Prelude to Heaven

by Laura Lee Guhrke

  Bad enough, she thought resentfully as they entered Alexandre’s luxurious lodgings in Curzon Street, that she'd had to hear his praises being sung by debutantes and dukes alike and that she seemed to see him at every rout or ball she attended. It was bad enough to hear everyone talk of how extraordinary his painting were and how the Prince Regent had lavishly praised his display at the Exhibition. But to be forced into attending one of his parties passed all bounds.

  To make matters worse, she knew Nigel was angry with her again. After all her indirect attempts to avoid attending this party had failed, she had unwisely told Nigel she simply didn’t want to go. His response had been a simple, “You will do what you are told,” and the glitter in his eyes and the tight clench of his jaw told her that by continuing to display such recalcitrance, she was flirting with disaster.

  The drawing room of Alexandre’s London house was packed with people, but she spied him the moment she entered, and when she saw his tall form on the other side of the room, she took a deep breath, trying to ready herself for what was sure to be an evening of agony.

  ***

  He hadn't really expected her to come. Even though he’d already received confirmation from Aubry that both he and his wife would attend, he still wasn’t prepared for the sight of Tess standing in the doorway. He froze, his glass of wine halfway to his lips, surprised not only by her presence, but also by his own reaction to it.

  The moment he saw her, desire and resentment began humming through his blood in equal measure, though why that fact should surprise him was baffling, for he’d been having the same visceral response every time he caught sight of her.

  And Aubry’s continual presence at her side made him even angrier. What was he, in heaven’s name? Her shadow? And why the devil should he care?

  Camilla, who stood beside him, also noticed the couple. “I see Lord and Lady Aubry have finally arrived.” She leaned closer to him, adding, “With Lady Aubry’s health, one never knows.”

  Alexander took a much-need gulp of wine. “What do you mean?”

  “She’s frequently ill. Why, last year, she was in such a decline, Aubry sent her to France for treatments of some kind. She missed all of last Season and most of this one.”

  He could have told Camilla that Lady Aubry had been in the pink of health last summer. He could have told her that Tess hadn't left England for anything more serious than an unwanted baby. He said nothing.

  Camilla went on, “She's quite delicate, the poor dear, though no one really knows quite what the trouble is.”

  There probably was no trouble. Tess had probably circulated that rumor herself to explain her absence from England. But what had she told her husband? He took another drink. Staying with friends? Taking waters at Marseilles? He’d give a lot to know what lies she’d been spinning.

  “You're looking quite thoughtful,” Camilla commented.

  He seized on the earl, not the countess as his reason. “Aubry...interests me.”

  “Does he? Well, he's certainly rich enough to afford a portrait, but don't waste your time. He had his portrait done by Turner less than a year ago. Paid an incredible price, I understand, since Turner does so few portraits these days.”

  He couldn’t help it. He had to ask. “What about his wife? Did Turner do her portrait as well?”

  “I don’t believe so. She would have been in France at the time.”

  He studied her, struck again by the change in her appearance since December. She hadn't been ill then, but she certainly looked it now. There was no color in her cheeks, no light in her eyes, no life in her face. She was an empty shell of the woman he had known. Was her marriage that unhappy?

  Damn. He drained his glass, set it on the tray of the nearest footman, and excused himself from Camilla to greet the new arrivals.

  “Dumond!” Aubry exclaimed at the sight of him. “It is a pleasure to see you again.”

  “The pleasure is mine. Lady Aubry,” he added, bowing to Tess. “I am delighted the two of you were able to come this evening.”

  “We could not think of missing it,” Aubry assured him and nodded to the crowded room. “It seems half of London feels the same. Quite a squeeze.”

  Tess said nothing, but it was clear she did not share her husband's enthusiasm.

  “Due to the smashing success of your exhibition, no doubt.” Aubry continued. “As I told you before, I thoroughly enjoyed it.”

  “And you, Lady Aubry?” he asked. “I should love to hear your opinion.”

  There was a pause, and Alexandre thought he sensed a hint of constraint in the silence, but Aubry spoke before he could be sure.

  “My wife missed it, I fear,” the earl said. “She was ill at the time.”

  Alexandre’s puzzlement deepened. “Since you missed the exhibition, Lady Aubry,” he murmured, “perhaps you would care to see my gallery? I have all the paintings from the exhibit, as well as some other works I chose not to display.”

  Her eyes widened a little as if in alarm. “I—” She broke off, glancing at her husband. “I don’t think—”

  “We would adore it,” Aubry interrupted, and Alexandre gestured to the doorway behind them.

  “If you will follow me?” Alexandre took them to the room across the foyer where his paintings were displayed, and as they circled the room, Aubry paused to admire one of the watercolor landscapes.

  “Is this place in England?” he asked, turning to Alexandre as he gestured to the painting.

  “No, actually,” he answered, his eyes on Tess’s face, “it is a meadow near my home.”

  Because he was watching her, he saw the little start she gave. She looked past the still life she’d been examining, and when she saw the watercolor of their meadow, all the color drained from her face, making it clear that he was not the only one who still remembered that hot August afternoon where they had argued over the fate of a wounded goose, and where he had kissed her for the first time.

  “Near your home?” Aubry’s voice jerked him back to the present. “That would be somewhere in Bordeaux, I believe? I heard you have vineyards there.”

  He opened his mouth to correct the other man on the location of his home, but he caught Tess’s pleading gaze and stopped. He closed his mouth again, feeling like the biggest fool on earth for protecting her secret. What did he care if her husband knew where he lived? What did he care if Aubry found out he and Tess had been lovers? That she had lived with him? That she had been unfaithful?

  Yet, he did care. He cared because she did, and despite everything, he still felt this maddening, inexplicable desire to protect her.

  What a galling admission to make, he thought. It heightened his anger, fueled his desire, and strengthened his growing conviction that he was the biggest fool on earth for still wanting her. And he did want her, heaven help him. He wanted her more than ever.

  ***

  He’d keep her secret. She knew it by his silence, and relief flowed through her, relief so great, she felt light-headed. Glancing at Nigel, she saw that he had resumed studying the watercolor, and she looked again at Alexandre.

  Thank you, she mouthed the words. Thank you.

  His lips tightened, but he acknowledged her gratitude with a terse nod, and Tess turned her attention to the painting.

  It was their meadow. She knew it at once, even before she moved closer to examine it more thoroughly. She could see the plane tree where they’d found the goose, and the Roman ruins, and all the wildflowers. She could almost smell the fragrance of lavender, almost feel the warmth of the Provence sun, almost imagine Alexandre's arms around her. These recollections were so keen, so sharp, it was like the sting of a lash.

  She bit down hard on her lower lip, catching back the involuntary sob that rose in her throat and fought hard for control. She told herself to stop looking at it, to move on to the next painting, but she could not. She stayed where she was, drowning in the sweet pain of the past, studying every inch of the canvas, slowly coming to the realization t
hat as detailed as this painting was, one thing was missing. There were no fairies in the meadow now.

  Nigel turned to Alexandre. “This is an extraordinary work. I have several of your landscapes already, and I would love to add this one to my collection.”

  Tess felt another jolt of panic, for the idea of having this tangible reminder of Alexandre's kisses mocking her every day of her life was unthinkable. Before Alexandre could answer, she rushed into speech. “Nigel, it's a lovely painting, but I’m not certain there’s a place to put it. You have so many paintings already.”

  “Teresa, I do not recall asking for your opinion.” Nigel's voice was deceptively gentle, and Tess’s panic gave way to raw fear. Her gaze flew to Alexandre, who was watching her, a tiny frown creasing his brow as if something puzzled him.

  But if he had questions, he thankfully did not ask them. “I'm afraid this particular painting is not for sale,” he told Nigel without taking his gaze from her face.

  “Pity.” Nigel cast a covetous eye at the watercolor. “I'd pay handsomely for it.”

  Alexandre hesitated, glancing from her to the painting and back again. Realizing he was actually reconsidering, Tess stared back at him, her eyes pleading with him to refuse.

  But after a moment, he shook his head. “I'm afraid I cannot bear to part with this one,” he told Nigel, causing Tess to breathe a silent sigh of relief. “I have several others, however, that might appeal to you.”

  He led Nigel to another painting, but Tess did not follow them. She returned to the still life of wild lavender she’d been looking at before, but her gaze remained on the landscape of the meadow. Though she was glad he had refused to sell Nigel this picture, she couldn’t quite understand his reasons. He hated her now; surely, he would not keep reminders of her for the sake of sentiment?

  Lord and Lady Ashford strolled into the gallery, and as Nigel went over to converse with them, Alexandre moved to stand beside her, and she could not resist asking him the question uppermost in her mind. “Why wouldn't you sell the painting to Nigel?” she whispered.

  “It would be inappropriate, to say the least.”

  “I don't—” She broke off and licked her dry lips. “I don’t see the fairies.”

  “No. They went away.”

  She glanced at him. He was looking at the watercolor, not at her, and she took that moment to burn this glimpse of his hard, lean profile into her memory, and she wished she could soften the bitter lines she knew she her actions had put there.

  Abruptly, he turned away, moving to greet Lord and Lady Ashford. She watched his rigid back as he walked away, reminded again of how deeply she had wounded him and knowing there was nothing she could do to change that.

  ***

  “Do not ever contradict me in public.”

  Nigel's backhand caught her across the cheek, and Tess reeled from the force of the blow. Dizzy, she reached for the back of the upholstered chair beside her, trying to stay on her feet. He was getting worse, she realized through the haze of pain. He never used to hit her in the face.

  “How many times do I have to tell you never to contradict me?”

  His fist caught her in the ribs, and she doubled over, trying to catch her breath. She should have known better than to express an opinion about his attempt to purchase that watercolor. His anger had been building for weeks now, and she should have been more careful tonight.

  His hand locked over her arm in a bruising grip, and he twisted it behind her, pulling it up until a cry tumbled from her lips.

  “I won't stand for it, I tell you!” With his free hand, he struck her in the ribs once more, then shoved her away from him. She staggered backward, tripping over the hem of her skirt and felt herself falling. Her head hit the marble fender of the fireplace, and darkness wiped out all the pain.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  It was no use. He couldn't concentrate. Alexandre tossed down the brush and left the attic room he was using as a studio. Downstairs, he ordered Paul to have the carriage brought around. If all he could think about was Tess, perhaps it was time he called upon her.

  He wanted to know why she looked so different from the woman he had known. He wanted to know what caused her to seem so weary and unhappy, and he wanted to hear from her own lips why she had abandoned Suzanne. He had questions and he wanted answers, but most of all, he wanted reassurance that she was all right. She’d seemed so strange the other night in his gallery, and the more he thought of how tense and jumpy she’d been, the more worried he became, and the angrier he became at himself, for he shouldn’t care two straws about her.

  But he called just the same, and when he handed his card to the butler at Lord Aubry's home in Grosvenor Square, he became even more worried when the servant informed that Lady Aubry was not receiving.

  “I was given leave to call on her today,” Alexandre lied.

  The butler bowed in deference to this statement, and said again, “I'm sorry, sir, but Lady Aubry is not receiving today.”

  “Why not? Is she ill?”

  The butler raised an eyebrow at such an abrupt and indelicate question. “It is not my place to say, sir.”

  Alexandre took his leave, more concerned than before, and he knew that if he was to have any peace of mind, he had to obtain answers to his questions, and that meant he had to speak with Tess alone.

  That resolve proved harder to implement than he’d have thought possible, in the week that followed the conversazione at his home, he was kept very busy with work. Given the enormous success of his exhibition, he’d been flooded with commissions for portraits, and his schedule for sittings was filled for the remainder of the Season. Honoring those commitments meant he was painting at a frantic pace, and he had no opportunity to call upon Tess.

  He was no longer surprised by his artistic success. What did surprise him was the realization that he seemed to be the toast of London.

  Black for daytime wear and going about without a hat were becoming popular among the young gentlemen. Tonics guaranteed to make the hair grow quickly were being sold everywhere. Young men of fashion became daring, calling young ladies they hardly knew chérie. Classes in “the Dumond style of painting” began to be offered at the Royal Academy. Alexandre still had a hard time figuring out how anyone could be taught to paint left-handed. If he stayed in London long enough, having a daughter might even become fashionable. He found it all rather amusing, but it was also ironic. A year ago, no man in his own village would cross the street to speak to him.

  Despite his hectic schedule, he insisted upon spending at least a few hours each day with Suzanne. Thoughts of her mother only made his time with the baby all the more precious to him.

  His days were filled with work, but in the evenings, he found himself searching the crowd at every party he attended for a glimpse of Tess, but though he encountered her husband several times, he never saw her. As a second week went by without a single glimpse of her, he became concerned. A few tactful inquiries confirmed that she was not going into society at all and was still not receiving callers.

  At the Ashford rout, he realized he'd been spending the entire hour he'd been there looking for her amid the crowd. Frustrated by the entire situation, he bade goodbye to his hostess and started for home, but there was such a crush, he had to spend another hour waiting for his carriage. There, he ran into the Duke of Rathburn, and somehow, the two men ended up at White's for cards and port. While waiting for a table, they encountered Lord Aubry and Lord Grenville, and soon the four men were engaged in conversation.

  “Aubry, I heard your wife has been ill again,” the duke commented. “Damned shame. I hope it isn’t serious?”

  Alexandre shot Aubry a glance, searching for any worry in the other man's expression, but he saw none. The earl merely shrugged and said, “She will recover, but I've sent her home to Aubry Park. She needs rest and quiet.”

  Alexandre frowned, knowing that if Aubry had sent her home, he wouldn't see her again. Just how ill was she? His conc
ern deepened.

  “I say, Dumond,” Grenville spoke, intruding on his thoughts, “it's quite a coincidence seeing you tonight, for Aubry and I have just been talking of you. I've been telling him of the splendid portrait you did of my daughter.”

  “It wasn't difficult,” he replied. “When a woman is as beautiful as Lady Melanie, the canvas comes to life.” Alexandre gave the other three men a wry smile. “Painting ugly women is much more difficult. And much less enjoyable.”

  The other men laughed. The duke told Aubry, “Dumond just completed a portrait of me. Did an excellent job of it, too.”

  “That does not surprise me,” Aubry said. “I have always admired Monsieur Dumond’s work.”

  “So does everyone else, it seems.” Rathburn’s face took on an expression of long-suffering. “You wouldn't believe the ungodly hour I have to rise from bed so that we can have our daily practice at Angelo's. He's too busy painting portraits to fence at a decent hour.”

  The conversation shifted to fencing and other sport, but Alexandre paid little attention, for Lord Aubry's admiration of his work had given him an idea. If he wanted to talk with Tess, if he truly wanted answers to all his questions, he had to see her, and the earl himself had just provided him the perfect opportunity to do so.

  When a lull occurred in the conversation, Alexandre turned to Aubry. “I believe you once mentioned that your estate is in Kent?”

  “Yes.”

  “I've heard there is beautiful scenery in that part of the world. I'm interested in doing some landscapes of the English countryside, and I'm considering taking a journey down that way. Since you're familiar with that part of England and you have such a fine appreciation of art, would you perhaps be willing to give me some guidance?”

  Aubry's pleased smiled confirmed his susceptibility to flattery. “Of course,” the earl replied. “What do you wish to know?”