Portrait Of A Lover (7 page)

For a moment Annabelle thought he was going to stop, as he always had before, but no…

He moved quickly and decisively, inching down and tugging her skirts upward until he found the tapes that fastened her drawers.

Lying flat on her back with her legs parted, Annabelle put a hand over her eyes, allowing him to remove her drawers, then her stockings and boots, not knowing what would come next.

Suddenly she was exposed to the cool air. Her legs were bare and still parted, her skirts bunched up around her waist.

Her heart began to pound with trepidation. This was happening so fast. Was he going to plunge into her right now and take her virginity? He could if he wanted to. She had told him to do it.

But was she really ready?

Before she had a chance to think anything through, he moved down between her legs and began kissing her knees, then her thighs, then his mouth traveled up to the place where her desire was centered and he stroked her with his tongue. Annabelle gasped in shock, but the shock quickly passed as pleasure consumed her. She took his head in her hands as a mad passion ripped through her body like a summer storm.

“What are you doing to me?” she asked breathlessly, all doubts and fears vanishing in an instant.

He made no reply. He only reached a hand up to hold hers.

She squeezed it, squeezing her legs together, too, cupping his head between her bare thighs. Annabelle bit her lip as all her muscles clenched and tightened. She lifted her head off the ground, shutting her eyes and blocking out the rest of the world. All she knew was the blinding heat of sensation—his mouth and tongue driving her to the wild realms of hot, tingling mayhem.

And wild mayhem it was, as waves of pleasure crashed and washed over her moments later. Her flesh throbbed and quivered. She cried out, tears spilling from her eyes. Annabelle grabbed for his head again, cupping it in both hands while he continued to drive her through the fierce, spiraling completion.

He did not stop until she went limp and her arms fell open onto the grass. Then he pulled her skirts down, before he lay beside her, leaning up on one elbow.

Finally, Annabelle opened her eyes and turned her head to look at him.

“What did you do to me?” she asked, her voice weak and listless.

He kissed her tenderly on the lips, his hand caressing her cheek. Then he slowly drew back. “You had an orgasm.”

She looked up at the white puffy clouds in the sky. “I never knew of such a thing.”

“Well, now you do,” he said, smiling, his voice quiet and gentle.

He rested his hand on her belly, and for a long time they lay in silence, relaxing and listening to the ducks quacking on the lake, until Annabelle’s breathing returned to normal.

Mr. Edwards gazed out across the water and said, “I think I deserve a medal.”

“Why?” she asked, laughing.

“Because you’re still a virgin.”

A breeze blew through the trees behind them, and Annabelle’s face grew serious. “It wouldn’t matter if I wasn’t.”

And she meant it. She wanted him to be the one.

She rolled onto her side to face him. “I wish I could do that to you. Touch you and give you that kind of pleasure.”

Annabelle reached for the front of his trousers, but he quickly caught her wrist in his hand.

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’d lose my medal, and you’d lose something else more important than your virginity. You’d lose your freedom to make choices.”

“Regarding a husband?” she asked.

“Yes, and I will not take that away from you.”

Annabelle bristled. She wasn’t entirely sure if he was doing this for her, or if it was a more selfish rationale. Perhaps he did not want to be obligated.

She kept her hand where it was, poised over his arousal, and he continued to hold her wrist, keeping her at bay until she finally gave up.

“What are we going to do,” she asked in a desperate haze as she sat up and hugged her knees to her chest, “now that the painting is done? I don’t want to say good-bye.”

He sat up, too, resting his elbows on his knees and linking his hands together.

But he said nothing.

“You could come and pay a call,” she suggested. “I could talk to my brother. I believe if he could come to know you, he would admire you as much as I do.”

Mr. Edwards took a moment before he rose to his feet and walked to the edge of the woods, leaning a hand upon the rough bark of an elm. “No.”

Annabelle was baffled by the firmness of his reply. “Why not? I would talk to Whitby first.”

Mr. Edwards shook his head and walked toward the water, where he bent down, picked up a rock, and pitched it hard, as far as he could into the lake. “I remember the way your aunt looked at me on the train.”

“I would talk to her, too,” Annabelle argued. “I would make her understand.”

He faced her. “Understand what? That you’ve been lying to her all summer? Sneaking off to meet a bank clerk alone on a secluded island? I’m sure she’d be happy to hear it.” He turned toward the lake again. “No, Annabelle, they’ll never understand.”

A sick feeling moved into the pit of her stomach. “You’re not even willing to try?”

He looked over his shoulder at her, tilting his head as if he thought she was very foolish.

She had seen him look that way only once before—the first time they had come here—and today she sensed there was a side of him she did not know very well. A darker side.

It worried her. She wanted suddenly to see where he lived, to see his home and his mother. This summer had been nothing but a fantasy after all, for real life was not an endless string of leisurely Sunday afternoons…

“We should go,” he said flatly, just like he had said that first day, when they’d argued. “I can’t miss my train.”

“Why do you do that?” she asked pointedly. “You always want to leave when things get…” She didn’t know what they were exactly, but she knew something was different.

He went to pack up her easel and paints, while she sat bewildered on the grass, watching him. What had just happened? A moment ago he’d looked at her with desire in his eyes. Now all he wanted to do was get away from her.

“I don’t care what they think anyway,” she blurted out, referring to her family, as she pulled on her stockings, drawers, and boots.

He was crouching down, putting paint tubes back into the box, ignoring what she’d said. He didn’t even look up.

Annabelle walked to him. “Did you hear me? I said I don’t care what they think. I’d run away with you if you wanted.”

He went instantly still.

He closed his eyes briefly, then opened them and looked up at her. “You don’t know what you’re saying. You don’t even know me.”

“Yes, I do.”

“No. You don’t.”

He returned to his task, quickly dropping the brushes into the box and closing it. He slid the box into her bag, then walked to the boat and set it inside.

Annabelle stood watching him, feeling hurt and confused. “I don’t understand. Did you just come here every Sunday because you wanted a painting of yourself, and now that you have it, you’re done with me? Or did you grow bored with me?”

She could feel her heart breaking as she spoke the words. He wanted to end it. She could feel it coming.

He folded the easel and carried it and the painting to the boat, then came back for the lunch sack. “You know that’s not true. I’ve enjoyed this as much as you have, but maybe we should be sensible and take some time to think about everything.”

He returned to the boat and stood by it, waiting for Annabelle to get in, but she couldn’t move. She was in shock over this change in him. It was as if the beautiful bubble of their love had just burst in front of her eyes.

“I don’t need to think about it,” she said, “but obviously you do.” She strode toward him. “Just tell me why.”

He did not respond. He simply gestured toward the boat. “Get in please, Annabelle.”

“No. Not until you tell me why you’re acting this way. Do you not care about me? Have I become dull?”

“You’re not dul,” he replied, sounding frustrated as he struggled for words. “It has just become too complicated, and I don’t like things complicated. Now get in the boat please.”

She was fuming now. She couldn’t believe this was happening. How could a person change so quickly? What was wrong with him? And why had he let things go so far today if he wanted to end it? Why had he touched her like that and made her love him even more?

“Have you met someone else?” she asked, barely able to keep her voice from breaking.

“No.” His tone was firm.

Not knowing what to say, because she was too angry to speak, Annabelle got in. She braced her hands on the seat, while he pushed the boat over the gravel and into the water. Climbing inside, he picked up the oars, never meeting her gaze as he turned the boat around.

Annabelle glanced down at the painting. She had worked so hard on it.

Soon they were coasting swiftly through the water, the boat propelled forward with every strong, forceful stroke. Mr. Edwards glanced at her occasionally while he rowed, but neither of them spoke. They both sat in angry silence, crossing the lake.

When they approached the dock, Annabelle grabbed hold of the post while Mr. Edwards climbed out and tied the rope.

As soon as the boat was secure, she handed the painting and all the gear to him. He offered a hand to help her out, but she ignored it, awkwardly gathering her skirts in a fist while she climbed onto the dock without assistance.

“Annabelle…” he said, watching her pick up her things.

She did not speak to him. She couldn’t. She was too angry.

She drew the lunch sack over her shoulder, along with her art case, then clumsily managed to get the easel under her arm.

“I’m leaving,” she said as she started up the length of the dock. “You better get going. You don’t want to miss your train.”

She heard him take a few steps to follow. “Annabelle, wait.”

Her foot landed on the grassy bank before she stopped and turned. He was standing on the dock with the lake and their private island behind him. It looked so very far away.

Annabelle waited for him to say what he wished to say, but all he did was spread his hands wide in a shrugging gesture. Then he dropped them to his sides.

The noncommittal message infuriated her even more, and she could feel her cheeks coloring, her muscles clenching with fury.

“That’s it?” she asked, shifting her load, barely managing to cope with the heavy easel under her arm.

He did not respond.

She looked away for a moment and shook her head. She had thought their time together had been special, but clearly she was wrong. All she’d been to him was a casual summertime affair, and now he wanted out.

“You’ve got your painting,” she said icily. “The summer’s over, and I think it’s obvious that our friendship is over, too, because I for one do like things complicated.”

When he still said nothing and did not even argue the point of their friendship coming to an end, Annabelle’s anger mixed with heartache and disillusionment, and she had to fight not to let those feelings overtake her. As hard as it was to walk away from him—when a part of her wanted to drop everything, run back and beg and plead with him not to end it—she had to be strong. She was heartbroken, but she would not be pathetic.

She raised her chin and strove to keep her voice steady as she spoke over the painful lump in her throat. “Good-bye, Mr. Edwards. I will ask you not to contact me again.”

With that, she headed for the path toward home, still thinking he might follow to say he was sorry. She wanted him to. The whole way along the path she listened for his footsteps, hoping, praying, he would change his mind and come running after her.

But he did not come running. The woods were quiet as she tramped along the footpath, forcing herself to accept the truth—that she had been very wrong when she thought he loved her. He had been using her for his own pleasure and amusement. Especially today.

Annabelle walked as fast as she could, fighting the tears that were filling her eyes, but as soon as she reached the private depths of the forest, she couldn’t go any farther.

She stopped on the path, dropped to her knees and wept into her hands.

D uring the week that followed the painful end of her summer affair, Annabelle kept mostly to herself. She slept late, feeling no desire to get out of bed, and she excused herself from her aunt’s company in the afternoons to nap in her bedchamber, though she never really napped. She merely lay in her bed, experiencing extreme—and sometimes conflicting—degrees of emotion.

One minute she hated Mr. Edwards like she’d never hated anything or anyone.

The next minute she missed him desperately and longed to see him again—to touch him, to feel his hands on her body, to taste his kiss. She wanted to hear his voice and his laughter. She wanted to sit in the boat with him and watch him row.

Most of all she wanted to feel the joy and freedom she had felt when she was with him. She had never felt more alive, or more herself.

Annabelle cried many tears that week, and on the following Sunday she did what she’d promised herself she would not do. She ran through the woods to the lake, whizzing past bushes and branches, hoping he had missed her, too, and would be there.

But when she emerged from the shady path to discover the boat empty, bobbing up and down upon the choppy water and knocking against the dock, she hated herself for being so weak. She hated herself even more for waiting there all afternoon, hoping he would appear and apologize for their argument.

It had been a sad, humiliating afternoon.

But it was nothing compared to the final time she saw him two weeks later, on a rainy Monday morning in London, when she had experienced one of the most traumatic events of her life…

HOPPING OUT OF A HANSOM
cab and into a puddle—after sneaking out of her brother’s Mayfair mansion without her chaperone—Annabelle made her way across the cobbled street to the bank where Mr. Edwards had told her he worked. She dashed quickly through the rain to the front door.

Stopping under the overhang to catch her breath, she lowered the hood of her cloak and paused there a moment, looking down at her muddy skirts.

She didn’t know what she was doing here. She knew better than to try and see Mr. Edwards again, after he’d made it more than clear he wanted to cut her loose. But she couldn’t help it. She had spent the past three weeks wondering what had killed it for him, and she began to cling to the belief that he felt he was not good enough for her and thought he was doing the right thing by ending it.

If that was all it was, she would convince him it was not the right thing. She would convince him that he was good enough, no matter what her family thought.

She took a deep breath and swallowed hard, straining to hold onto her courage. All she wanted was an honest answer, even if the truth was not what she wanted to hear. If she had that, she believed she would have an easier time getting over him.

Just then, an older gentleman in a dark coat and top hat came running to reach the shelter of the overhang and paused a moment, brushing the raindrops off his shoulders before pulling the door open. He smiled at Annabelle and gestured for her to enter first.

“Thank you,” she replied, forcing herself to cross the threshold.

Once inside, she glanced around the large bank and up at the high ceiling and brass chandelier. The floors were shiny black-and-white marble, and the desks and counters were all dark tiger oak.

There was a general echoing chaos of masculine voices, all speaking at the same time, and a bell rang from somewhere, signaling something. Toward the back, at least two-dozen desks were arranged in rows, and each had its own lamp.

Feeling suddenly uncomfortable and out of place, she was about to turn and walk out when a young man in a bright blue tie approached.

“Good morning,” he said. “Do you have an appointment?”

Annabelle squeezed her reticule in front of her and tried to appear relaxed. “No. I’m looking for someone. Mr. Edwards. John Edwards.”

The young man’s brow furrowed. “Is he a customer? Were you supposed to meet him here?”

She shook her head. “No. He works here, but he’s not expecting me.”

The man glanced uncertainly around at the array of desks at the back. “I don’t believe I know a John Edwards. Is he new?”

Her heart was beginning to pound. She shouldn’t have come here alone, she thought, and certainly not to see her former secret lover. She felt as if this man knew she was sneaking around and doing something very wrong, and he was about to blow a whistle and turn her in.

“No, he’s been working here for two years,” she explained.

“Two years,” the man replied with some confusion. “You’re sure that’s his name? Because there is no John Edwards here. What does he look like? Or perhaps you have the wrong bank.”

Annabelle began to feel a sickening knot tighten in her stomach. He had told her he worked here. Had he lied about that? But why would he lie? And if he did not work here, where did he work? How would she ever find him again?

Just then something drew her attention away from the young man before her, as if someone had called her name, though no one had.

Her gaze swung toward the back corner of the bank, where it remained fixed on the man walking toward her. All the sounds of the bank faded away, leaving only the whisper of her blood in her veins. The whole world seemed to disappear for a moment while she stood immobile, watching the man—Mr. Edwards—walk toward her.

He did not look pleased.

“Here he comes,” she said in a fog, barely aware of the young man leaving her side and moving away.

Mr. Edwards came to a slow stop before her and spoke flatly without emotion. “What are you doing here?” He glanced uneasily at a coworker who was watching them. The coworker quickly went about his business.

Annabelle fought a feeling of intimidation as she looked up at her former love.

There was no softness in his eyes, only displeasure. If she did not know him, she would believe him a cruel man. Perhaps he was. Perhaps that was why her heart was pounding and her hands were trembling. She actually felt afraid of him. This was not what she had expected.

“I just wanted to talk to you,” she managed to say in a deceptively confident and assertive voice.

“About what?” he replied icily, as if she were a great bother to him and he had no time for her. It was shocking to her, the way this was unfolding.

All at once anger filled her. He had no cause to be so rude to her, to make her feel so troublesome. All she wanted was a few minutes of his time.

She squared her shoulders and copied his icy tone. “That man said there was no John Edwards here. Why would he tell me that?”

He stared down at her for a long moment before moving past her toward the door and indicating for her to follow. “I don’t want to talk about this here.”

Still shocked by his inconceivable rudeness, Annabelle followed him outside, where they stood in front of the bank window. The rain poured hard on the street beyond the shelter of the overhang, hissing as it misted on the ground.

“I just want to understand what happened,” Annabelle said, determined to get this over with as quickly as possible. “And why that man didn’t know you as John Edwards.”

“Let it go, Annabelle. This sort of thing happens all the time. Flirtations occur, and then they come to an end.”

“Flirtations?” She could not control her voice. She had practically shouted the word. “Was that all it was to you? Because it was much more than that to me. I fell in love with you.”

Something flashed through his eyes. Regret? Anguish?

No. It was shock. Love was a strong word.

“That’s why I had to end it,” he said. “It went further than I had intended it to go.”

“Than you intended?” Her stomach was whirling with dread and anxiety as she contemplated what he was saying. “So even in the beginning, you just wanted a casual affair?”

He paused, his brow furrowing as if he were in physical pain. “Yes.”

“But when you came to see me that first time in my garden, you led me to believe it was much more than that. Were you toying with me? Is that something you do? Lead women on, only to discard them when their feelings become complicated?”

Annabelle realized she was clenching her fists.

“Lower your voice, please,” he whispered, glancing around. “It had to end, there was no way around it. I thought it more kind to end it sooner rather than later.”

“More kind? I never wanted your pity.”

“No, you wanted something else. You wanted too much, and I always knew it could never happen. You must have known that yourself.”

“No! I told you I didn’t care what my family thought.”

He was quiet for a moment. “You need to let it go, Annabelle, and move on. Forget about me.”

He turned to leave, but she grabbed hold of his arm. “Wait a minute. I don’t believe you. You did love me. I couldn’t have been so wrong about that.”

Oh, that sounded pathetic. She wished she could take it back.

He glanced around. “Let go, Annabelle. Please. You’re making a spectacle of yourself.”

A spectacle? That did it. She could have throttled him.

“No, I will not let go! Tell me why you ended it. The real reason, and I want the truth!”

The rain came down harder suddenly, roaring on the roof of the overhang and pouring onto the ground like a thick curtain beside them. But neither of them noticed. Their eyes were locked on each other’s, while this painful scene played out.

Magnus was having trouble breathing, and knowing that the time had come, that he had to tell Annabelle the truth, he nearly fell to his knees in despair.

He didn’t want to hurt her, nor did he want to lose her forever, but he couldn’t let her go on thinking they could be together. He couldn’t do that to her. He couldn’t rip her from her beautiful, glittering life and put her in the middle of a war between himself and Whitby. For if she defied her brother, she would be exiled to hell, just like he had been.

He pulled his arm from her grasp as a shame-filled wretchedness flared in his gut. He should never have started this. He should have changed seats on the train that first day, as soon as he’d learned who she was. He shouldn’t have let himself be pulled in.

His voice shook when he spoke. “Fine. You want the truth? Here it is. My name isn’t John Edwards. It’s Magnus. I am Whitby’s cousin.”

Annabelle felt her eyes grow wide. It seemed her thoughts were draining out of her and washing away in the muddy flow of water down the street. She was stunned.

Cousin Magnus? No, he couldn’t be…It wasn’t possible.

“Have you heard of me?” he asked. “Do you know that Whitby’s father and my father were twins?”

Yes, she did know. She knew the whole sordid story about Magnus’s father being sent away as a young boy because he was violent and dangerous. He had threatened the very life of his brother—Whitby’s father. But she couldn’t speak. Her brain was muddled, her mouth didn’t seem to be working.

“It’s a vile story, isn’t it?” he said, his voice low and controlled, but seething with resentment. “My father was cut off from your high-browed family as I have always been, and it is no secret your brother and I despise each other.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Annabelle asked in a numb, shaken stupor.

“Because I knew it would cut our summer short, and…”

Magnus hesitated. A knife plunging into his heart would have been less painful to him than what he was about to say to Annabelle.

But he had to say it, because if he didn’t, she might cling to some tiny shred of hope. He had to make sure she would let go of that and never come back here. For her sake.

“And I was enjoying a very satisfying jab at Whitby,” he ground out.

Annabelle’s face went pale, and her voice trembled when she finally spoke. “You were using me?”

He paused again, his jaw clenching. “Every minute we were together.”

“But I loved you.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, because I didn’t love you.”

He nearly choked on the words.

Annabelle sucked in a breath. There it was. The cold, hard truth, and hearing it spoken aloud felt like a plank across her chest. It knocked the wind out of her.

He was staring at her, his eyes dark and expressionless. “I didn’t want to say it, Annabelle, but you forced me to. So there it is. Now you should go.”

Annabelle thought about what she knew of Magnus. She’d heard that he had inherited his father’s jealous, violent nature, and that he was responsible for the death of Whitby’s older brother. John, the heir to the earldom before Whitby, had been found dead in Hyde Park when he was sixteen. His head was cracked open on a rock, and everyone knew he and Magnus had seen each other that day and fought, as they always did. Magnus had a bloody nose when they caught up with him afterward, but of course he denied having anything to do with what happened. They’d had no proof, and it was concluded that John was simply thrown from his horse.

John. John Edwards. Whitby’s first name was Edward…

Her mind spinning with horrifying revelations, Annabelle felt faint and unsteady on her feet. “I can’t believe I was sneaking around behind Whitby’s back to be with you.”

Magnus stiffened visibly, then his expression turned to a cold mask of stone. “But you were, and I helped you do it.”