by Megan Chance
"Of course I sent him notes," Samuel snapped. "What kind of a father would I be if I didn't demand satisfaction? He despoiled my daughter, for God's sake. Your reputation is at stake."
"My reputation," she repeated disbelievingly. She laughed bitterly. "Since when have you ever cared about reputations? You're the one who sent me off to study with an artist to begin with. Wasn't that scandalous enough?"
"There's a difference between education and scandal, Imogene," he shot back. "You would have been perfectly safe studying under him if you acted like a lady instead of some . . . some trollop."
"That's enough, Samuel," Thomas said softly. "Tell me, what will you do if Whitaker agrees to a meeting? Demand marriage?"
Imogene stared at her godfather in horror. "Thomas, no—"
Samuel lifted a brow. He turned to look at her. "Well, Imogene," he said coldly. "Would he marry you?"
It was those words that hurt, far more than Thomas's suggestion that Whitaker be forced to marry her, far more than anything else her father could have said. Because he knew the answer to that question as well as she did. It was humiliatingly obvious. She looked down at her hands, hearing the rest of his talk through a heavy buzz in her ears.
"I know what he's doing," he said to Thomas. "Biding his time. No doubt he's waiting for the right opportunity."
"The right opportunity?" Thomas frowned. "To do what?"
"To make his demands, of course. Do you think he hasn't a reason for ruining my daughter? Certainly he does. He wants something, just you wait and see."
"Are you suggesting he would blackmail you?" Thomas asked, raising his brows in surprise. "Really, Samuel, 1 don't think Whitaker—"
"Well, he's not above being blackmailed, is he?" Her father asked, throwing Thomas a knowing look. "I'd think he'd jump at the chance to turn the tables."
She was slow to understand his meaning. She heard his words, one by one, drifting through her humiliation and pain, but finally it wasn't the words at all that she understood, but the way her father said them, the edge of accusation. Imogene looked up. She caught her godfather's helpless glance, and everything fell into place: the way Jonas had taken her on even though she obviously lacked the skill level or talent of his other students, his anger at the beginning, the way he tried to drive her away. Of course. She couldn't believe she hadn't known it before. Thomas and her father had forced Jonas to teach her. They'd made it impossible for him to refuse.
She waited for the hurt to penetrate. She expected to feel pain and betrayal. Instead, all she felt was anger, and for Jonas's sake, not her own. She had never thought Jonas Whitaker could be forced to do anything. The knowledge that he had been was anathema to her. Thomas and her father had trapped him, had forced him to sacrifice his integrity—God, the thought was so ugly. It was ugly the way a trained bear was ugly, a proud and beautiful animal baited to do tricks for a crowd. She hated the idea. Lord, she hated it.
She felt frozen as she turned to Thomas. "What was it you offered him?" she demanded. Her voice was so cold it sounded like a stranger's. "What was it he couldn't refuse?"
"Imogene." Her godfather opened his palms in supplication. "My dear, you must see I meant no harm. You wanted it so badly . . ."
"Tell me. Was it money? Or was it something else you threatened him with?"
"Calm down, girl," Samuel said. "You're overreacting. It was nothing more than a little judicious pressure."
"Judicious pressure?" she repeated. She threw a baleful look at her father. "I know what your definition of judicious pressure is, Papa. You used it on Chloe often enough. You've used it on me. But I don't imagine Jonas cared much about losing your love, so what was it you told him?"
His eyes blazed. "Don't you use that tone with me."
"I'm not a little girl anymore, Papa," she said evenly. "You can't just tell me to be quiet when you don't want to hear me. What you did was wrong." She turned away, to Thomas. "I can't believe you would be a part of this," she said to him. "I can't believe it. You knew how I felt—"
"I knew you wanted to be an artist," Thomas said quietly. "That's what I knew. I wanted to give you that. I could give you that. I didn't think about right or wrong." He paused, running a freckled hand through his white hair, looking at her with a sadness that seemed to sink into her soul. "I told him I would withdraw my patronage if he didn't take you on. It was enough at first. But you know him, my dear. You know that could only hold him for so long. If he didn't want you there, eventually it wouldn't have mattered what I said."
His words were oddly comforting. Perhaps it was only that she knew they were true.
"I wanted you to have the best, that's all," Thomas continued. "I have always wanted you to have the best."
"Good God, this is maudlin," her father broke in. "You shouldn't coddle her, Tom. She's got to face the truth sooner or later. Whitaker's an opportunist. He saw a chance and grabbed it. He's probably thinking of ways to strip me of my fortune as we speak."
"He's not like that," Imogene said.
Her father frowned. "I'm only trying to protect you, girl. You don't know the world like I do—"
"He's not like that," she repeated.
"He's a painter, for Christ's sake."
"He's an artist," she corrected angrily. "Listen to yourself, Papa. You've spent years telling me the difference between craft and art, and yet you can't even see it yourself. Jonas Whitaker is brilliant. He's the most brilliant man I've ever known."
"Brilliant enough to know what side his bread's buttered on, obviously," her father retorted. "Don't waste your breath defending him, Imogene. He was using you. If you had the sense God gave a goat you'd know better than to fall for the first man who tells you pretty lies."
"Papa," she protested. "You don't understand—"
"It's you who doesn't understand," he said. He lurched from his chair, stopping only inches away. "You want to see the truth, girl, you'll come with me tomorrow to the National Academy's exhibition. I'll show you. Whitaker won't answer my notes, but by God he'll answer me—and you'll see I'm right."
Imogene shook her head. Things were pressing in on her, too much, too fast. He was controlling her, just as he always had, and she felt a growing sense of desperation, of an anger she couldn't restrain. "I won't do it. I don't want to go."
"Dammit, girl, you'll do as I say, and don't you forget it," he said angrily, his face close to hers. "You will be there. If I have to carry you bodily into that hall, you'll be right beside me. I wonder if you'll still be singing your lover's praises when he tells me how much money he wants to keep quiet."
Imogene jerked away. "I'm not going."
"We'll see about that," he muttered, spinning on his heel. "We'll just see." He left the parlor so quickly she felt the breeze of his movement. The buzzing in her ears grew louder.
For moments she just stood there, trying to catch her breath, to quiet the noise in her head. She was aware of Thomas standing on the other side of the fireplace, watching her, one hand resting on the back of his chair. She felt his silent scrutiny, but it was minutes before she could look up at him, minutes before she spoke.
"He's so wrong," she said helplessly. "About everything."
Thomas nodded. "He just wants the best for you, my dear."
She snorted softly in disbelief.
He smiled. "He does, in his way. Just as we all do. The question is, what will you do about it?"
She frowned. "What can I do? He's my father."
"Yes." Thomas looked down at his fingers as he traced the patterns on the brocade upholstery. "But you're not a little girl anymore, Imogene. You're a grown woman. Perhaps it's time you think about what you want out of your life, instead of what your father wants." He paused. "Have you . . . have you given any thought to going back to Jonas?"
Her heart caught. Imogene laughed shortly. "It's all I've thought about," she said. "But it doesn't matter. He doesn't want me."
"Oh?" Thomas looked up. "Are you sure?"
&nb
sp; "Yes," she said. "You know him, Thomas. You . . . you know what he's like. He needs someone who can charm him. Someone like . . ."
"Like Chloe?" he put in.
Her throat tightened. She shook her head. "I don't belong with him. I don't belong in that crowd. I'm as out of place as a moth among butterflies."
"You're a pretty little moth," Thomas teased gently. Then, when she didn't smile, he said, "I think you undervalue yourself, Imogene. Where is the woman who turned me away from the studio a week and a half ago? Have you forgotten her already?"
She looked away. "I haven't forgotten. But Jonas needed me then. He doesn't need me now."
"I see."
His voice was so thoughtful she glanced at him again. "He asked me to leave," she said.
He nodded, but that thoughtful look didn't leave his eyes. "I think you should go to the exhibition with your father," he said.
She stared at him in surprise. "Why?"
"Because, my dear," he said gently. "If you don't go you'll always regret it. You'll always wonder if you should have." He smiled, a soft, encouraging smile, the smile she'd loved since she was a little girl alone in a sickroom. "Go to the show, Imogene," he urged. "If not for yourself, then for me. Go for me."
He couldn't avoid it forever, he knew. Jonas stared at the note hanging from his fingers, at the fine ivory stock embossed heavily with the letters SGC. Samuel G. Carter. Genie's father. Without unfolding the sheet Jonas knew what it said. He had it memorized. Carter wanted a meeting, and Jonas knew exactly why. In the back of his mind he wondered why he hadn't expected it. He had ruined her, after all, and the whole world would expect him to pay the price. Marry her, the voice inside him said. Do what her father wants. Marry her.
And in a way he wanted that. Wanted to be forced into marrying her, into loving her. Wanted no decisions and no sacrifices. Wanted to be able to say "I tried to save you. God knows, I tried, but your father forced my hand. ..."
Yes, that was exactly what he wanted. An excuse to keep her beside him. An excuse to love her. Ah, God, he wanted it.
But he couldn't have it. He couldn't have her.
He stared at the butterfly glittering on the table beside him, at the gold that shimmered in the cold winter light. The only light in his darkness, just as Genie had been. And without her the darkness was creeping closer now. Without her it would overtake him. He knew that. He knew it more certainly than he'd ever known anything in his life.
Over the last two weeks he'd made a valiant attempt to forget her. He'd done what Rico suggested; he'd thrown himself into painting her. And now the painting was done and hanging in the gallery, ready for the exhibition tomorrow. He'd been right, it was a masterpiece. His masterpiece.
But it didn't help him forget her. It didn't ease the pain of being without her.
He struggled to keep his mind clear. Struggled to remember why he could not have her, what he would do to her. He picked up the jeweled butterfly and tried to crush it in his hand the way he would crush her. But the gold only bent slightly, held in place by amethyst and solder. Things that would not break, would not bend. Not like flesh and blood, not like tender feelings and gentle souls. How easily they were broken. How little it took to destroy them forever.
No, he could not marry her, and he knew in his heart there were only two things that could keep her father from forcing the issue. Two things.
Jonas stared at his wrist, at the fine scar. He closed his eyes and thought of what it had felt like, that first cut so long ago. The quick pain and then the throbbing ache, the numbness. He thought of how his fingers had trembled when he'd cut the other wrist, the way he could barely hold the razor through the blood on his fingers. The clumsiness of it, the lack of grace or beauty. In the end, suicide was just a lack of courage, he knew that now. Genie had taught him that, just as she had taught him that there was hope in the world— something he'd given up on long ago. Hope. Such a small word, but how strong it was. How much it sustained him now.
And because of that, death was no longer a choice. But the other. . . .
He thought of what Rico said, the words that had been spinning in his mind for days. "You can't protect people from hurt, Jonas. You can't protect yourself. If you try, you might as well commit yourself to Bloomingdale now."
Bloomingdale. He thought of it, and he thought of what was waiting for him without her. Nights without end. Blackness that would advance day by day. There was no point in fighting it. In the asylum he wouldn't have to. It was the best place for him now, the only place. He would go mad without her anyway. It was his gift for protecting her. His reward. Madness for her safety.
It seemed a fair bargain.
He stared at the window, at the falling snow. And he thought of how she'd looked standing in it, of snowflakes melting on her skin, sparkling in her hair.
After tomorrow, he promised himself. Just give me tomorrow, and I'll go. Back to where they would make sure he didn't break his promises. Back to where they could keep him safe from himself.
Chapter 26
She dressed for the occasion. It took her hours to go through her armoire, to dismiss one gown after another. She had a rainbow of pastels, yet when she held each one to her body and looked into the mirror, she realized Jonas had been right. Pastels did not become her. Pastels were colors for true blonds with blue eyes. Chloe's colors, not hers.
But she had nothing else. Finally she'd gone to Katherine, who had searched her own wardrobe, picking out a gown that was too small for her but perfect for Imogene. It was three years old, and slightly unfashionable, but Imogene could forgive that, because it suited her so well. It was simple and beautiful, with an open caraco bodice of bronze velvet and a flounced skirt of matching brocade. When she put it on, the color warmed her skin and brought out the highlights in her hair, made her eyes seem a mysterious golden brown instead of the muddy color she knew they were.
She looked attractive in the dress, if not beautiful, and Imogene took care with the rest of her toilette, pinning up her hair with two golden combs and clasping on earrings of gold filigree to dangle against her cheeks. She wanted to look beautiful. She wanted something to help her be strong, because the little bit of courage she'd shown her father yesterday had faded, and she knew it was because of Jonas, because she would soon be seeing him, and she was afraid of herself. Afraid she would lose her dignity and her self- respect completely. Afraid she would beg him to take her back.
She told herself there were a hundred good reasons to stay away from him: He was as mad as they said. She would never survive him. She didn't belong in his crowd. They were the right reasons for leaving him, the practical reasons. She could pick any one and feel she'd made the right decision, just one would allow her to keep her dignity.
Imogene squeezed her eyes shut. She heard the front door open downstairs, heard the bustle in the foyer, and she knew it was time to go. Time to brave the crowds at the gallery, to pretend nonchalance and composure when inside her heart was breaking. She did not know if she could look at him again. She did not know if she could survive seeing that regret in his eyes—or worse, seeing nothing at all. She wondered if she would even be able to walk away once she'd seen him.
Slowly she went to the door. Her hands were trembling, and she forced herself to calm before she turned the knob and stepped out into the hallway. They were waiting for her at the bottom of the stairs: her father, Thomas, Katherine. She saw them turn worried eyes upon her—except for her father, who only looked at her with contempt and turned away again. She wondered why that didn't hurt. It should have. It always had before.
"You look lovely, my dear," Thomas said.
Imogene gave him a weak smile.
Her father was holding her mantle for her. She came down the stairs and took it from him, putting it on, buttoning the wool collar tightly about her throat and then tying the ribbons of her hat, pulling on gloves. The movements were mechanical, and though she heard the others talking as they readied to go, Imogene
felt too detached to answer.
It was so cold outside it nearly took her breath away. Though it had stopped snowing, the sky was still heavy with clouds, the streets frozen with hard-packed mud and ice. It would be better to stay home, she thought, and wished her father and Thomas would look at the road and agree, but they didn't, and Henry was already waiting at the curb with the carriage.
"It'll be 'ard goin' today," he warned as he opened the door. "We'll take it nice 'n' slow."
Thomas smiled and stood back to help Katherine inside. "Good enough," he told Henry. "We're in no hurry."
Imogene climbed in beside Katherine, echoing Thomas's sentiments with relief. They were in no hurry. There was plenty of time to arrange her thoughts. Plenty of time to decide just how she would greet him when she saw him again. Calmly. Coolly. With just a touch of disdain. "Why hello, Jonas. How nice to see you again. Have you met my fath—"
Good Lord. Her father. She glanced at Samuel from the corner of her eye, noting his serious expression, the thin lips beneath his mustache. She had forgotten her father's reasons for going. She had forgotten about his desire for retribution, his notes to Jonas.
She sat back in the seat, closing her eyes, wishing she could fade into the leather. This was going to be a nightmare. She listened to the carriage wheels slipping and sliding on the icy streets, and she wished a rim would catch, or the horses would balk—anything to keep them from arriving at the National Academy Gallery.
But nothing happened, and before long the carriage was pulling up in front of the building that housed New York City's finest art school.
"Crowded tonight," Thomas noted, looking out the window. "Though it always is, I suppose."
He was right. The National Academy of Design's yearly exhibition was a well-attended event. There were people everywhere, clogging the walks, thronging the stairs, casting shadows against the lighted windows lining the front of the building. They had to wait their turn at the curb, and once they were out of the carriage, they joined those huddled against the cold. It took a long time to get in, and a brisk breeze only made the wait more uncomfortable, but once they were inside, Imogene wished she were still on the walk, still battling the cold.
