“Thank you,” she said, grinning up at him before she turned to pick up the lunch sack. “Shall we head in that direction? There’s a nice clearing where we can set down the blanket.”
“Lead the way.”
They crossed the beach to the path, which led through the woods, and Annabelle marveled at how her body was drumming with sensation from the mere sound of his shoes on the footpath behind her.
They arrived at the grassy clearing. She retrieved the white picnic blanket from the sack, along with the food and wine. “I didn’t bring wineglasses because I was afraid they would break. The best I could do was a couple of tin coffee cups.”
“Ah, but I adore a practical woman.”
He took the folded blanket from her and spread it out on the grass, where they sat down together and enjoyed a delicious lunch of turkey sandwiches, boiled eggs, and shortbread cookies for dessert.
Afterward, Mr. Edwards stretched out on his side and leaned on one elbow. “So tell me, did you bring your painting supplies as a mere ruse, or did you truly intend to be an artist today?”
“That depends,” she replied, “on whether or not I feel inspired.” She was feeling the effects of the wine, to be sure. She wondered if it was obvious to Mr. Edwards.
“Are you inspired?”
She brought the cup to her lips and regarded him over the rim as she sipped. “Yes.”
A simple answer. Direct, and probably scandalously delivered.
He sat up. “What do you wish to paint?”
She leaned forward. “You.”
“How?”
Under the current tone of their exchange, she could easily have said, Nude, here on the blanket. But she’d already been daring enough as it was.
Besides, ever since she met him, she had been thinking of only one way to paint him…
“In the boat. I want to paint you fishing, like we talked about on the train.”
He inclined his head at her. “I thought you wanted to experience the thrill of the nibble again.”
“I do, but first I want to paint you experiencing it.”
He smiled at her again. “You are lovely, Miss Lawson.”
“Thank you, Mr. Edwards,” she replied, enjoying how he flattered her.
He glanced at her easel, lying folded on the grass. “How long will it take you? Because I have a train to catch.”
“Well, I’ll sketch you today, and maybe have time to block in some of the color, but we’ll have to come back another day if you want me to finish it.”
He took a slow sip of wine. “I like the idea of you sketching me.”
“You’ll like the finished piece even more when it’s hanging over your mantel.”
His dark eyebrows lifted. “You intend to give it to me?”
“Of course.”
“I’d have to pay you,” he said.
Annabelle smiled warmly at him. “No, it would be a gift.”
“And what did I do to deserve such a thing?”
Annabelle thought carefully about how she should answer that, then decided she would simply be honest.
“You’ve inspired me. I was bored before I met you—bored and frustrated.”
He gazed at her for a long moment in the warm sunshine, looking almost puzzled. “How could you be bored? You have everything.”
Annabelle gazed up at the treetops that circled the clearing and watched a blackbird flutter into the sky. “I don’t mean to sound ungrateful. It’s just that sometimes I feel like a bit of a misfit. Maybe it’s because I wasn’t born into this life. My parents weren’t aristocrats, so I’ve never really felt like I belonged, and I’m just not like other women my age. I don’t like to gossip about people, nor do I like to shop—unless it’s for paints or brushes—and I wear these ugly boots.” She lifted her foot to show him. “And I have a cow for a pet, who often accompanies me when I go trekking over the countryside to paint.”
He studied her with smiling eyes. “What’s your cow’s name?”
“Helen of Troy. But I just call her Helen.”
Mr. Edwards smiled.
Annabelle glanced at him. “You probably think I’m strange now, don’t you? I’m sure my aunt thinks so. She calls me eccentric.”
“No, I don’t think you’re strange,” he replied with a chuckle, “because I often feel the same way—that I don’t belong.”
“Why? You seem very normal to me.”
He shrugged, and she had the distinct feeling he was not telling her everything.
Not wanting to pry, she made a joke instead. “So here we are, a couple of misfits.”
“A couple of misfits indeed. Maybe that’s why we are friends.”
Friends. But it was so much more than that.
Annabelle and Mr. Edwards continued to sip the wine while they munched on the shortbread cookies, talking about everything from his work to her family life, until they knew they had to pack up and she had to start sketching.
They walked to the beach, where Annabelle set up her easel. She looked around at the lake, up at the sun to see where it was and which way the shadows were falling, then pointed. “Can you row out there? Not too far. I want you close enough so I can see the details of you and the fishing pole.”
He pushed the boat out a few feet, then hopped in, causing it to rock until he was settled. He picked up the oars and pushed off the gravel bottom as he turned the boat around.
“Aren’t you worried I’ll leave you here?” he asked with a sly grin. “How do you know you can trust me?”
“I guess I’ll find out.”
He began to row hard in the direction she had suggested, while she unpacked her canvas and sketching pencils.
“That’s far enough!” she shouted, hearing her voice echo across the lake. “Come back a little closer!”
He rowed in a circle and headed back toward her. “How’s this?”
“Perfect! Now drop the anchor and catch some fish!”
While he hooked the bait and cast his line, she began sketching the lake and woods on the other side, capturing the rough lines of the background, then the shape and dimensions of the boat. She worked hardest on Mr. Edwards, the lines of his shoulders and arms, the position of his head, but he was difficult to capture because the boat was always changing direction.
He fished for about a half hour while Annabelle sketched him. He caught two trout, which he proudly presented when he rowed back to the island.
“Thank you for posing for me,” Annabelle said, tucking the picture into her bag.
He hopped out of the rowboat and dragged it onto the beach. “I do beg your pardon, but aren’t you going to show me your masterpiece?”
She grinned impishly. “Not yet. It’s just the sketch.”
“But I’m curious.”
She packed away her pencils. “That’s unfortunate, because you’re not going to see it until it’s completed.”
“Completed?” He sauntered slowly toward her, and Annabelle found herself gazing at the full height of him—from his head down to his boots and back up again. He was so handsome, he took her breath away.
“Just one peek,” he said.
“No, I told you, not until it’s finished.”
He raised an eyebrow and lowered his chin, smirking.
Annabelle’s stomach spun like a top as he drew closer, looking as if he intended to wrestle it out of her grasp. And win.
Clutching the bag to her chest, she backed up a few steps, knowing he was going to follow.
And oh, how she wanted him to.
Nevertheless, she wagged a finger at him teasingly. “No, Mr. Edwards.”
He stopped before her, anticipation brimming in his dark eyes. Then she laughed and bolted. She managed only about ten strides, however, before he caught her around the waist and scooped her up into his arms like a bride.
He dropped to his knees and planted her flat on her back in the grass—almost knocking the wind out of her while she laughed. He had the bag in his hand withi
n seconds, holding it high over his head where she couldn’t reach it.
“Mr. Edwards!” she called out in mock effrontery, while he grinned down at her.
“I’ll give it back in exchange for a kiss.”
She had wondered when he would ask for one. He’d been a perfect gentleman all day, and she, quite frankly, had been waiting for him to behave otherwise. She’d been dreaming of it since the moment he’d left her on the rotunda the day before.
“You, sir, are a scoundrel.”
He smiled devilishly. “A cunning one, if I do say so myself.”
She tried not to smile. She wanted to be cunning, too, but God help her, she was turning to mush beneath the heat of his gaze. Staring up at his handsome face in the sunlight, she would have given him anything he asked.
“Just one,” she replied, even though she wanted more than that, but if she let him take more, he could easily take everything. And she possessed enough common sense not to let that happen. At least not yet.
His expression went slowly from playful to serious as he set down the art case and repeated her words. “Just one.”
Annabelle wet her lips. He wet his, too, then lowered his head, kissing her gently, chastely, before drawing back and gazing down at her for what seemed a very long time.
“Perhaps one more,” she said breathlessly.
He kissed her again, and this time Annabelle cupped the back of his head in her hand, delighting in the heady sensation of his lips parting, his tongue sliding into her mouth and meeting hers.
She let out a tiny whimper and let her other hand slide around his waist and travel up under his jacket over the coarse wool of his waistcoat. She could feel the firm, strong muscles of his back. Then, before she realized what she was doing, she had parted her legs, and he had settled himself snugly between them.
His breathing changed, and he rested a hand on her hip while he moved over her, his body pulsing gently.
Annabelle wanted to devour him with her mouth—to wrap her arms and legs around him—but before she had a chance, he broke the kiss.
Appearing flustered, he said, “Are you aware that you’re on an island alone with me, Miss Lawson?”
She felt confused…bewildered…“Yes, I’m aware.”
His chest rose and fell with a deep breath. “How do you know you can trust me?”
“That’s the second time you’ve asked me that.”
His eyes clouded over suddenly. Gone was the desire she’d seen in them only seconds ago.
Rolling off her, he sat up and rested an arm on his raised knee. “I must be raving mad.”
Annabelle sat up, too. “Why?”
He shook his head, taking a long time to answer. “I’ve never been in a situation quite like this before. It’s easy to forget who we are in a place like this.”
“I haven’t forgotten who we are,” Annabelle insisted. “We’re just people. And I’m happier now than I was before I met you.”
He glanced back at her with a hint of disdain that surprised her. “Because you were bored in that palace of yours?”
Annabelle was taken aback. For a moment she wasn’t sure where his anger was coming from, but then she understood—or thought she did—and inched closer to him. She put her hands on his shoulders. “I’m not just amusing myself with you, if that’s what you think.”
“Then what are you doing? Because you know your family would never approve of me.” He raked a hand through his hair and spoke harshly. “You shouldn’t have come here with me today. You should have looked down your nose at me on the train, like your aunt did. Believe me, it wouldn’t have fazed me. I’m quite used to it.”
She stared at him, bemused, while he waited for her to say something. When she did not—because she didn’t know what to say—he shook his head and stood.
“Why did you come here with me today?” he asked. “What were you thinking? I’m a stranger to you.”
She gazed up at him uncertainly. “I don’t understand why you’re angry with me all of a sudden. Did I do something wrong?”
He glanced down at her briefly while he paced, then turned his back on her and looked across the lake. He rested his hands on his hips.
“Mr. Edwards?”
He faced her and spoke tersely. “I apologize. You did nothing wrong. I am just struggling with the logic of what we are doing. By all rights, you are forbidden to me, Miss Lawson. Forbidden. Do you understand that?” He gestured down at her with a hand. “But you’re so bloody hard to resist.”
Growing increasingly uneasy, Annabelle tugged her skirts down to cover her ankles and boots. Perhaps he was right. Perhaps it had been extremely imprudent of her to row out to a private island in secret with a man her family would never approve of.
“We should go,” he said flatly. “I don’t want to miss my train.” He offered his hand to her.
She gathered her skirts and took his hand, letting him pull her to her feet. “Will I get to finish the painting?”
She didn’t know why she was asking him that now. She supposed that despite the rising tension between them, she couldn’t bear the thought that she would never see him again.
He considered it for a moment, and then, as if he could read her mind, answered the real question she was asking. “I enjoyed myself with you today, Miss Lawson. More than I should have. I suppose my dilemma lies in the fact that I don’t wish to hand myself over to you, only to be casually tossed away someday in the future because I am beneath you. And we both know I am.”
Annabelle felt her brow furrow with both surprise and umbrage. “I’m not like that. I would never treat a person in such a cavalier manner. I don’t toss people away.”
He stared intently at her for a long moment. “But your family might. It happens all the time.”
She narrowed her eyes at him. “Did someone toss you away once? A woman? Did you love her?”
She didn’t know where that bold question had come from. All she knew was that she wanted to understand Mr. Edwards in the deepest way possible.
After a long pause he shook his head. “No, there was no woman. At least no one I’ve ever…” He didn’t finish.
Annabelle was surprised at how relieved she was to hear that he was not carrying a torch for someone. Perhaps she would be his first love.
He was certainly hers. She knew it already, because she had never felt like this before. Ever. She hadn’t even known such extreme emotions were possible.
“I want to finish the painting,” she firmly said.
He wet his lips and didn’t answer right away. His chest was heaving with indecision. Then at last he said in a quiet voice, “So do I.”
Annabelle inhaled deeply with another wave of relief. “When?”
“Next Sunday? Same time?”
A whole week seemed too long to wait to see him again. She would go insane. But in the end she agreed because there was no way around it. He had his clerkship in London.
She would simply have to accept that she would spend the next seven days dreaming of him, and fighting the insurmountable fear that he would leave her standing at the lake, waiting and waiting again, just as he had at the gallery.
Chapter 6
T he following Sunday, Annabelle arrived at the lake and was pleased to discover she would not be kept waiting—for there in the boat, casually lounging back, was Mr. Edwards.
And he was there waiting for her every Sunday afternoon for the next six weeks.
It was the happiest, most romantic summer of her life. Mr. Edwards always brought two fishing poles, and he and Annabelle spent countless hours sitting in the small boat, bobbing up and down in the waves, enjoying the summer heat and the peaceful outdoors.
It wasn’t all peaceful and relaxing, of course. One particular afternoon they argued when Mr. Edwards tried to show her how to gut a fish.
Annabelle proudly won the argument, drawing the line at hooking a worm, which she had become quite an expert at, she could not deny. She no longer squ
ealed for any reason, not even when a floppy trout landed with a splat on her boots in the boat.
And though they spoke of nearly every subject under the sun that summer, they never mentioned the argument they’d had that first day, nor did they speak of the future. If Mr. Edwards talked about his work, it was only to relay an amusing story about a coworker or customer, never to draw attention to the differences in their social positions. Perhaps they simply wished to enjoy themselves and forget how their lives differed. Or perhaps they preferred to imagine that those lazy summer afternoons would never end.
Annabelle wished they wouldn’t. She wished it most ardently when she and Mr. Edwards stretched out on the picnic blanket after their lunches, their heads together as they stared up at the sky, watching the puffy clouds drift by at a snail’s pace. They would pick out shapes of things and watch the blackbirds soar freely against the blue.
And that was always the time he would kiss her, his lips moist and soft as they met hers, tasting like red wine. All he had to do was lean toward her and her entire body would purr with the passion-filled delight of his presence and the overpowering desire for more.
But despite her feverish longings, Mr. Edwards consistently refused to do anything more than just kiss, and never for more than a few minutes. Each time, he explained that he wanted her to have choices, in case she later changed her mind about him.
“I won’t,” she always said.
“You might,” he always replied.
So their physical intimacies made little progress. And it was not until the summer’s end that she fully understood why.
It was the last Sunday in August.
Magnus leaned a shoulder against the old English oak on the hill, which overlooked Century House, Annabelle’s opulent home—an aristocratic mansion of unparalleled grandeur, set amidst terraced formal gardens and magnificent fountains.
He stood for a long time just looking at it, while his emotions were tearing him apart inside—for the summer was at an end. The sunlight and shadows had changed, the air had turned crisp, and today…
Today was the day Annabelle would finish the painting.
He glanced down and kicked his booted toe against a large exposed tree root. He thought about what he had been doing all summer—spending romantic afternoons with Annabelle, charming her into falling in love with him, never telling her who he really was.
Portrait of a Lover Page 6
