“I’ll be up in a minute,” I replied, and he nodded.
Once he disappeared around the corner, I began to aimlessly wander the rooms on the ground floor—the drawing room, the study, the library, the dining room. It was something I’d found myself doing often since my return two months prior. I still wasn’t sure what I was looking for.
Eventually, I ended up in my little corner of the conservatory, standing before one of my easels. I hesitated, just for a moment, before reaching out to lift the cover off the portrait sitting there. It was the cook’s granddaughter, the same painting that had caused me to fling down my palette in frustration the previous afternoon. But here in the shadows, which were broken only by the pale waning moon, painting the portrait didn’t seem so intimidating.
I carefully lit two lamps and positioned them to better illuminate the portrait. Surprisingly, it was not as badly executed as I’d expected. No, it was not up to my usual skill, but it was certainly far from an abomination. Perhaps with a little more work, and a little more patience, it could be salvaged. Or I could try something new.
I glanced at the blank canvases I had prepared stacked in the corner. My fingers twitched with eagerness.
I began to shake the thought away, as I’d done for weeks, but this time I stopped. Should I not at least give it some consideration? I’d been suppressing the desire to paint Gage for months, it seemed, though I’d sketched him countless times. It had made sense when I was trying to avoid thoughts of him, to push him from my mind. But now that he was here, sleeping across the hall from me in my childhood home, what was the use?
The same fear that had nagged me since finishing William Dalmay’s portrait began to crawl up inside me, but this time I took a deep breath and angrily squashed it. I was tired of letting it control me. Perhaps if I gave in to the urge and painted a portrait of Gage, it would be the worst thing I’d ever created. But chances were, it would not. Just the fact that I was itching to hold a brush between my fingers, to breathe in the noxious bite of turpentine, to find the exact mixture of pigments that would duplicate the color of Gage’s eyes, gave me a sudden thrill of hope.
I closed my eyes and pressed a hand to my speeding heart. And as if my thoughts had conjured him, I felt the heat from the very man materialize behind me.
“I thought I’d find you here,” he murmured, his deep voice brushing against the side of my neck and raising gooseflesh.
“Must you always walk so stealthily?” I demanded, glancing up at him over my shoulder.
He merely smiled in his enigmatic way, his eyes warm and teasing. “I didn’t know I was being so quiet. I’ll remember to stomp next time.”
I arched a single eyebrow in chastisement and turned back to my easel. “What are you doing here?” I asked, my voice sounding more breathless than I’d expected.
“Looking for you.”
“Yes. I gathered that. But why?”
“Do I need a reason?” he asked, turning me to face him.
“No,” I admitted, feeling somewhat flustered by his presence so close to me. “But you usually have one.”
His gaze told me he sensed just how I was feeling. “Maybe it’s only for this.” And he pulled me close, cradling my chin in one hand, and kissed me. I fell into the moment, eagerly returning his affection. He smelled of sweat and starch and the spicy yet woodsy scent of his cologne, and tasted like the whiskey we’d placed in a decanter in his room. But as time stretched, I became urgently aware of our exposed location, of the doubts and questions still unaddressed between us, and pushed him back.
“Wait.” I gasped, still wrapped in his arms. “What if Trevor sees us?”
I was pleased to hear that his breathing was just as ragged as mine. “And?”
I blinked, confused by his lack of concern. “He . . . he won’t approve.”
Gage stared down at me for a moment, as if gathering his thoughts. “Yes, I’ve noticed your brother can be rather protective of you. Though I think he could have done a better job of it five years ago when you wed Sir Anthony Darby,” he added, his eyes turning hard.
I was momentarily shocked by the repressed fury in his voice. “Stop. My disastrous marriage was not his doing.”
“No. But he should have looked after you.”
“He . . . he did,” I protested. “It’s not his fault I didn’t confide in him what Sir Anthony was doing.”
Gage’s gaze softened at my obvious distress, and he gently caressed the back of my neck, the rough calluses on his hands rasping against the delicate skin there. “Kiera. You cannot convince me he didn’t realize something was horribly wrong. Your brother is not an ignorant lout.”