Magnus looked at it from where he stood at the window. “It’s me.”
Though how he knew that, he couldn’t be sure. It was hardly a conventional portrait.
But rules of portraiture aside, it was astounding. He walked toward it and took it in his hands, holding it up to the light to study it.
It was as if he were looking at himself through rain-covered glass. Or perhaps water. Yes, water. Deep, choppy water. There was movement, too, as if he were forever changing with the swells.
“My God, Annabelle. When did you do this?”
“The day you left.”
He studied the image of his face, then let his eyes wander to the outer edges. He looked at the colors, the shapes, the shadows and contrasts. One rock in particular caught his eye…
He pointed at it, in the top left corner. “Good Lord, you were angry, weren’t you?”
She smiled faintly. “Yes, but it was the setting that enraged me. I think this is my aunt Millicent.” She pointed at a rather bulbous boulder in the bottom corner, and Magnus chuckled despite himself.
“I believe I see the resemblance. That must be her nose.”
Annabelle laughed, and despite all their arguing just now, it was the sweetest sound he could ever imagine.
They stood in the library for a long time, side by side, looking at the painting.
“It’s extraordinary,” Magnus finally said. “I’ve never seen anything like it. Has anyone else seen it?”
“Yes. Most of London. Paris, too.”
He chuckled with disappointment. “That’s a shame. I would have liked to be the first to exhibit it.”
Annabelle smiled, but there was a deep sadness in her voice. “I’m sorry I didn’t give it to you first, but I wasn’t ready to show it to you, and I needed to…” She didn’t seem to know what to say, so she returned to the window again.
“You needed to do what, Annabelle?”
She sighed. “To be free for a little while,” she said. “I told Whitby and Lily that I needed to do something for myself, and they were happy for me and wished me well. So I went on my own to Paris and spent the past three months there, painting every day.”
He put the portrait down and followed her. “You went to Paris? Did you show your work?”
“Yes, and I spent time with other artists who shared my desire to paint in new ways. I was even included in an exhibition with Mary Cassatt.”
His lips parted in surprise. “Extraordinary. You did well, Annabelle.”
She shrugged, as if making light of it. “I’m surprised you hadn’t heard about it. I thought you might have been keeping up with what was going on in the art world.”
He shook his head. “I wasn’t keeping up with anything. I retreated from all that after I returned. I still own my galleries, but I haven’t set foot in either of them in quite some time. I suppose I needed a bit of a holiday.”
She sighed and faced him. “Magnus…”
All at once he wanted to touch her face, her lips. Everything about her was magical and vibrant. She was like no other woman he had ever met, and she had been brave enough to go to Paris and show her work with Mary Cassatt. Brava, Annabelle. Brava!
But he resisted that emotional outburst and the surging rush of his desires, for he could not let himself give in so easily. She had not given him what he’d needed last time. He’d even begun to believe that his love for her had been a fantasy all along, that she was not—and never had been—the daring girl he remembered from his younger days.
But then she began to speak, and all he could hear in his mind was the sound of her voice in that fishing boat on the lake…
“Magnus,” she said with her gaze downcast, “when you came back to London and I saw you for the first time at your gallery, I was not the person I am now.”
“That sounds familiar,” he said.
She smiled, but there were tears in her eyes. “I was so worn-out and unhappy, but you brought me back to life.”
“But I was the one who killed your spirit in the first place,” he said with regret.
“No. You just made me see that I had never really been living, and I really needed to explode four months ago. I needed to be pushed over the edge and be fearless with nothing to lose. I needed to learn that I could trust my instincts and take chances, that I could steer away from what was safe, and I did that through my paintings. Because of you. You unlocked something.”
The physical world around them seemed to almost fade away as his eyes held hers and his heart began to beat very fast. “What are you saying, Annabelle? Why did you come here?”
She strode closer. “I came here to finally take that blind leap of faith with you, Magnus, and I’m praying with all my heart and soul that you will take my hand and leap, too. That you will forgive me this time, and find it in yourself to believe that I do love you. That I’ve loved you every day of my life.” She walked to him and laid her open hands on his chest, and a shiver of need rippled through him. “And I would give anything to know that in spite of everything, you still love me. I want you back, Magnus. Please.”
She rose up on her toes and touched her lips lightly to his, and he was overcome by a love so potent that no amount of discipline or self-control proved powerful enough to stop him from taking her into his arms. Then he covered her mouth with his own.
Deepening the kiss, he pulled her as close as he could. Her lips were soft and warm and succulent as he swept his tongue inside, and all at once nothing mattered but his need to possess her. He picked her up and began carrying her out of the room.
“Where are you taking me?” she asked in a breathless voice, kissing his cheeks and mouth and neck as he headed toward the stairs.
“To my bed.”
Burning with desire after months spent dreaming of making love to Magnus again, Annabelle gave no argument.
She held tight to his strong, broad shoulders as he climbed the stairs. He carried her down a wide corridor and through to his bedchamber, lined with dark oak walls and furnished with a massive mahogany bed. The room glowed pink from the sunset outside the window.
He laid her gently onto the soft bed, then came down upon her, his body heavy and warm and insistent. She welcomed him with legs parted, thrusting her body close, sliding her hands down his back. She wanted him with every breath in her body, with every spark of passion coursing through her, and she couldn’t wait a single moment longer. She had to have him, on any terms.
“Make love to me now, this instant,” she pleaded. “Don’t keep me waiting. I’ve waited long enough.”
Obliging her reckless impatience, he didn’t even take time to get undressed. He merely reached a hand down to unfasten his trousers, tugged her skirts out of the way, and entered her in a smooth, silky thrust that stole her breath.
Annabelle tossed her head back on the pillows and gasped, as pure unadulterated rapture suffused her senses. She loved this man, she desired him beyond all else in the world, and a sheer, mad need for everything he offered compelled her to lift her hips to deepen the awesome, satisfying penetration of his arousal.
“Oh, Magnus, please say you love me,” she whispered, her breath coming short. “I can’t lose you again.” Leaning up on one elbow so he could look her in the eye, he drove into her with a steady pounding rhythm until her mind and body tingled with ecstasy, then at last he spoke, his voice a deep, husky seduction in itself.
“Of course I love you, you gorgeous misfit,” he said, pressing his lips to hers, kissing her profoundly with all the power of the thundering surf outside the window.
Annabelle smiled with wantonness. “Oh, thank God,” she cried out, squeezing her legs around him, meeting his deep thrusts with her own insatiable hunger for fulfillment. “You’ll never get rid of me now,” she said.
Magnus drew back and smiled in response, his eyes dark and impassioned with seductive teasing. “I should hope not.”
Then he drove deeper still, propping himself up on his hands. He was
rigid inside her, filling her with exquisite sensual bliss, driving her to the ends of sanity. Annabelle dug her fingernails into the fine fabric of his waistcoat as feverish, orgasmic sensation raged and prevailed.
“Marry me this time, Annabelle,” he said, just as the wave hit—when a powerful orgasm pounded through her.
“Yes,” she whispered.
Then she felt the hot pulsing of his release, deep, deep inside herself. Magnus pushed hard and spoke her name, then he collapsed upon her, heavy and out of breath.
Holding him tight in her arms, delightfully exhausted, Annabelle marveled at the tears seeping from beneath her eyelids. “You forgive me?” she asked, her voice shaky with sentiment and love.
He gently withdrew and rolled to the side, resting his hand upon her cheek. “There is nothing to forgive, Annabelle. All that matters is that we’re together now. Finally.”
“Yes, finally.” She touched his face also, running a finger over his strong cheekbone. “I’ve missed you.”
“I have missed you, too—every wretched day of my life. But all that’s over now, because you’re here.”
“Yes,” she said with a tender smile. “I’m here, and I have never felt so happy, or so at home.”
“Because this is your home. It will always be your home. Here with me.”
“It’s what I always dreamed of,” she said.
Then he rolled onto her again and filled her once more with pleasure.
Epilogue
“I s it almost finished?” Magnus asked, reaching the top of the hill where Annabelle stood before her easel, paintbrush in hand. The sun was shining brightly overhead without a single cloud in the sky, and the wind had picked up, cooling her cheeks.
“Yes.” She stood back to look with a critical eye at what she had done. “Come and see it.”
She set her palette and brush down on the ground, and held out her hand. Her husband came to stand at her side. Together, they looked at the painting—a bold mix of textures and colors, all sweeping together with swirling movement.
Annabelle tilted her head. She felt satisfied with this piece, for she truly believed she had captured—really captured—the passion and splendor of their seaside home.
Magnus slid his arm around her waist and continued to stare at the painting, while a breeze blew a part in his hair.
“I am in awe,” he said quietly, resting a hand over his heart. “It makes me feel euphoric, Annabelle. Triumphant. It’s the best thing you’ve ever done. I mean it.”
Her eyes filled with tears as she smiled at him. “You say that about all my paintings.”
He pulled her closer to him. “It’s always true.”
Annabelle returned her gaze to the painting and stared at it for a long time, feeling the genuine romance in the color of the sea, and the joyful warmth of the sunshine on the water. In the background, sailboats with bright spinnakers dotted the horizon, yet none of it was absolutely perceptible. All the images intermingled together to form a rich, colorful whole.
“You once said I would love this place,” she said to her husband as she gazed toward the sea and felt the wind on her face, “and you were right. I’ve never been so happy, never knew it was possible. I feel at peace here, Magnus.”
He took the hand that he still held over his heart and touched it to her cheek. “You once felt trapped, Annabelle. Do you ever feel that way, now that you have made a commitment to be my wife till death do us part?”
She sighed and cupped his hand in hers. “Never. Because of you, I learned to be free. You pushed me to learn it. And now that I am free, I have been able to love you without reservation, holding nothing back. I am alive now, Magnus, when I didn’t really know how to live before. But what about you? Are you happy now?”
He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. “Yes, thanks to you. I will always be grateful that you found out the truth about my father, Annabelle, but more importantly because you made me see that we can all change and grow. You are a forgiving person, and I love you for that. I’ve learned to forgive, too.”
He took her face in his hands and touched his lips gently to hers, then drew back and looked at the painting again.
“We shall never sell this one,” he said, “even though it would bring in a small fortune, to be sure.”
Annabelle rested her head on his shoulder. “Perhaps it could hang in the front room.”
“I know a better place.” His voice had become playful all of a sudden.
“Where?” she asked, though she suspected she already knew the answer.
“Our bedroom. Not over the headboard, but next to the bed, where we can see it.”
She grinned mischievously. “But that might be a waste. We’ve never been interested in looking at paintings when we’re in bed.”
Magnus considered the issue carefully, then nodded and went to pack up her paints and brushes. “You’re right, as always, but I suggest we at least try it out. Let’s go hang this masterpiece, then slide under the covers and see what we end up doing.”
Annabelle laughed, and feeling quite euphoric indeed, and overcome with a deep, loving desire for her husband, quickly went to fold up her easel.
Acknowledgments
This book is dedicated to my former editor, Kelly Harms, who has begun a new chapter in her career. Kelly, you were a dream to work with and I will miss you, but I wish you great joy and happiness in every aspect of your life.
Special thanks also to Paige Wheeler, Nancy Berland, Paula Altenburg, and especially my critique partner and cousin, Michelle Phillips, for going the extra mile for me this time. Finally, thank you, Stephen, my real-life hero, for your true love and support, and Laura, for all the best hugs and kisses.
About the Author
JULIANNE MACLEAN came to the romance genre after completing a degree in English Literature with a focus on nineteenth-century novel study. She fell in love with some of the classic romances—Jane Eyre, Wuthering Heights and Pride and Prejudice—and after a brief stint as a government auditor, she decided to try her hand at becoming a modern day romance writer. She lives in Nova Scotia, Canada, with her husband and seven-year-old daughter.
Julianne loves to hear from readers, and can be reached via e-mail through her website at www.juliannemaclean.com, or by regular mail:
c/o Avon Books Author Mail
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By Julianne MacLean
PORTRAIT OF A LOVER
LOVE ACCORDING TO LILY
MY OWN PRIVATE HERO
AN AFFAIR MOST WICKED
TO MARRY THE DUKE
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Copyright
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
PORTRAIT OF A LOVER. Copyright © 2006 by Julianne MacLean. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the
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