Dragon Rose(31)

“Well, I can paint as much as I want, and Sar has been very kind, and—”

“And?”

Oh, it was too much. I had not been raised to know what it was like to carry on this sort of a conversation with a man. If one could even call Theran Blackmoor a man. Be that as it may, while I’d had long discussions on painting techniques with Lindell, and of course interacted with my father on a daily basis, I had no real experience of what it was like to speak of anything save the weather or the most mundane inanities with someone of the opposite sex. So far I had skirted my inexperience by speaking of my paintings and other such commonplaces with Theran, but I realized we had crossed some sort of threshold here. Once again, it would have been far wiser to keep my mouth shut.

Then again, he was my husband. Why should I hide things from him? Well…besides my painting of the strange man, safely hidden behind stacks of canvases and the closed door to my bedchamber.

Since I had already begun, I thought I might as well go ahead and truly stick my foot in it. “And I like being with you…speaking with you.”

He said nothing for a long moment. I found myself holding my breath, wondering if I had made some drastic blunder, said the words no woman in my situation should have uttered.

Although he stood only a few feet away, it seemed as if a very great distance separated us. He appeared to stare down into his half-full glass, but then set it on the table before walking toward me. I did not move. I don’t think I could have, even if I had wanted to.

He stopped then, although he stood very close to me, closer than he had been since the night of our wedding. Once again I felt the heat of his body, only this time, instead of being troubled by it, I yearned for it. I wanted to know then what it would be like if he reached out for me, drew me into his arms. What it would feel like if his lips met mine in earnest, and not in the cool kiss of ceremony.

One hand reached out as if to touch my loose hair, but he stopped, gloved fingers a scant inch from my head. I saw then that they were trembling.

“No,” he said clearly. “I will not do this. Not to you.”

And he turned and fled the chamber, leaving me to watch as he slammed the door, and to wonder what I had done wrong. For the longest time I could do nothing but stand there, staring at that closed door. Then, almost as if it belonged to someone other than myself, my right hand lifted, and I bolted down the remainder of the contents of my glass, blinking at the sudden tearing in my eyes and telling myself that it was only the methlyn. Only a reaction to the bite of the liquor, and nothing else.





I was glad of the dream this time, glad I could focus my attention on something other than Theran Blackmoor, if only for a little while. This time it seemed as if the stranger turned toward me and smiled. His was a beautiful smile, illuminating his whole face, accenting the laugh lines around his eyes. I wished I could somehow paint that smile into the portrait, but the set of his mouth was quite done already.

That didn’t stop me from getting out of bed and grasping a pencil, and picking up my sketchbook. Just a quick study, something to get down the lift of his mouth and the crinkles at the corners of his eyes. Perhaps when I was done with the first portrait I could do another one, this one with him smiling.

I set down the pencil and shook my head at myself. Madness, really, as the first painting was far from finished. Besides, who had ever heard of a portrait wherein someone smiled? Portraits were serious matters, after all, a way of immortalizing oneself, and, I thought, giving one’s ancestors some idea as to what their forebears looked like. At least, that was how Lindell explained it to me, and since he had painted a great many members of the peerage, I supposed he knew better than most.

The stranger smiled up at me from the paper, and I scowled. “I suppose you find this all very amusing,” I said aloud. “But you have done enough mischief for one day.”

And I closed the sketchbook, turning instead to the painting of Lirinsholme’s valley. Truly, the piece was done, to all intents and purposes. I had thought perhaps to deepen some of the shadows cast by the stands of oak and elm which bordered the town to the south and west, but on further inspection I deemed that not to be necessary. No, all it needed was further time to dry, and then it could be framed and hung. Where, I had no idea; I thought Lord Blackmoor would decide where best it would reside. It was something I could discuss with him at dinner…if he could even bring himself to speak to me.

I didn’t quite sigh, but I felt little of the accomplishment I had thought I would experience once this, my first grand painting, was finished. Perhaps with time I might become more seasoned to his lordship’s vagaries of mood and not allow such things to temper my own spirits. At the moment, though, I could only wish I had stopped myself before revealing truths he apparently didn’t wish to hear.

Despite it being sandwiched between several other canvases, I felt the pull of my unfinished painting, the draw of the stranger’s eyes. Almost without thinking I stood and went to retrieve it, to hold it up in the clear morning light that streamed through the windows. Although the man’s expression was serious enough, I had painted in the smallest lift at the left side of his mouth, as if he were secretly amused by something.

As well you should be, I thought, staring down at his features, which were slowly becoming as familiar to me as my own. What with haunting my dreams over and over, and making me waste valuable paint and canvas on something I dare not show to anyone else…