An American for Agnes (The Friendship Series Book 10)

by Julia Donner

  “Miss Bradford, are we finished for the day?”

  Agnes blinked and looked up. She’d been staring at the mouth she’d painted, the brush poised in midair. The light from the window had changed, now slanting across the floor. Afternoon. What had happened to the morning?

  “I’m so sorry, my lord! I hadn’t realized. You’ve been standing there so long. Have your feet gone to sleep?”

  “A bit but I hated to interrupt. You have a level of focus that is quite intimidating. A veritable wall of concentration.”

  She set down the brush and quickly draped a cloth over the palette. “I’m so dreadfully sorry. Mother did try to warn you. Once I get started, it’s difficult to stop.”

  “May I see what you’ve done?”

  “Certainly.” She watched him rotate his ankles before taking a step. “You’re a marvelous subject. I’ve never had anyone able to stand so still for so long.”

  She stepped back from the easel when he approached, his size looming. Accustomed to her brother’s lean figure, Loverton’s muscular build seemed so much larger in every way, even though he wasn’t as tall as Cameron. It was the impression he gave of latent power, much like a giant cat, reclining, lazy yet dangerous. Then she recalled how she’d first thought of him as a jaguar.

  She shook her head to dispel the image. Her heart sank a bit when she saw that he showed no reaction to what she’d done. “Are you disappointed, my lord? Should I put this aside and try another pose?”

  “No. Absolutely not. It’s just that—”

  “What is wrong? Do not hesitate to tell me. It’s possible to change this and still keep the outline of the book-room. Or perhaps start over completely?”

  “Please, no. It’s not a complaint, but…you’ve made me look much more appealing than the person I see in the mirror. It’s somewhat disconcerting, and a bit deceptive that this will not precisely look like…me. As I actually appear, I mean.”

  Her shoulders relaxed. “Allow me to assure you that I never improve the faces or figures of those who pose for me. People are often quite disappointed to learn that, especially those seeking…improvements. But occasionally, there are a few subjects, like yourself, who are pleasantly surprised to discover that they don’t look anything like the face in the mirror. That is a reflection. This is not.”

  A sudden smile lit his face, sending her heart into an erratic rhythm. “Lud, Miss Bradford, I’ve never thought of myself as an attractive sort of fellow. Perhaps I should have you do one for every room in the house. Yes, a capital idea! We could do one with my horse. You did one for Asterly and his horse. I recently saw it when visiting them. Then there could be one of me standing under the portico at the Grange, looking very much the contented master of all he surveys. What do you think? Can’t think of a reason not to allow as many fortunate souls as possible to bask in the glory that is my visage.”

  She pressed fingertips over her mouth to stifle a laugh, then paused when all humor left his gaze, sparking to brilliance with something warmer. She froze, heart thumping in her throat when his lifted hand neared her face. A fingertip heated the corner of her mouth when he smoothed over a spot there.

  “You left a dab of yellow this time.”

  Those intriguing lips she had identically recreated on canvas curved into a grin so tempting she couldn’t look away. Her body swayed toward him, her soul reaching out with the lifting of her chin, the yearning to press her lips to his.

  She flinched and returned to her senses when a voice called her name. “Agnes, dear, it is nearly three of the clock! You must allow the poor man a reprieve.”

  He turned to the doorway as Constance came through. “Did I not warn you, sir? She is without shame when it comes to wearing down her subjects. Come along. Tea is waiting, and my lord, Cameron is asking for you.”

  Agnes forgot to breathe when Max’s speaking gaze connected and held hers. He didn’t want to leave her. She read his thoughts as clearly as if he’d spoken them out loud.

  He moved to escort her, but Agnes shook her head and gestured at her stained smock. “I must change from this. I’ll join you shortly.”

  Reluctance gleamed in his eyes, but he tipped his head in acceptance and followed her mother out. After shakily untying the smock’s strings from behind her back, she paused to hold it in a limp grip, caught by what she’d painted. Her usual objectivity refused to emerge, to search for errors and improvements. There were none. That sometimes happened when artistic spirit moved from within, lifting her from reality and into perfect inspiration.

  She stared, drawn into the image on the canvas, his posture so straight and assured. The direct gaze from black eyes that held a hint of humor mixed with arrogance and mystery. This was a man who had no master but the direction of his principles.

  How was she going to be able to give this away? Suddenly possessed with the urge to have a duplicate image of him for herself, she moved toward the unused canvases propped against the wall but stopped. They waited for her downstairs and might not begin until she arrived.

  After carefully tipping the heavy pitcher to pour water into a basin, she picked up lemon-scented soap and scrubbed. Before she left, she peeked into the mirror to wipe away a faint smudge of color by her mouth. A vision of him rose up of the way he’d intently watched his fingertip there. A blush scorched her face recalling that she’d been about to pull him down for a kiss when her mother interrupted.

  Dismay assailed her soul, washing through, leaving in its wake cringing dread. Once again, she’d allowed herself to be easily led, tempted and coerced. And yet, she couldn’t believe that Max would take advantage of her as Vincent had. Even if she allowed her wayward passions leeway and let down her guard with Max, at least he wasn’t married. She gave her head a tiny shake to cast off shame and unpleasant memories. Adultery once in one’s life was more than enough. She must not give in to weakness.

  Chapter 12

  Max had to constantly remind himself to hold the pose. It hadn’t gotten any easier after three days of maintaining this stance. His nature preferred activity. Neither was it easy to maintain his concentration to remain motionless and unaffected when Agnes did that thing with her head, tipping it just so as she painted.

  He doubted she realized that she did it. She hadn’t noticed the way he observed everything about her as she toiled over a portrait he cared nothing about, except that it allowed him an excuse to be in her company. Her focus stayed on his exterior, exacting the tiniest line of oil to perfection, exactly the way she envisioned it. The beauty of the situation was that she had no idea he was so thoroughly absorbed in her. At one point, she’d taken hold of her wrist to hold it steady to angle the brush just so. He’d never seen anything so captivating.

  When had it happened, this total reversal of his life? The party. It had to have been when he’d first seen her. He’d instantly forgotten why he’d traveled to England. The reason, his previous drive for justice, became secondary. But soon he would face another challenge—what excuse could he fabricate once the portraits were done?

  Finding ways to be near or with her had taken control of his thoughts. Father Berger had talked about it, but until the night he’d seen Agnes, it had sounded ridiculous, even farfetched. As it now stood, he’d rather face down a dozen screaming warriors, drunken sailors, or even a charging bear than disappoint Agnes. He’d fought such adversaries and was less afraid of confronting them than disappointing gentle Agnes. It amazed him that she had no idea that she could squash him with a disinterested glance.

  “My lord?”

  He blinked to reorient. “Yes?”

  “You’re frowning.”

  “Oh! I beg your pardon.” She said nothing more and squinted at the canvas. Her scowl was a bit worrying. “Is anything wrong?”

  “No. I would like to get that bit of auburn that your hair picks up in direct sunlight. I may have to place you nearer to the conservatory when we settle on the background.”

  “The Flemish did that,
didn’t they?”

  She paused to look at him. “I thought you had no artistic talent.”

  “I don’t. Not a jot, but I love to observe.”

  She nodded and went back to the canvas, this time dragging the brush downward in a long, smooth sweep. He imagined the same movement with her palm gliding down his body. Best not to think about that until later.

  When she scowled at an imperfection on the canvas, he smiled. There was a smear of yellow on her chin this time. Her smock was so badly stained that it was difficult to tell its original designs. Under her slippers, dots of primary colors splattered across the cloth protecting the floor. Her turban perched slightly askew. A long curl the color of caramel had escaped at the nape. God, he wanted her.

  He took hold of his wandering ideas before he physically embarrassed himself, but not emotionally. Never that. He wholeheartedly embraced the fact that he loved her, but she wasn’t healed enough, not anywhere near ready for his declaration.

  When she didn’t think she was being observed, he got a glimpse of the sadness that weighed down her soul. She would laugh at something then stutter to a halt, as if happiness were a cause for guilt.

  How was he going to help her if she held her hurts so closely, too close for him to assist her? Pain sometimes did that, pushed away all offers of sympathy or comfort. He remembered that pain well from childhood, the confusion and fear of suddenly being without his parents. Loss had been easier to deal with when Father Berger died. He’d been elderly and had lived a full, productive life. Not like his parents, slaughtered in their prime. He had learned young that hurt just hurt, no matter what the cause. The adage of time taking care of emotional wounds held true.

  So why had he hung on to his parents’ deaths for so long? Authorities blamed his father’s association with local tribes, assumed one of them had killed them, even though they were on the friendliest of terms. It had been a too-convenient resolution he’d considered unthinkable and impossible even as young as he had been. Perhaps his enduring resentment had something to do with the injustice of that accusation. The allegation had broken his mentor’s heart and all ties to the tribe. If not for Father Berger, he’d have been orphaned.

  He came back to the present when Agnes made a small sound, like a muffled whimper. The brush slipped from her fingers and landed on the stained drop cloth. Her face fixed in a fear-frozen expression, she stared at the window over his right shoulder, sightless and silent, a pose that reminded him of a cornered animal

  The door, always left ajar, allowed voices to float up the narrow staircase, men in conversation on the landing two floors below. She whirled to gape at the door and began to shakily untie the smock’s tapers, jerking at the ribbons. She yanked it off and tossed the turban aside. It had slipped almost off from her awkward movements. The agitation she suffered was so extreme that she shook.

  Max softly asked, “Agnes, what is it? Your face is white as parchment.”

  Her hoarse reply was barely audible. “Don’t want him to see.”

  He had no idea what she meant, could only absorb her fear. “Come along.”

  Taking her wrist, he swiftly led her down the narrow attic steps. A glance down the passage revealed that the speakers had yet to reach the top of the stairs. Tugging Agnes in his wake, he strode down the corridor in the opposite direction, trying door latches to find one unlocked. He was about to head for the draperies that covered the tall windows at the end of the passageway when a door handle gave way under his grip.

  She pulled him back, shaking her head, mouthing, “Servant’s quarters.”

  He hurried her to the end of the corridor. A tall window at its end had its long curtains tied back. He yanked free the tasseled cords and the heavy material dropped into place. Max hauled her behind the draperies and into his arms.

  Agnes clutched him in a desperate grip. When he patted her back, she snuggled closer, burying her nose in his neckwear, then withdrew to peer down over her shoulder. He looked to see what she worried about. The tips of his boots extended beyond the drapery hem. He enveloped her in an embrace that lifted her feet off the floor. Pressing her length to his torso, he stepped up onto the wide sill.

  Her shaking increased as the voices came nearer, muffled by the barrier of heavy material, but clear enough to understand.

  “Aggie, are you up there? I’m bringing up a visitor.”

  “Halloo, Miss Agnes! I’ve come to view your paintings, and you’ll be happy to hear that your brother has given permission for me to speak privately with you.”

  He recognized her brother’s voice but not the other man’s. Agnes obviously did. She again made that pathetic whimpering sound in her throat, breaking his heart. Trembling fingers reached up, cold against his ears. She muttered words he couldn’t make out but her shivering fear spoke loudly enough. He hugged her closer, wishing he knew how to soothe her. If she couldn’t tell him why this man evoked such violent feeling, all that was needed was to ask her brother the visitor’s name.

  He cuddled her closer, and although concerned for her, the man in him took the opportunity to appreciate having her in his arms. It was better than he’d imagined.

  Chapter 13

  The helplessness of horror held Agnes in place. The encircling arms that held her were as strong as Cameron’s but didn’t relieve smothering apprehension. Nothing would. Her present terror didn’t spring from humiliation for her shameful past behavior. More than all else, she couldn’t bear the idea of being parted from Cameron again. If her brother learned her secrets, he’d kill Vincent. She had no doubt of that, and if that happened, she and her mother would lose him again when he fled the country. Having him safely home was an inexpressible joy of many prayers answered. His escape from years of imprisonment had been miraculous, but his time away from them had changed him. He no longer bore any resemblance to the cheerful lad who had gone off to sea. Now, there was a darker, somewhat frightening edge under his congenial surface.

  The reoccurring memory of Vincent’s threats rang in her head, had her clenching her teeth to keep them from clacking. She knew him well enough to understand that his visit today was a reminder of his power over her. Vincent’s sense of entitlement blinded him to the danger he faced provoking her brother. The dolt had no inkling of the risk he took with any threat directed at Cameron’s family.

  What if he makes sly innuendoes to Cameron, acts possessive, or even vulgar? No, he wouldn’t do that, even obliquely in her brother’s presence. Or would he?

  She kept her nose pressed into the folds of Max’s neckwear. The scents of starch and man brought some sense back to her head. She dug her fingers into tough arm muscle when overhead floorboards squeaked from booted feet walking around her studio.

  Their voices rolled down from the open attic door, floating down the passageway, near enough to be distinct. Cameron was explaining, trying not to boast about the Asterlys’ sponsorship, but unable to cover his pride. Another quiver shivered through her as she recalled her shock at hearing the familiar squeak of the lowest step on the second landing, recognizing Vincent’s voice. He and Cameron had been only moments away from seeing them rushing down the passageway to hide.

  Max continued to envelope her in a sense of safety that she knew was false and fleeting. When he lowered his head to rest his cheek on her hair, she suppressed a squirm, knowing she reeked. Turpentine’s scent permeated her clothes and clung to her fingers. She tried to withdraw, but he clasped her closer.

  She stilled when the loft steps creaked under the weight of both men descending.

  “Sorry, Vernam. I don’t know where my sister’s gotten to. She’s always up here at this time of day. Never misses an opportunity for the light of a cloudless day.”

  Vincent laughed, an ingratiating response, the artificial one she couldn’t get out of her head. Hearing it for the first time without being in his presence magnified its ingratiating shallowness. How had she missed his vacuous, smug disposition? Revulsion rippled over her flesh as
she recalled how she had allowed him access to her body. More than anything, she wished she could run to a place where she’d never hear his smarmy voice again.

  “Think nothing of it, Bradford. We’ll run her to earth another day, and today’s absence provides another opportunity to visit.”

  Relieved tears burned her eyes as their voices receded. She couldn’t relax until their conversation faded and sagged against Max’s broad chest when the corridor became silent. She hadn’t realized how large he was until now, standing directly against him. He had lifted her so easily, held her so securely, yet with gentle care. A wave of weak relief drained strength from her legs. She bolstered flagging energy with determination and moved to withdraw.

  Max immediately dropped his arms from around her. Cool air sank into the absence of his warmth. He stepped down from the sill and held out a hand for her. When her legs buckled, she let out a startled sound that was part gasp, part sob. Overwhelmed by relief, she didn’t resist when he lifted her in his arms and used a shoulder to part the draperies.

  “Agnes, where is your room?”

  She swallowed to find her voice as he carried her down the staircase. Fearing to speak and draw attention to anyone below, she pointed the way, worrying about her weight. She wasn’t thin. He handled her easily, as if she weighed nothing. He found and opened the door handle with the hand under her knees, leaving it ajar.

  As soon as she was set down on the chaise in her sitting room, he crossed to the bell pull. “You could use something to drink. And you didn’t take luncheon.”