Portrait of a Lover

by Julianne MacLean

  But strangely now, those unpleasant memories seemed almost like a bad dream, as if they had never really happened, and the real Magnus was the wonderful man she’d come to know as Mr. Edwards—the wonderful man before her, who had been such a charming host the night before, and was donating his business profits to orphanages.

  Then Annabelle felt his gaze on her face. She turned her eyes from the window to look at him, slouched lazily on the red cushions across from her, his knees apart, one arm resting along the back of the seat.

  All her womanly senses began to hum, for he was so impossibly handsome. And his eyes…He was staring at her as if he could see straight through to her soul, as if he adored her soul and knew her as well as only a lifelong friend could.

  Annabelle sucked in a little breath and tried to deny the part of herself that felt happy—happy to be with him, the man who had for a brief time been her most precious friend.

  “Would you like to see my buildings on Park Lane?” he asked, and somehow she knew that he recognized and understood her worries, and wanted only to put her at ease by distracting her.

  He knew exactly what he was doing, she thought as she smiled and said yes, for the knots of tension in her shoulders began to unwind, and she stopped fighting so hard against the part of herself that was feeling happy. What was the point, after all? They were just going to look at a couple of buildings.

  A few minutes later the coach pulled to a slow halt on the elegant residential street, and Magnus stepped out to assist Annabelle. She climbed out and looked up at a large home. A number of workers on tall ladders were applying stucco to the exterior.

  “This one must be yours,” she said, linking her arm through his when he offered it.

  Magnus stood on the sidewalk beside her, looking up. “Yes, but when I bought it, it was two narrow, unkempt houses side by side.”

  Annabelle examined the full width of the structure. “You turned two houses into one larger home? I would never have guessed.”

  He pointed from one side to the other. “I redesigned the exterior for a unified appearance. On the inside I knocked out a few walls and installed all the modern conveniences.”

  “What extraordinary vision you must have had,” Annabelle remarked, “to see the potential of what could be done.”

  Magnus placed his hand over hers on his arm and leaned close. “There is an old adage about architecture that says visionary buildings come into being only when the designer reaches far beyond what is there.”

  The idea stirred Annabelle’s blood, and she smiled. “You have to see a blank canvas,” she said.

  “Exactly.” He gestured toward the house. “It’s almost finished. Would you like to see the inside?”

  “I’d love to.”

  They climbed the cement steps to the front door and entered the wide entry hall, washed with abundant sunlight beaming in through an enormous front window. Annabelle looked up at the high ceiling, the chestnut millwork, and the magnificent dangling light fixture.

  “It’s so bright,” she said. “And so modern with all these daring colors.”

  He’d used saffron and burgundy and persimmon, which was a refreshing departure from the sea of aesthetic conservatism that defined English art and design. It aroused Annabelle’s creative sensibilities.

  Magnus closed the door behind them and let her wander into the parlor on her own. “It’s definitely a bold palette,” he said.

  “Bold, to be sure.” She pointed at the far wall, where the fireplace was encased by a marble mantel and flanked by chestnut columns. “I love how you’ve chosen different shades of the same color for different walls.”

  He followed her in. “Not many people notice that, Annabelle. It’s very subtle.”

  “You know me. I’m a painter. I’m obsessed with color.”

  He smiled and nodded, then let her lead the way to another room. She walked through the parlor to the library, and couldn’t help admiring how the room was clearly masculine without any of the typical dark brown leather furniture and hunter green walls.

  “Magnus, it’s extraordinary. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  He came to stand beside her. “I did my best to work with the architecture already on hand. Most of the molding and paneling is original, though I’ve added some as well.”

  “You can’t tell the new from the old. It’s seamless.”

  “I’m glad you think so. Would you like to go upstairs?”

  Annabelle’s first reaction was to think of the bedrooms and worry that it would be completely inappropriate to say yes, but since there was no furniture in the house, she decided it would be only slightly inappropriate. Besides, she wanted to see what he’d done with the rest of the house.

  They climbed the curved staircase and reached the second floor, and Magnus took Annabelle by the arm. “Now close your eyes,” he said, leaning close again. “I have a feeling you’re going to like what I’m about to show you.”

  She did as he asked and allowed him to lead her down the corridor. A door creaked open, and Magnus guided her into another room.

  “Open your eyes.”

  Annabelle opened them and found herself gazing upon a veritable temple of hygiene—the most luxurious bathroom she’d ever seen, complete with a hooded bath and spray shower encased in mahogany, a private water closet with a mahogany seat and matching cistern with handcarved panels. The floors were polished marble. Gleaming tiles adorned the walls, and the water cabinet contained a basin of painted porcelain.

  Awestruck, she walked all the way in. “This is spectacular!”

  “I’m pleased you like it,” he replied, casually leaning a shoulder against the doorjamb.

  Annabelle went to touch the shiny brass fittings on the water basin. “I can’t imagine how you could design all this with such care, then put the house up for sale and let someone else live here. Aren’t you ever tempted to move in to the buildings yourself?”

  He chuckled. “I like where I live.”

  “Do you have a bathroom like this in your home?”

  He wet his lips. “I do, actually. In both homes.”

  To some people it might have seemed as if Magnus was boasting to impress, but Annabelle didn’t get that feeling. He was simply being honest with her; he enjoyed his work and wanted to share it with her, for he knew she would appreciate it.

  Which she did. Very much. How lucky he was, to be involved in such a creative profession.

  All at once she was acutely aware of his manly presence in the doorway while he watched her wander around.

  Laboring to redirect her interest back to the renovations instead of the man in the doorway, she continued to admire the fixtures.

  “You’ve come a long way, Magnus,” she said pensively. “You’ve done well for yourself. You have everything.”

  His voice was calm, unemotional. “Not quite everything.”

  Annabelle knew instantly that he was referring to her—that she was the one thing he didn’t have—and when the initial shock of his declaration wore off, her body responded with a burning surge of attraction.

  Not knowing what to say, and wishing she could not be so easily beguiled, she turned her gaze in the other direction. But Magnus wouldn’t let her look away. He pushed off the doorjamb and sauntered toward her, stopping in front of her, so close she could smell his musky fragrance in the air.

  “Would you like to see the bedroom?” he asked in a soft, silky voice.

  Annabelle’s pulse quickened at the suggestion, and a flash memory of the day he had touched her intimately on the beach flew through her mind.

  He was too close, too persuasive and enticing, and the mere mention of the word “bedroom” made her weak in the knees.

  Oh, she was in trouble now, she thought, because she almost wished the house was furnished. She could certainly entertain a few fantasies about being in a bedroom alone with him.

  She took a deep breath and shook herself. This would not do. She had to remain vig
ilant.

  “That would be very nice,” she said, with a surprising degree of aplomb.

  He stared at her intently for a moment, as if studying her thoughts, then he slowly blinked and turned to lead the way down the corridor. “It’s this way.”

  Annabelle followed him into the large room at the end of the hall, and after seeing all the bold colors throughout the house, the restrained bedchamber came as a surprise, and perhaps a bit of a relief, for it was a soothing, dignified cream with polished, honey oak floors.

  He faced her and inclined his head, and his voice was soothing as well. “I’m not sure where the bed should go. Any ideas?”

  Annabelle smiled. “Here, I believe.” She moved to stand against one of the walls and gestured with her hands. “A floor-to-ceiling headboard would be nice. The owner could sit up and look out the window at the trees across the street.”

  Magnus crossed to stand beside her, facing the window. They both imagined themselves sitting up on the imaginary pillows. “I think you’re right. Here would be perfect.”

  Annabelle watched the leafy trees blowing in the wind outside, and felt surprisingly calm and at ease. Then she turned her gaze to Magnus, who had been watching her profile.

  He was so familiar, like a well-worn shoe. But much, much better looking…

  Soon, the world diminished to a quiet heartbeat as his eyes held hers, and Annabelle wished desperately that things were different—that last night she had met him for the first time, that she had never suffered a broken heart because of him, and that her brother did not despise and distrust him.

  Because God help her, she found him so immensely exciting in every way, and he awakened her senses like no other person on the planet. She didn’t want to go home. She wanted to spend the rest of the day with him and go on talking about his buildings and what he would do next. She wanted to know everything about his life now that things were so different for him. She wanted to hear about his activities in America. What was the weather like? Did his galleries bring in many patrons? Was he happy?

  But something stopped her from asking all those questions. Perhaps she feared that if she let herself drift into his existence, she would never be able to escape.

  “I should be getting home,” she said abruptly, before she had a chance to change her mind.

  The disappointment in his eyes was almost tangible, but she did not allow herself to be swayed by it. It was vital that she continue to be prudent.

  “Of course,” he replied, offering his arm. “I’ve kept you too long.”

  Soon they were climbing back into his coach and settling in for the ride.

  It had been a magical morning, Magnus thought as he sat across from Annabelle on the coach and admired the dazzling blue of her eyes. From the very first day he had met her on the train, he’d been swept away by her lively, vivacious nature, and today he was pleased to discover that she had not lost that zest for life. She’d been excited by his renovations, and her enthusiasm was contagious.

  But she had always inspired him, hadn’t she? And he knew that if it weren’t for her, he would never have gone to America to better himself. He wouldn’t have bothered, and he had her to thank for the new direction his life had taken.

  Soon they entered Annabelle’s residential district, and he knew the coach ride would come to an end. Hence, he resolved at last to give in to the need to be closer to her, and slid smoothly across the small distance between them. He positioned himself next to her and stretched an arm across the back of the seat.

  Annabelle gazed at him questioningly, but with a hint of a smile that pleased him, for it was an honest smile. It was the smile that belonged to the young woman he had met on the train, the woman who had stood on a beach and painted him in a boat.

  “I’m glad you came to see me this morning,” he said.

  “I’m glad, too,” she replied. “I think.”

  Magnus chuckled, then ran a finger up her arm, from her wrist to the inside of her elbow, his heart thundering in his chest as he strove to control his desires—for what he really wanted to do was ease her onto her back here in the shady confines of the coach and feel her soft, lush body beneath his own.

  Her breathing changed, and he was pleased when he sensed a slight surrender. Since it was not in his nature to ignore an opportunity, he spoke frankly.

  “Annabelle, I know you’re having a hard time trusting me again, but I wish you would give me another chance. Why don’t we have dinner together tomorrow evening?”

  She looked him in the eye, as if studying him, searching for answers. “I’m not sure that would be a good idea.”

  “Please consider it. We could start fresh and get to know each other again. I’m sure you’ll see that I’m not the man you always believed I was.”

  She looked down at her tightly clasped hands in her lap. “Magnus, I have spent the past thirteen years trying to get over what you did to me, and though I am grateful for what you did for me in the gallery, and I enjoyed myself with you this morning, I’m not sure I’m ready to let you back into my life.”

  “But Annabelle—”

  She shook her head. “It’s not that I want to hold a grudge against you, or that I am unable to accept your apology. The problem is that I am afraid of getting hurt again. Love and the notion of handing my heart over to anyone makes me uneasy. I just can’t do it. Not yet.”

  Magnus couldn’t move. A pain even more excruciating than he had felt that day outside the bank throbbed inside his chest as he listened to Annabelle speak and he contemplated what he had done to her. He’d felt remorse many, many times over the years, but never as deeply as he felt it now, looking into her eyes and realizing what he had cost her. He wanted so badly to fix it. If only he could go back.

  “I’m so sorry, Annabelle,” he said, then he couldn’t think anymore. He needed her to know how much he regretted the years they’d spent apart, and how desperately and passionately he still loved her.

  He leaned closer to tell her with a kiss.

  A surge of relief coursed through him when her soft lips parted in response and she took his face in her hands. He had dreamed of this for so many lonely years, but never dared to imagine it would happen.

  Astonished at the overwhelming violence of his feelings—for he wanted her more than life itself—he curled his fingers around her gloved hands, inching closer to her on the seat, deepening the kiss. He wanted to take this further, to claim her for his own once and for all and never let her go again, but he knew he could not. She was a wounded creature, and he had to be patient, or he would scare her away forever.

  Drawing back from the kiss, he touched his forehead to hers. “You don’t need to protect yourself from me, Annabelle. You have my word, I will never hurt you again.”

  She shook her head, old fears and uncertainties resurfacing in her voice. “But how can I trust your word? I trusted you once before and you betrayed me. Besides that, you’re still my brother’s enemy. That has not changed.”

  “But that shouldn’t matter because he’s wrong about me,” Magnus replied, more than a little frustrated by his cousin’s persistent influence upon her. “He’s always been wrong.”

  Annabelle’s cheeks became flushed with red; her eyes revealed an inner turmoil. “But how can I take your word over his, when I’ve known him all my life, and I know he is a decent, honorable man? I don’t know the same of you.”

  She looked down at the floor, seeming angry all of a sudden. Whether that anger was directed at herself or at him, he did not know.

  “This shouldn’t be happening,” she said.

  No…She was retreating…

  So he kissed her again, deeper this time, and surprisingly, she surrendered to him once more, parting her lips and moaning softly as he took her into a full embrace.

  It was all the assurance he needed. She did still have feelings for him, even though she was doing her best to resist them.

  He felt the coach slowing and knew they’d reac
hed her brother’s residence, so he gradually withdrew from the kiss.

  “Tomorrow night?” he asked, feeling revived and rejuvenated. There was hope. He knew there was.

  A shadow of fear filled her eyes. “No. I’m expected back in the country tomorrow.”

  “Don’t go. Stay another day.”

  “Magnus, please. I can’t do this.”

  The coach rolled to a stop, and before he had a chance to get up and assist her out, she climbed over him and got out on her own, then stood at the open door.

  “You can do it, Annabelle. Just give me one night.”

  She stared uncertainly at him. “Thank you for the ride.”

  Then she shut the door in his face and ran off.

  He considered going after her, but what if Whitby was at home? No. Magnus knew if he engaged in a confrontation with her brother, it would not help matters. It would spoil everything, for that situation was particularly volatile.

  So the coach lurched forward, and Magnus let his head tip back upon the seat, wondering how he was going to survive another day not knowing if she would ever find the courage to trust him again.

  And for the first time in many years, he felt the roar of his old resentment toward Whitby awakening inside him—like a sleeping lion he wished would keep still.

  Annabelle slept late the next morning, for she had barely slept a wink during the night. She’d been too shaken by what happened the day before and the way she’d felt when Magnus kissed her—weak and utterly swept away. She had done what she’d promised herself she would not do. She had lowered her guard.

  Resigning herself to the fact that nothing could be done to change it now, Annabelle rose from bed and rang for Josephine, who brought her a breakfast tray with her usual morning meal—a boiled egg, tea, and toast.

  She was setting the tray on Annabelle’s lap when she said, “There’s a letter for you, Miss Lawson. It came this morning.”

  Annabelle inched back against the pillows, trying not to sound too anxious or surprised, although she certainly was, for she suspected the letter might be from Magnus.

  Was it a bank note?

  That was wishful thinking.