“I . . . yes,” I replied with a defiant lift of my chin, wrapping my arms around me. But as he continued to stare at me, I felt compelled to add, at least for the sake of honesty, “Eventually.”
His eyes continued to search mine, looking for something. “So, this . . .” He dipped his head toward the painting. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. “This is how you see me?”
Hearing his voice so choked, I couldn’t find my own. My gaze darted to the canvas and then back to him where he stood waiting for me to speak, his hands clenched at his sides. I didn’t know what he saw when he looked at the portrait I’d painted of him, what had so upset him, but I could not lie. I alone had painted this, from memory, from my own thoughts and impressions of him. From my own heart.
So I nodded.
Suddenly he was before me, and I staggered back a step before his hands came up to stop me. Almost urgently, he reached out to cradle my face, his callused hands rasping against my skin. His eyes were bright with an emotion I’d only seen briefly before, if ever. An emotion that made my heart stutter in my chest. And I was terrified that my own eyes reflected it back at him.
I inhaled swiftly, closing them, and a moment later felt the warm press of his lips against mine. My entire body tingled at his touch, and I reluctantly and then enthusiastically tumbled into his kiss, eager to block out all the worries and doubts tumbling about inside me. It was easy to get lost in the pleasure of Gage’s mouth on mine, but this time it was not the skill with which he kissed me, but the eagerness, the desperation of his embrace. It was far more potent than any of the other tricks he could conjure, and soon had me weak in the knees and gasping for breath. I clung to the lapels of his deep blue coat, still dazed with passion when he lifted his mouth from mine.
His breath escaped in short puffs when he leaned forward to press his forehead against mine. “Kiera.” He spoke my name like it was a benediction, and it made my breath catch. “I don’t know how or why I resisted so long, but I find I no longer can.” He stared down into my eyes, so close to his, and I felt the bottom drop out of my stomach. “Kiera, will you marry me and make me the happiest of men?”
My heart swelled with joy at the same time that my lungs seemed to expel all of their air. I pulled back, but he would only let me go so far. “Gage,” I stammered, not knowing what to say or how to say it.
He stared down at me so hopefully as if someone had shone a light behind his eyes.
“Are you asking me because of the portrait?” I asked in confusion, stalling for time.
“Well, yes, I suppose. It certainly gave me the courage to try.” His lips curled into a tender smile.
“But . . . I don’t understand.” I glanced toward the canvas, trying to comprehend what he had seen. “Because that’s the way I see you?”
He could sense my distress, and some of the light faded from his eyes. “You see, I wasn’t sure before. But now I am.”
I finally managed to pull away from him, and wrapped my arms protectively around my middle, where my stomach swirled. I shook my head. “I . . . I still don’t understand. Sure of what? My artistic ability?” Of wanting me? The last went unsaid. I simply couldn’t voice it.
Gage’s gaze turned scolding. “Kiera, you know I’ve been aware of your artistic talents for quite some time.”
“Then what? Why are you asking me to marry you?” I pleaded in frustration.
He searched my face, and whatever he saw there made his eyes harden. “You don’t want to marry me.” He spoke in that emotionless voice I so loathed.
“Yes. No.” I pressed a hand to my forehead and whirled away. “I don’t know.” My heart pounded in my chest, making it difficult to catch my breath. “You confuse me,” I told him accusatorily, in an unconscious echo of our conversation in the carriage on the day we visited St. Boswells. But if I’d thought he was perplexing then, how much more so was he now.
“How do I confuse you?” he bit out, his body stiff. “I asked you to marry me. What could be less confusing than that?”
“Yes, but how do you know it wasn’t a spur-of-the-moment decision?” I flung my arm out to gesture to the painting. “Because of the portrait. How do you know you won’t regret it later?”
“Because I know my own mind.” He glared at me. “But it sounds like you don’t.”
“Of course I don’t! Because you won’t explain anything to me. We . . . we’re nothing alike. You’re charming and adored, and I’m . . . I’m a pariah. I can’t understand why you would want to be with me. Unless . . .” I inhaled shakily. “Unless it’s for another reason.”
His eyes narrowed to slits. “Like what? For your artistic abilities? Your investigative skills?”
“Yes,” I snapped, hating his derisive tone.
He drew himself up to his greatest height, staring down his nose at me. “Kiera, I am not Sir Anthony.”
“I know that,” I retorted angrily. My chest rose and fell rapidly. “But . . .”