Portrait of a Scandal

by Annie Burrows

  She sighed again. ‘You are in one of those moods where you won’t give up, aren’t you?’

  He grinned at her from round the edge of the canvas. ‘So, surrender. Tell me something. You will only doze off if I don’t keep you talking. And I don’t want to hand you a portrait of yourself snoring. It won’t be flattering.’

  Ah. That was a bit more believable. She could easily have dozed off, after the amount of energy they’d expended making love that morning. And at least having a conversation with him would keep her awake.

  ‘You told me you inherited a house from some aunt,’ he said. ‘Which made me wonder...’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Well, it is a bit unusual for you to throw in your lot with a friend, rather than return to your family after her death, that’s all, if marriage wasn’t going to be on the cards.’

  ‘Returning to my family was the last thing I’d ever do, after the way they treated me,’ she said mutinously. ‘They were so awful, when I...broke down after we parted.’

  ‘Saying you had nothing to make a fuss about, I remember you saying so. Are they all idiots? You were obviously broken-hearted.’

  She huffed out a surprised laugh. ‘I can’t believe you are the one person who can understand, and sympathise, when you were the cause of it all.’

  ‘A moment ago you said I was not.’

  ‘Don’t be pedantic,’ she snapped. ‘You started the chain of events and you know it. Only then they were all so...righteous, and mealy-mouthed, and unkind...’

  ‘As I said, idiots.’

  ‘All except my Aunt Georgie. Though, to be honest, I think she may have sided with me simply to spite my father. They’d clearly been at loggerheads for most of their lives. Anyway—’ she shrugged ‘—I went to stay with her for what was supposed to have been a short visit and ended up living there permanently. She...she was a bit of an eccentric. But we got on.’

  ‘So, I’m guessing that staying with her, your father’s arch enemy, didn’t endear you to your family?’

  ‘You could say that. Although, to be fair, when Aunt Georgie died, my father did come to the funeral holding out an olive branch. Of sorts.’ She sighed. ‘He said that in spite of my refusal to show any penitence over our estrangement, he was prepared to take me back into his home and care for me.’

  ‘Oh...oh dear.’

  ‘Are you laughing?’ It was infuriating not being able to see his face, but there was a definite trace of amusement in his voice.

  ‘Not exactly. I was just picturing your reaction when he more or less ordered you to surrender, since he thought you had no option.’

  ‘Not only that,’ she said indignantly, ‘he tried to make sure I had no options. As soon as he found out Aunt Georgie had left everything to me, he tried to overturn the will. He told me, in the presence of a lawyer, that since I was merely a woman it would be much safer if he was to handle it all for me.’

  Her father had been stunned to discover how much Amethyst was suddenly worth. He’d only been aware that his sister owned a house and a modest amount of capital. He’d assumed that because she lived so modestly, she was just eking out an existence on the interest. Instead she’d invested it in all sorts of ventures that, had he known how risky some of them had been, would have turned his hair white.

  ‘Had he held the position of trustee for his sister, then?’

  ‘No! Which was what made it all so...’

  ‘Humiliating? Infuriating? Unfair?’

  ‘All of those things. But why is it that you seem to be able to understand exactly how I felt?’

  ‘Well, my own father placed no confidence in my judgement, either. Even though I am male. Which is possibly even more humiliating, infuriating and unfair.’

  ‘So...you do not blame me for refusing to beg forgiveness and surrender my independence?’

  ‘How could I? Have I not done the very same thing?’

  ‘You mentioned, at the Wilsons’, that your father has...’

  ‘Washed his hands of me, yes.’

  ‘But what of your brothers? Do you have any contact with them?’

  ‘Not really. They are all very successful in their own professions and don’t want to risk ruining their reputations by being too involved with the black sheep of the family.’

  ‘Same here...’ she sighed ‘...with my sisters. I got invitations to their weddings, but they were too scared of what my father would say to come anywhere near me. It’s as if I don’t exist for them any more.’

  Her only value for them, she’d discovered, was her wealth. Not one of them had contacted her, in all the years she’d lived with Aunt Georgie. It was only after her father had discovered how much wealth she’d inherited that Pearl wrote, telling her that she’d just given birth to a boy, and would be honoured if Amethyst would consent to be his godmother.

  She’d very nearly thrown the letter in the fire. It was obvious that having a wealthy godmother far outweighed the risk of drawing down the wrath of an impecunious country parson. If she became Pip’s godmother, they would feel entitled to ask her for help with his education and sponsorship in his chosen career. Perhaps even make him her heir, since by then her father would have told them she’d become as confirmed a man-hater as Aunt Georgie and would therefore never marry and have children of her own.

  No wonder Aunt Georgie had gone to such lengths to conceal the extent of her wealth from absolutely everyone.

  Fortunately, Fenella had pointed out that even if it was from mercenary reasons, at least one of her family had made contact. And that she would regret it, once her anger cooled, if she hadn’t taken the opportunity to mend fences.

  ‘So...what will you do if Fenella does marry her French Count?’

  She rubbed at her forehead with one forefinger. ‘I will have to find someone else to come and live with me, of course, to give me a veneer of respectability. In a way, it won’t be all that hard, since I dare say there are any number of single, educated ladies in dire straits. Except...well, none of them would be Fenella. And I will miss Sophie quite desperately.’

  ‘Or,’ he said casually, ‘you could do something utterly radical. You could marry me. Take me home to live with you.’

  ‘What?’ She couldn’t believe he’d repeated that idiotic proposal he’d made the first time they’d made love. They were different people now, couldn’t he see that? They couldn’t go back in time and recapture the youthful feelings they’d had before they’d both had to grow up.

  Not that he’d ever mentioned wanting to recapture those feelings. He’d admitted he had been in love with her and wanted to marry her, then. But of how he felt today? He’d said nothing.

  So she feigned a laugh. ‘Oh, yes, very funny. The answer to all my problems.’

  ‘Well, not all, but possibly some, don’t you think? I don’t like the thought of you having to live all on your own. Or having to hire a stranger to live with you, for the sake of propriety. It is one thing to invite a widowed friend to live with you, but quite another to have to deliberately hire someone to stay in your home.’

  ‘Well, bringing you home from Paris to live with me, like some...overlarge souvenir is certainly not going to answer. Certainly not the part about propriety, anyway. I can just see the stir it would create, amongst the ladies of Stanton Basset, to have a disgraced politician of your notoriety come live among them. The resulting panic would be akin to shutting a fox up in the henhouse.’

  He went very quiet. And still. He wasn’t even dabbing paint at the canvas any more, just standing there.

  ‘Nathan?’ She sat up and tried to peer at him round the canvas. He was staring at the painting, his jaw hard, his lips compressed into a thin line.

  ‘You were joking, weren’t you? A man like you...well, you don’t really want to marry anyone, do you? Certainly not
to save her from facing loneliness.’

  ‘And you are certainly not that desperate, are you?’ he said.

  No, she wasn’t. But then she looked about the dingy rooms and wondered if perhaps he was. He didn’t seem to know exactly how much she was worth, but it was highly suspicious that he’d made that casual proposal just after she’d told him she had a house and admitted to an income of sorts. He would have a roof over his head, guaranteed. And if the sum total of his ambition was to spend the rest of his days messing about with paints...

  She shivered.

  ‘You are cold,’ he said, flinging his brush aside and coming across the room to drape a blanket over her. ‘I’m sorry. I know these rooms are a touch basic, but the light up here is so superb, during the day, that I didn’t care about that when I rented them,’ he said ruefully.

  ‘Of course,’ she said with a tight smile, though if he thought to fool her into believing he was living like this by choice then he’d seriously underestimated her intelligence.

  If he was angling for a wife to provide for him, he wasn’t going to admit it straight out, was he? And even if he wasn’t deliberately trying to deceive her, he was just typical of his class, who refused to admit they were in want. They’d leave bills unpaid, even flee lodgings at dead of night, rather than openly admit their finances weren’t in order.

  She pulled the quilt up to her chin, but the cold feeling in her stomach wouldn’t go away.

  ‘I think it is time I left,’ she said in a small voice that didn’t sound a bit like her.

  ‘Why? You cannot want to go back to your apartments and have to watch Fenella and Gaston billing and cooing all day, can you?’

  ‘No, but...well, I have to go back some time, don’t I? I cannot simply move in with you just because the way they carry on is making me a bit uncomfortable.’

  ‘I wouldn’t mind if you did,’ he said. ‘Though I could wish the place was a bit more comfortable, for your sake.’

  That was even worse than proposing marriage. Though it dealt with his earlier assertion that he was being careful of her reputation. A man didn’t ask a woman to be his mistress if he really cared about her, did he?

  ‘Hmmph,’ she said and stalked to the bedroom to retrieve her clothes. A wave of sadness washed over her as she was pulling her crumpled chemise over her head. If they’d married ten years ago, she was sure they would have been happy. She hadn’t any ambitions beyond the kind of life he’d described, after all. She certainly wouldn’t have minded him filling up his leisure hours with painting. It was clearly a very large part of who he was. And she would have wanted him to be happy.

  But as she swiftly donned the rest of her clothes, she reminded herself that the years had changed them both. She wouldn’t be content nowadays to live in some cottage, doing nothing more than raising a pack of children and seeing to a man’s domestic comforts.

  And he’d got used to sampling a different woman whenever the fancy took him. Why, he’d thought nothing of asking her to move in with him, so lax had his morality become.

  He didn’t really want to marry her.

  Any more than she wanted to marry him.

  They’d had their chance, ten years ago. And lost it.

  By the time she’d tidied her hair in the mirror, and felt ready to leave the room and face him, she’d drawn right back into the crusty cocoon that had kept her heart safe for so many years. Even the grin he sent flashing her way could not pierce it. It just reminded her that Nathan was dangerous.

  Because when he smiled at her like that, he could make her say yes to almost anything.

  Chapter Eleven

  Nathan flung his brush down and plunged his fingers through his hair. Oh, there was nothing wrong with the portrait itself. It was undoubtedly the best work he’d ever done. The trouble was that it was almost finished. Just like his affair with Amy. Only a few more days and she would be leaving Paris, going back to England. And he was going to lose her all over again. And this time it was going to be far worse, because this time round it wasn’t all vague dreams of a possible future he would lose. This time he knew exactly what he’d be missing.

  Because he’d gone and fallen in love with her, all over again, prickly as she was. He understood why she’d become so defensive. Life had dealt them both some hard knocks, which only made them more compatible, if anything, than they’d been as youngsters. He wouldn’t be interested in some shy, naïve young vicar’s daughter, straight from the country—not any longer. Tainted by his years in politics, corrupted by the sordid means he’d sunk to in order to obtain his freedom, he’d find such a girl insipid.

  But this older, more experienced Amy, the cynical wary woman she’d become, matched him just as he was now. He wouldn’t change a thing about her. Not one thing.

  Except her opinion of him.

  Moodily he stared at her image, staring back at him from the canvas. He’d caught a look in her eyes that...

  He flung himself away from the stool and strode to the window. He’d painted her as he wanted her to look at him, that’s what he’d done. With love in her eyes, longing expressed in every line of that sleek, lush body.

  Which was the height of absurdity. She might enjoy seeing the sights of Paris with him. Might enjoy casting off the restraints imposed on single women, to indulge in this passionate affair. But once it was time to leave, he didn’t fool himself that she was going to experience much more than a tiny pang of regret. She would be sorry to have to return to a life of dull respectability, but would she be sorry to bid him farewell?

  He didn’t think so.

  She’d told him at the outset all she wanted was a fling. And he’d thought he’d be content with that. He’d certainly never thought he’d contemplate marrying anyone, ever again. And yet when she’d turned down his guilt-induced, sacrificial proposal, he hadn’t felt so much relieved as...a bit insulted. And as the days had passed he’d begun to find the thought of her being with anyone else unpalatable. At about the same rate he’d seen that being married to her wouldn’t have been the ordeal it had been with Lucasta.

  And now...well, now he wanted her so desperately, he couldn’t stand the thought of her leaving. He leaned his forehead on a pane of glass and gazed out blindly over the rooftops of the city he’d started to think he could call home. It wouldn’t feel like home once she’d gone. It would just be one more cold, inhospitable place where he would be merely existing.

  So what was he to do? Just let her walk away? Or risk all on one last desperate throw of the dice?

  He was definitely going to lose her if he did nothing.

  But if he stood any chance at having a future with her, he’d have to tell her everything. He squeezed his eyes shut as panic clawed at his stomach. She’d been incensed with the citizens of Stanton Basset for listening to and believing unsubstantiated rumours about her friend Fenella being an unmarried mother. How much more angry would she be with him, when he told her he’d believed pretty much the same of her?

  And then there was her attitude towards his reputation. She’d made it plain she thought he was the kind of man who would take any woman to bed, under any pretext. He hadn’t yet found a suitable opportunity to explain the bitter battle he’d ended up fighting with his father, or how he’d seen that only by taking the most drastic measures would he ever win his freedom. Once or twice he’d very nearly confided in her when she’d told him things about her past that echoed his own battles for independence.

  But at the last moment his courage had always failed him. Given all that he’d done, all that he’d become, it was a miracle he’d managed to get even this close to her. He didn’t deserve her, not one bit. His father was right about him. Had been right all along. He was no good.

  So he’d kept quiet and kept on taking what crumbs she was prepared to throw him. At least for the moment she was
sharing his bed. Enjoying his company. But once she knew the depths of him, he’d forfeit even that.

  He ran his fingers through his hair again as he reached his decision. It was time he owned up. It might make her hate him, but that would only be what he deserved. Punishment. For not standing by her. A lifetime of knowing she despised him would be a just sentence, wouldn’t it? For betraying her. For betraying their fledgling love.

  He owed her the truth, so that she could understand what had happened, even if he lost her because of it. Well, he was going to lose her anyway, wasn’t he? She was leaving. And she’d made it crystal clear she didn’t want him cluttering up her tidy, respectable existence by going with her.

  He drew in a deep, shuddering breath and let his hands fall back to his sides.

  Nothing he’d done so far had helped him to breach those invisible, but very tangible walls behind which she hid. So what did he have to lose?

  Perhaps it would take the shock of hearing what had really gone wrong between them, ten years ago, to bring them tumbling down. It had, after all, taken the shock of discovering the truth to jolt him out of his own emotional prison cell. And it was beginning to look as though nothing less would set her free, either.

  * * *

  Amethyst had just picked up her bonnet, a frivolous article she’d bought from a milliner who catered to the needs of tourists, rather than Parisians, when there came a timid knock on her door.

  Fenella peeped round it. ‘Oh, you are...going out,’ she said as Amethyst set the confection of straw, lace and silk flowers at a jaunty angle on her head.

  They had not seen all that much of each other since the day of the trip to the Bois de Boulogne. Though Amethyst had made a point of seeing Sophie every day to hear what she’d been doing, she’d deliberately avoided spending time with Fenella alone. And up till now, Fenella had done much the same.