Guilty Series (64 page)

When she uncovered what lay beneath the burlap, she gave a gasp of shock, seeing the last thing she would have expected. It was one of Etienne's paintings. The nude of her on the bed.

Grace stared down at her own face laughing back up at her.

The Girl with Green Eyes on a Bed.
Nearly eight years ago when Etienne had painted this. She'd been so very young. So terribly in love—as only someone that young could be. Crazy love, immature love, the shallow, worshipful love of a seventeen-year-old girl for a man she had put on a pedestal.

Grace lifted the canvas, revealing a layer of tissue paper, and she could see another painting beneath—the one of her stepping into a bath. Below that was the one of her in the swing. All three of the nudes Etienne had painted of her were here. She laid them back down flat and stared at the top one. Her nude body, half-reclined on the bed, with nothing of her form or her feelings left to the imagination.

She pressed her fists to her mouth, feeling slightly ill.

“Etienne promised to destroy the paintings when I left,” she murmured behind her hands. “When they did not appear anywhere after his death, I thought he had kept his word. I had almost forgotten these even existed.”

She stood there for a long time, staring at the image of herself from so long ago. She thought of the girl she had been, and she hurt for that girl, who had loved so desperately, who had believed that one could fall in love in an instant and expect it to last a lifetime. But Dylan was proof that even when one took months to fall in love, it still didn't last. A sob caught in her throat.

“Don't cry!” Dylan's hoarse voice broke into her thoughts, and before she could turn around, he was behind her, his arms sliding around her waist, holding her tight against him. “Don't cry,” he repeated, his lips on her cheek, kissing tears away.

It was so humiliating to cry in front of him. She struggled, but he did not let her go, and she gave it up, sagging in his arms. “Where did you get these?” she choked.

“I bought them.” He hesitated, then added, “Grace, they were up for auction at Christie's.”

“Oh, God,” she moaned and buried her face in her hands. The idea that her body had been on public display, described and bid on in front of dozens of men was horrifying to her. She remembered that night in London when she had thought she would have to pose nude to a stranger for money, and she thanked God she had not been forced to that. She had done these paintings for her husband, the man she had once loved. Countless other men had seen them now, and the thought sickened her.

“No one will ever see them again,” Dylan whispered fiercely in her ear as if he could read her thoughts. “I told you, they are yours now to do with as you wish.”

She lowered her hands, turned around in his arms, and pushed at him. This time, he let her go, taking several steps back. “How much did you pay for them?” she asked.

“It doesn't matter.”

“How much?” she repeated. No matter how long it took, she would pay him back. She did not want to owe him, not for these.

“Grace—” He broke off, studying her expression, and she could tell he did not want to tell her, but after a moment, he capitulated. “Eventually you will find out anyway, I suppose, since everything I do is in the scandal sheets,” he muttered. “Thirty-six thousand pounds.”

“Oh, good Lord,” she said, wretched. “I can never pay you back. I will be in debt to you my entire life.”

“Grace, damn it, you are not in debt to me.” He stepped forward and grabbed her arms. “I don't want you to pay me back! I am giving these to you. They should have been yours in the first place, and your damned husband should have destroyed them when you asked him to.”

Grace pulled away from him. Seeing him, having him here in front of her, letting him touch her and kiss her tears away, was too much. It hurt too much. God help her, she loved him too much. She twisted away and crossed the room to the fire. Her back to him, she stared into the blaze.

He had gone to that auction, and he had watched as each image of her naked body had been propped up on a stand and described by an auctioneer. He had bought every one, paying dearly for them, and he had given them to her. A thought struck her, and she whirled around. “I didn't even know these paintings still existed. How did you find out about them?”

“Ian told me.”

“What?”

“He showed me a Christie's pamphlet—you know the kind I mean, that have engravings, sketches, and descriptions of the items to be auctioned. He had it with him in Devonshire, and when he was introduced to you, he knew at once who you were.”

“That was why you made me leave,” Grace said with a sudden glimmer of understanding. “You saw engravings of me without…without my clothes, and you set me aside. Without even an explanation!” A flash of pain crossed his face, but her own pain was too great to care. “Damn you, you set me aside for these stupid paintings?”

Horrified at all the hurt in her own voice, she fought hard to regain her control, but it was futile. She was splintering apart. “Because my own husband painted me nude?” A bubble of hysteria rose in her throat. “I didn't think Dylan Moore was such a prude.”

“I didn't give a damn about that!” he shouted, stepping toward her. “I hated the idea of other men looking at you, ogling you in some collection or museum, I grant you that. But that was not the main reason! It was your face! It cut me to the heart, your face.”

“What? I don't understand.”

“Look at yourself, look at your face.” Dylan jabbed a finger in the direction of the canvases on the table. “You loved him.”

“Of course I did.” She could only stare at Dylan, bewildered. “I told you that.”

“Cheval was a great painter, wasn't he? Oh, yes, a very great painter. He painted what he saw—that love in your face, so much love, all the love in your heart, all the love in the world, for him.”

“So?”

His face was ravaged, full of pain, like a wounded animal. “You have never, ever looked at me that way.”

He loved her. She knew it in an instant, not from what he said but from the shattered way he looked at her. All her defenses came tumbling down as she stared at the proud, wounded man in front of her. She had never seen anything like this pain in a man's countenance before.

“Oh, Dylan,” she said, lifting her hands in a helpless gesture. “I was a girl. I was a child. I scarcely knew what love was. When Etienne painted that, I was seventeen years old, and my infatuation for him was mixed up with admiration and physical desires. I loved my husband, yes, but it was such an insubstantial love, it didn't last more than three years. He was my lover, and I had never been in love before. It was all so new, so romantic, and so very exciting…” Her voice trailed off as she looked into Dylan's pain-filled face.

“I had only known Etienne a week when we eloped,” she reminded him. “He may not have married me until two years after we met, but he did love me in his way, as much as he was able. He was a man of such violent moods, living with him was hell. He thought I was his inspiration.” Dylan let out his breath sharply and turned away.

“As his moods got darker,” Grace went on, “he became more and more unstable. When he couldn't paint, he blamed me. Then he turned to other women. Somehow, it all went wrong, and the love all died. I could not bear the blame he heaped on me, the affairs he flaunted in my face, and I left him. Oh, Dylan,” she cried to his back, “I loved him, but I was not the woman I am now. Can you not understand that?”

Something, a sound broke from him, and he turned around. “I hate him, Grace. I hate him because he hurt you, he took your beautiful, generous, loving heart and he broke it, he forced you away. I did the same. I hate him because I hate myself. I did not appreciate what I had until it was lost to me.”

“Dylan—”

“Wait!” he interrupted. “Hell, I almost forgot.”

He strode out of the parlor, and when he came back, he had a bunch of roses in his hand, all mixed colors, tied with a ribbon. He thrust them into her hand. “I know roses are your favorite, and I tried to buy you a beautiful posy of them, but there's no florist in the village. I stole them out of some poor woman's garden on the way here.”

Grace took them, and inside, she began to shake. “Why are you giving me flowers like a suitor at my door?”

“It was Isabel's idea. You see, she said I had to come and get you back. She had it all planned out, that you were going to be her new mother. Part of that real family business she wants. And she told me to come and get you, to give you flowers and apologize. She says that works on you when she misbehaves, and I thought it was worth a try. Grace, I'm sorry.”

“You hurt me.”

“Yes. I know.” He did not even try to make an excuse. His mouth tightened, but he did not look away. “I saw you crying in the dirt. I know saying one is sorry is the most trite, stupid, inadequate phrase in the English language. But I don't know what else to say. I know how terribly I hurt you; and I'm so goddamned sorry.”

She took a deep breath, inhaling the sweet scent of roses. In the rush of his words, she'd caught something about being Isabel's new mother, but she wasn't sure if he was proposing or not. There had just been too many unexpected things today, she couldn't seem to think straight.

“I never knew I could be a jealous man,” he said, “but when Ian came, and he was looking at you, it started gnawing at me. You remember how we quarreled?”

“Yes, I remember.”

“Then I saw the engravings of those paintings and that look on your face, and I can't explain what happened inside of me. I just…I just erupted. I was so afraid, Grace, so afraid, knowing you didn't love me. Not when you could look at the man you loved like that and hadn't ever looked that way at me.”

He gave a harsh, humorless sound. “Not that I deserve it. I have hurt so many women in my life, and I never thought about any of them, not one. Most of them I can't even remember. I never thought about them or how they felt. Only how I felt. Now, I know what I did to them—I broke their hearts, and I know how it feels because mine is in pieces without you. I love you. I love you more than my life. I love you more than my music.”

“Dylan—”

“Grace, don't say anything,” he interrupted, a desperation in his voice she had never heard before. “I know you probably just want me gone, but I have to tell you about me. You were right. I didn't know what love was. I thought I knew, but even with Michaela, I didn't. I proposed to her, but I still didn't give my heart, not really. Music took it all.”

“Dylan, I understand that. You don't have to explain that to me.”

“I have never given my heart away,” he went on as if she hadn't spoken. “Never. Because I always knew that when I did, I would give it all, and there would be nothing for the music.” His words were coming so fast now she could barely follow what he said. “Do you see? Without music, I would be nothing. For five years, without music, I was nothing.”

“That's not true.”

“It was true. Then you came back into my life again.” He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a sheaf of papers. “Here's the symphony. I wrote it about us, I named it for you.”

“I know,” she whispered. “I—”

“I want you to have it,” he said. “Without you, I could never publish it. Without you, I don't give a damn about the music anymore. I know just saying these things doesn't mean anything. But I love you. And I want to get married. To you, I mean. Us, you and me. Post banns and do everything right. I wouldn't spirit you off to France and not marry you for two years like some Frenchman.”

“I see.”

“Well?” he prompted her to get it over, say it. “Grace, will you marry me?”

There was a long silence. He looked at her and waited, but when she still didn't speak, he lifted his hands to touch her. Then he changed his mind and let them fall back to his sides. “Say something, for God's sake,” he ordered in a fierce, agonized whisper. “Aren't you going to say anything?”

She gave a shaky laugh. “Are you going to let me say anything?”

“Grace, if you're going to shred me to ribbons, do it. God knows, I deserve it.”

“I'm not going to shred you to ribbons.” She looked at the symphony in her hands, then at the painting on the table. She thought of what he had done for her family, and how he'd come to her this way to list all his faults for her like a litany with which to lash himself. “What am I supposed to do with a symphony?” she asked him.

“Burn it. I don't care.”

“You and Isabel. With both of you, there always has to be drama in everything. Can you not just fall in love and propose like a normal person? Do you have to write a symphony about it all? I'm just a girl from Cornwall, for heaven's sake. You know, it is a very good thing for the two of you that I happen to be a sensible person. Or you would both be lost.”

“What?” He looked at her, and there was no sound in his mind but the thud of his pounding heart. “What are you saying?”

“I'm saying yes. I love you.”

“You do?”

She nodded, and he hauled her into his arms. He held her so tightly that he knew he must be smothering her. “Grace, Grace, don't ever leave me again. Ever.”

“You are the most unaccountable man! You told me to leave, remember?”

“I never said I wasn't a fool.” He kissed her lips, her cheek, her ear. “Grace?”

“Hmm?”

“Remember when I said I didn't do all those things to get you to come back to me?”

“Yes.”

“I was lying.”

She smiled and wrapped her arms around his waist. “I know.”

Startled, he pulled back and looked at her. “You do?”

“Yes. You smile a certain way when you lie.”