Pulling my long white evening gloves from my hands, I tossed them aside and lit the lantern by the door. The warm winter cloak was the next to go, dumped onto a box in the corner, even though it was freezing so far up, without a fire to warm the room. I pulled my old, paint-splattered shawl off the hook on the wall and wrapped it around my shoulders, tying off the ends. I shivered at the touch of the cold, stiff cotton, but I knew it would quickly warm from my body heat.
I considered leaving off my apron, but I was certain my sister would maim me if I stained the fabric of this dress. I had to admit, it really was a lovely gown. In truth, I should go change, but I was in no mood to face anyone, even Bree, and Alana was far more likely to attempt to corner me there than here. She avoided my art studio like the plague, saying the fumes made her nauseous.
So instead I donned the apron and tied off the strings at my back with a yank. I lit a second lantern and positioned it and the first one to allow me the best lighting, and then peeled back the cloth over Caroline’s half-finished portrait. I studied it for a moment, noting what colors would be needed, and then set to mixing them.
I stood shivering by the cracked window in my studio, hoping most of the fumes from the crushed pigments and linseed oil I stirred would be coaxed out into the night air. But even so, my eyes and my arms burned, though I suspected the first was at least partially from suppressed tears and the latter was from the exertion.
Images of William Dalmay sitting on the edge of the roof of Banbogle Castle minutes before he died kept flitting through my mind, as well as the crumpled body of the old caretaker Dodd with his young apprentice Willie kneeling over him. But most of all I kept seeing Gage. The way he’d looked at me as I descended the stairs tonight, and then the tight panic that suffused his features as that young debutante had revealed his engagement to Lady Felicity. I didn’t know whether to weep or scream.
So instead I stirred—and crushed and ground and pulverized—until the Van Dyke Brown and Mars Yellow I needed were smooth and ready to apply. I worked swiftly, trying to block out all the emotions and unsettling thoughts that threatened to break me apart. I had no idea whether the paint I was applying to the portrait was making it better or ruining it, but for once I didn’t care. I just kept brushing it on, stroke by stroke.
I wasn’t certain how long I’d worked before someone knocked on the door. I ignored it, but my sister was not so easily deterred.
“Kiera,” she called softly, rapping again. “Kiera, I know you can hear me.” When I still didn’t reply, she sighed. “Mr. Gage is here to see you.”
I stiffened, lifting my brush from the canvas.
“Tell him to go away.”
“Kiera,” my sister chided, though her voice was soft with concern.
“I have no desire to see him.” My voice was as hard as chipped ice. “Send him away.”
I stood still, waiting for Alana’s next argument, but it did not come. A moment later I heard her steps move away from the door.
I turned back to the portrait, staring blindly at the swirls of color. I closed my eyes tightly and bit down hard against the surge of emotion that rose up inside me, pressing on my chest.
I felt like such a fool! Of course Gage would never have any real interest in me. He was the golden boy and I was an outcast. How could I for one moment have believed he could truly want me? What he wanted, what he was enamored of, was the assistance I could give him, the skills I could bring to bear in his investigations. It was just like Sir Anthony all over again. Except Sir Anthony had been interested in my talent with art. And he had been offering marriage.
I must have misunderstood that evening in my studio at Blakelaw when Gage had declared his desire to explore our relationship. Or he had deliberately misled me, knowing all the while that he intended to marry Lady Felicity?
I suddenly didn’t know what was worse—the crushing sense of betrayal I’d felt when I discovered that Sir Anthony had married me only to sketch his dissections, or the devastation I now felt knowing that Gage, a man I had allowed myself to trust, and yes, very likely to love, had deceived me in such a cruel way.
I blinked open my eyes, and forced my brush to the canvas, glaring at it through a watery haze. The lump in my throat would not be swallowed, but I continued anyway, refusing to dissolve into sobs. Each stroke became easier, and the slight tremor in my hand had even begun to subside.
That is, until the door to my studio opened with a sharp thrust, stopping just short of crashing into the wall by the strong hand that gripped the doorknob.
I straightened, but did not turn to look at the intruder, too afraid my recent thoughts would be reflected in my eyes. Instead, I stared at the swirls of paint coalescing before me and bit out: “I have nothing to say to you.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
“What the bloody hell were you thinking walking back here alone,” Gage snapped, advancing into the room.
“That’s none of your concern,” I retorted.
“The hell it isn’t!”
“Shhh!” I turned to hiss. “The nursery is just at the other end of the hall. I don’t think my sister would take kindly to you waking her children.” I glared at him. “Or teaching them such foul language.”