at watercolors in a way she never had. But my father…”
His jaw hardened, his hands clenching together in his lap in a white-knuckle grip.
“He’d just arrived from an outing and happened upon us on his way into the house. He took one look at my painting and laughed at me. He told me I was wasting my time if that abomination was the best I could do, and I ought to leave watercolors to the women and fix my attentions on a more dignified hobby.”
Evelyn felt her own ire rising, thinking that she’d very much like to give the earl a piece of her mind. “Hugh, I’m so—”
“Don’t,” he interjected, reaching out to rest one of his hands atop hers. “I did not tell you that story to earn your sympathy. I only wanted you to understand why you never need fear that I’ll find your own form of artistry ridiculous. I understand all too well the feeling that you aren’t good enough or that someone might laugh at you for your efforts. Patience says you have written five novels before this one, and that is commendable. I know men who speak of writing books but never find the courage to put a single word on paper. So, you’ve accomplished more than all of them and should be proud of yourself. I certainly am proud of you.”
She tried to fight the smile tugging at the corners of her mouth but found it impossible. The wide grin overtook her face as she soaked in his praise, finding nothing but sincerity in every word.
“Thank you,” she whispered, turning her hand over to lace her fingers through his.
“Now, when can I read it?”
