Page 74 of Lord Carlisle's Enticing Lure
Since she had met Clive, through effort and the joy of loving him, Giselle had left the past behind her. She had the same hope for Clive, too. Old habits died hard. But she knew the path out. “We shape our future from our pasts until we learn we no longer need the old rules.”
Terese took that as inspiration, tears dotting her lashes. “It’s true. Sometimes happiness comes in great waves. My own first marriage was wonderful and brief. I hope for as much happiness, and this time, I hope for a longer period to enjoy it.”
Giselle squeezed her hands. “This union with Langley will be a delight. I have seen you together. I see the potential there. Just as I know joy is possible for Clive and me.”
“People hurt each other needlessly. To maintain their pride or—”
“Control.”
Terese’s gray eyes flashed with a recognition of Giselle’s revelation. “I will be delighted and honored to call you my sister-in-law. Shall we go down?”
“I am very ready.” Giselle strode to the bedroom door.
But as she passed the stacks of her drawings and sketches, she paused. As if caught by a thread, she glanced down at the collection of her works of Brighton.
“What’s the matter, Giselle?”
“I…I need a moment. I…” Then she bent to the collection standing against the wall. Over the past few days, she’d not had time nor the inclination to look at the items standing there. She ran her fingers through the pads and tablets and canvases.
“Giselle?” Terese pressed her. “What is it?”
Giselle shot up straight, her gaze on Terese, but her thoughts, her hopes, flying about her head. Then she picked up her skirts, yanked open her door, and ran down the carpeted hall toward Clive’s master bedroom.
There she did not stop, did not knock, but called out to him. “Clive! Clive!” She ran past his sitting room toward his dressing room. “Darling, where are you?”
There he stood, beside his astonished valet. Her soon-to-be husband, handsome in his formal black wedding attire, rushed toward her, his gray eyes burning, seizing her shoulders. “Sweetheart, what’s wrong?”
“It’s gone!”
“What? What’s gone?”
“I just looked at all my drawings and the canvases.”
“Giselle, what are you talking about?”
“Oh, Clive!” She reached up, cupped his neck, and stood on her toes to give him a big, smacking kiss. “My sketchpad is gone.”
He frowned. “I don’t—”
“My smallest sketchpad is not with the others.”
He scowled. “I did not see any sketchpad among those I brought from the cottage.”
She grinned. “Exactly.”
He crushed her against him. “My love, you better tell me what puts such light in your eyes. I am dying here of fright.”
She bussed his lips. “Sweet, dear man. The sketchpad is gone. It was small. You know the one. It was so tiny it fit in my palm. I used it often for preliminary drawings. Then put them to scale on a bigger paper or board.”
“I still don’t understand. If it’s gone—”
“But you said you were certain you took them all from the cottage.”
“I was. I did. I checked and double-checked the parlor and put all of them in the carriage.”
She leaned against him, her arms around his solid body. “My darling man, the sketchpad is gone, and it can be for only one reason.”
He pulled back, skeptical yet smiling. “Tell me.”
