The Lady Who Drew Me In

by Thomasine Rappold

  Jackson reached to the table next to the bed to turn down the lamp. He paused, his attention fixed on the small object atop the lace table covering.

  The framed miniature depicted a portrait of a young woman. He picked it up and looked closer. The image inside the aged frame had faded with time, but it was Daisy. Beneath the crown of daisies she wore, her eyes stared out at him, only something in their blue depths was different. Happier.

  “Did you paint this?” he asked, rolling onto his back.

  “No.” She took the miniature from his hand. “It was painted by a man named James Blackstone,” she said, staring down at it. “He was my foster father. And a talented artist. He encouraged my interest in art, and he painted that portrait of me as a gift for my sixteenth birthday.”

  “Sounds like a good man.”

  “He was. And his wife, Tildy, was a good woman.” She stared at the miniature, her eyes glistening in the lamp light. “They died in a fire that very night.”

  He winced. “On your birthday?”

  She nodded. “I was dragged unconscious, from the house, but the Blackstones died. This piece was the only thing recovered in the rubble. The only thing that survived,” she uttered. “Besides me.”

  Beneath the sorrow in her voice, he heard something more. Her guilt for surviving ripped at his heart. He turned, propping up on his elbow to face her. “I’m sorry, Daisy.”

  She blinked several times, as though fighting back tears. “Shortly after the fire I discovered my ability to draw while entranced.”

  He propped higher, intrigued.

  “That’s when the Palmers took me in. I’d been placed as a maid in a working home next door to them. To amuse the household staff, I would play games using my new ability. A subject would concentrate on a series of numbers or letters and I’d scribble it down while entranced. They found it entertaining, and I found myself popular.” She shrugged. “Eventually, I learned to transfer images from their minds.”

  “You became more practiced,” he said.

  “Yes. The Palmers heard about my ability and invited me to stay with them as their daughter’s companion. Grace was of marrying age, and the Palmers were determined to marry her well. They brought me to entertain some friends at a party one night. It wasn’t long before the Palmers began receiving invitations to parties and dinners at the homes of the best families in Troy.”

  Jackson didn’t like where this was going.

  “On the night of the Taylor’s party, the Palmers stressed how important it was I not only entertain the guests, but leave them enthralled.”

  “Why?”

  “One of the guests included a young man they hoped to match with Grace.”

  “Ah.”

  “Yes. Well, anyway, everything was progressing wonderfully. From Mrs. Hasting’s thoughts, I produced a sketch of her cherished rose garden, in perfect detail. Much to Mr. Glasser’s awe, I sketched an image of his prized mare. Everyone applauded my little show, but I sensed the Palmers wanted something more impressive.” She lowered her gaze. “So I delved deeper into the thoughts of my next subject.”

  “Mrs. Taylor,” Jackson said. There was no use pretending he didn’t know that much. The Taylor’s divorce was infamous in Troy.

  Daisy nodded. “I went deeper into her thoughts than I’d ever gone before. Since I have no idea what I’m sketching while entranced, I cannot censor what I draw. By the time I’d opened my eyes, it was too late.”

  “What had you drawn from her thoughts?”

  She lifted her chin. “A picture of a man lounging on a bed. Naked.”

  Jackson blinked.

  “The man I drew was the best friend and business partner of Mrs. Taylor’s husband, who was present, as well.”

  “Holy Hell,” he muttered.

  “Mr. Taylor went crazy. The sketch confirmed his suspicions of an affair. Pandemonium ensued, and the Palmers and I were promptly ushered from the premises. That began their exile from the upper echelon of society—not to mention ending any chance of Grace marrying into wealth as the Palmer’s had hoped.”

  “And they blamed you,” he said.

  “They were selfish, greedy people, but they had every right to blame me.” She stared up at the ceiling. “The ability I’d used to get people to like me made them despise me instead.” She smiled sadly. “Of course, no one would hire me as a maid after that. The Palmers reminded me of this fact every day.”

  “They kept you on in their home?”

  “Not for long,” she said. “A prominent gentleman, who’d heard of their misfortune, offered to help them. He set them up in a fine house in Newport, complete with his assurance Grace would be well received. That man was Lawry. And all he wanted in return was me.”

  Jackson gaped, stunned by the sacrifice she’d made for these people.

  “I had to do it. I’d ruined so many lives. And I owed the Palmers that much. They’d taken me in.”

  “They used you,” Jackson snapped.

  “Yes,” she said. “But I was as guilty as they for abusing my ability.” She shook her head as though clearing her thoughts. “Anyway, I married Lawry, moved to Misty Lake, and here I am.” She smiled.

  Despite the lump in his throat, Jackson couldn’t help smiling back at her. She’d lived through so much, and she’d survived it all. The orphanage and the fire. The Palmers. She’d served six years for sins not her own, sentenced to a life in the godforsaken country and into the bed of a stingy old geezer, and still she could smile. She was beautiful—inside and out—and he’d never been drawn to anyone more. “Yes, indeed, here you are.”

  He eased the miniature from her hand, then put it aside. He settled closer, into the scent of her hair and her skin. He kissed her with one, two, three, soft presses to her warm lips. Lowering her to the bed, he kissed his way to her ear. “And you are finally free.”

  * * * *

  Jackson’s warm breath filled her ear, and she sighed, sinking into the ecstasy as though into a steamy bath. Deluged by pleasure, she felt boneless. Nerves and muscles unfurled beneath each lingering kiss to her neck.

  His mouth traced her jaw, slowly, exquisitely, to her throat before meeting her lips in a sultry kiss that left her trembling and weak. He drew away, his gaze melding to hers.

  “You’re so beautiful,” he whispered.

  The intense regard in his eyes stilled her heart. Her breath. Her world.

  He touched her face, staring into her eyes, to her soul, to the woman she was deep inside. She felt naked, and exposed, and closer to him than she’d ever felt to anyone.

  She pulled him toward her, drowning in it all. Spreading her legs, she clung to him in the need to feel him between her thighs. To have him deep inside her.

  He kissed her neck, taking his time. The pace of his languid torment countered the race of her pulse and the urgency flooding her veins. She calmed, drifting on the pleasure as his lips skimmed her shoulder. Her flesh tingled, and she writhed slowly, pressing her breasts to his chest. The pleasure was heavenly and cruel, and she moaned against the building intensity of both.

  His hot mouth covered her nipple, and she arched on the bed. She ground against his thigh, silently pleading, but he refused to be rushed.

  Dismissing her flurry, he reached with one arm to hold her in place. He smiled against her breast. “Patience. I promise I’ll make it worth it.”

  She sighed in protest and then surrendered beneath his flickering tongue. He moved down the length of her body, kissing every inch of her. He nipped and teased at her stomach and hips, and she reveled in the pleasure. The rock-hard shaft that brushed her leg proved he enjoyed pleasing her too.

  Stretching her arms above her head, she drank in the sensations, feeling precious and priceless, and drunk from it all. She writhed beneath his hands and mouth. A promise for her patience. “…I’ll make it worth it…”

  He dipped his head between her thighs, and she all but screamed o
ut loud. Raking her fingers through his hair, she ceded to his words, and the sheer bliss, as he honored them.

  * * * *

  Daisy nestled into her pillow with the sound of Jackson’s peaceful breathing behind her. Tonight he’d made love to her with such tenderness, such rapt devotion, she feared she might cry. The ills of her past had ceased hurting with each touch and caress, each sweet, whispered word.

  Guilt faded in pleasure, and she felt whole again. Jackson’s want for her filled more than her body, more than her womanly desires, sating places in her soul that had been empty for years. Their second night together had proved she’d been starved for affection. She realized now, she’d been starved for it her entire life.

  While unveiling her past to Jackson, she’d heard in her words, felt in her shame how she’d used her ability in a hapless attempt to form a connection to someone—anyone. She’d sold her soul for the recognition of total strangers. People who cared nothing for her. The Blackstones’ kindness had magnified the neglect of the rest. Her time with them had been the happiest she’d ever known, the closest she’d ever felt to being loved, and that’s why she treasured the miniature so dearly.

  She winced against a spasm of guilt. Always the guilt. The possibility she might have caused the fire that killed the Blackstones clogged her throat, left her struggling for air. She’d suffered with the blame for so long, the pain was a part of her now, a chronic ailment that gnawed at her from the inside out, eating her alive.

  But in bed—entangled with Jackson and blinded by bliss—all the pain disappeared. “You are finally free.”

  And yet she wasn’t alone. She could reach out and touch him right now. The revelation struck her soundly, and echoed in her ears. Even in Lawry’s presence, she’d been lonely. A caged bird displayed in the corner, she’d lived on mere crumbs, always hungering for more. The promise of children had fed her through the years, as had Lawry’s lies.

  She shrugged off the pain of her past. Love was not won or earned; it was given. And she’d ceased trying to buy something that was offered for free to countless others every day—even those more undeserving than she.

  Rooted firmly in the reminder, she brushed off any whimsical fantasies about the man lying next to her. While she would revel in the pleasant diversion of their bed, she had her own plans. Independence was a sound substitute for love, and the pursuit of self-reliance was necessary and worthwhile.

  Love, on the other hand, was neither.

  Chapter 9

  The Misty Lake Hotel bustled with guests. While most of the town’s summer residents returned year after year, there were always some new faces among the familiar ones, and this season was no exception. Several locals were in attendance as well, including Dannion and Tessa, whom Jackson had arranged to join them for supper.

  Daisy was relieved to share their first public appearance as a married couple with her closest friend, and having his brother at his side might make assimilating to a new community easier for Jackson as well. Although he’d met a handful of people over the years during sporadic visits to his brother’s home and, no doubt, the taverns in town, most of tonight’s patrons were strangers to him.

  Not that he seemed at all worried about people’s opinions of their sudden marriage. He drank and laughed without a care in the world, and as the evening progressed, she found herself fretting less too.

  After only two weeks, the reaction to their marriage was better than she could have imagined. Of course she knew there’d been talk, but since arriving tonight, an endless parade of people had stopped by their table to extend congratulations.

  “Good evening.”

  Daisy smiled up at Landen Elmsworth and his very pregnant wife, Gianna. Jackson stood, relinquishing his seat to Gianna before greeting Landen with a hardy handshake that conveyed they’d met before.

  “Last I’d heard, you’d set your sights on St. Louis,” Landen said. “I am happy to find they landed elsewhere,” he added with a smile aimed at Daisy.

  The men conversed behind them as the ladies chatted at the table. Gianna beamed with all the radiance of an expectant mother. Despite Daisy’s happiness for the couple, she felt herself sinking into the void of her own disappointment. She’d tried so hard to conceive a child with Lawry. Too hard, it turned out…

  Gianna prattled on, extending her best wishes for Daisy’s marriage to Jackson, before she took Daisy’s hand between hers. “I’ve been so eager to tell you how much I admired the portrait you painted of Felice Pettington,” she said.

  “Thank you.” Daisy smiled, flushing with the compliment. “It was the first piece I’d painted in years.”

  “Well, it was remarkable,” Gianna said. “In fact, my husband and I were thinking of giving our Aunt Clara a portrait of herself as a gift.”

  “I’ve met Clara.” Jackson smiled. “And I’m certain she’d enjoy being immortalized on canvas immensely.”

  “Anyone who knows my aunt would have to agree,” Landen said.

  Everyone laughed in good humor at the old woman’s notorious vanity.

  “So what do you think, Daisy?” Gianna asked. “Would you paint the portrait for us?”

  “I’d be happy to,” Daisy replied honestly. She’d always enjoyed her brief meetings with the Elmsworth family and had often wished for the opportunity to get to know them better.

  “We would like it to be a surprise, though. Felice mentioned you painted her portrait from memory.”

  “My wife has an exceptional memory,” Jackson said.

  Daisy basked in the pride in his eyes.

  “Wonderful,” Gianna said. “And in case your memory of your subject needs refreshing, Aunt Clara will be attending the Westcott Ball with us next month. My sister-in-law, Alice, will be there too. Perhaps you might make it this year, as well?”

  All these years in Misty Lake, and Daisy and Lawry had never once attended the annual event. “Yes, perhaps,” Daisy said, amid a spark of excitement.

  The Elmsworths bid them good night, then made their way to their table.

  “The Westcott Ball is the highlight of the season,” Tessa informed Jackson.

  “Is that so?” He glanced to Daisy for her opinion.

  She shrugged. “I’ve never been, but I’ve heard it is so.”

  “I enjoy the ball almost as much as the Pederson’s harvest festival,” Tessa said. “They host a lively party each fall in their pumpkin patch.”

  “Pumpkin patch?”

  Disregarding Jackson’s incredulous expression, Tessa reached for his hand. “It will be such fun to have you here in Misty Lake, Jax.” Genuine emotion gleamed in her eyes. “The four of us will be as thick as thieves.”

  Jackson laughed, his gaze fixing on Dannion. “Did you hear that, Brother? Thick as thieves.”

  Dannion pursed his lips.

  Tessa peered toward the door. “The Wymans are here,” she said. “Have you met them yet?” she asked Jackson.

  “Tom and Nadine,” he replied with a nod. “They practically hurdled the fence in their haste to welcome us home.”

  Everyone laughed as Jackson refilled their glasses from yet another carafe of wine. George and Dorthea Thompson stopped at the table to invite Daisy and Jackson to one of their infamous bridge parties. To his credit, Jackson managed to listen politely as George broke into a lengthy oration on their weekly bridge competitions, followed by an interrogation on Jackson’s familiarity with the game.

  A few minutes later, Dannion rescued Jackson with the excuse of wanting to introduce him to some of his friends. Daisy and Tessa remained at the table, drinking wine and catching up. It had been so long since Daisy had socialized like this. Lawry’s frequent malaise had restricted them to daytime engagements, and she was enjoying the evening immensely.

  As she watched Jackson across the room, laughing and drinking with his brother and the rambunctious group of men he’d met during dinner, she realized her concern for his assimilation
was for naught.

  Although Dannion’s standing in town likely warmed the waters of Jackson’s reception, she had to admire how easily Jackson swam the social currents. The man could charm a snake. She wasn’t surprised that, in a matter of hours, he’d befriended so many.

  Of course, his newfound friends were sure to scatter once they got wind of his involvement with Randal Morgan. But until then, Daisy couldn’t help being impressed by how easily Jackson had gained their acceptance.

  He looked so handsome in his black coat. Every glance at him made her feel like a bride. The wonderful things she was discovering in the marital bed were exciting and new. She enjoyed their late-night suppers and leisurely breakfasts on the patio. As uncertain as she was about tomorrow, she knew one thing tonight. Jackson affected her like no man ever had. In and out of their bed. He was easygoing, required little upkeep, and he laughed a lot. Daisy was having the time of her life.

  Pleasantly surprised by the admission, she craned her neck for a better view of him across the room, just as Hannah Pederson, the eldest and prettiest of the six Pederson girls, insinuated herself inside the circle of men. Hannah drifted to Jackson’s side, laughing at something he said.

  Daisy stretched her neck farther. Hannah placed her hand on Jackson’s arm. The familiar gesture prompted the possibility the two had met before. Daisy’s stomach clenched. Although Jackson’s visits to the Gallway mansion had been rare, it was more than plausible their paths had crossed there.

  Jackson tipped his head toward Hannah’s dark curls as she whispered something in his ear. He glanced across the room at Daisy, and she quickly averted her eyes. When she glanced back, he was gone.

  So was Hannah.

  Swallowing down the remaining wine in her glass, Daisy scanned the dining room for any sign of them. The heat from the wine she’d consumed mingled with her angry disbelief at Jackson’s shady disappearance. She could barely contain her simmering temper.