Portrait Of A Lover (12 page)

There was no mistaking the fact that Whitby’s body relaxed significantly upon hearing that. His shoulders rose and fell, and his fist opened on his lap.

“I’m relieved to hear that, Annabelle. Did you get your painting back? He doesn’t deserve to have it. We can hang it here. In a prominent place.”

Nervous butterflies invaded her belly as she prepared to answer. “No, he still has it, and I left three more with him as well.”

Whitby’s hand slid up and down upon his thigh, as if he were trying to wipe something from his palm. “Why?”

“Because he is opening that gallery soon, and I want my work included in the exhibition.”

Whitby chuckled bitterly, as if he had expected things to unfold exactly as they had. “But don’t you see? That was his plan. He bought the gallery for the singular purpose of seducing you with it. That manipulative scoundrel.”

Annabelle frowned as she fought to understand the reasons why her brother was so afraid for her, when he already knew she hated Magnus for breaking her heart.

“Tell me something,” she said. “Why do you still hate him so much after all these years? I know you blame him for your brother’s death, but everyone knows there was no concrete proof that—”

“Are you falling in love with him again, Annabelle? Is that what’s happening here?”

She clenched her teeth together. “Of course not,” she assured him. “I just want to know what I am dealing with. You believe he has returned for further vengeance upon us as a family—but vengeance for what? Surely he does not still harbor hatred because of what happened to his father. That was two lifetimes ago, and he seems to have moved on.”

Whitby paused a moment before he spoke. “But you already know why Magnus has always been rejected here.”

Annabelle sat with her back poker straight and squeezed her hands together tightly on her lap. “You told me that his father was dangerous, that he tried to harm your father when they were children. But how exactly?”

“Among other things, Magnus’s father tried to set my father on fire.”

Annabelle covered her mouth with a hand. “Surely not.”

“The bed went up in flames, and my father suffered burns on his arms and legs, but thankfully managed to get out of the room alive.”

Annabelle flinched at the cold, disquieting tone of her brother’s voice. “But what did Magnus do?” she asked, needing more specific information. “Why was he also cut off from the family?”

Whitby raked a hand through his hair, his eyes clouding over with disdain. “From what I understand, no one even knew of Magnus’s existence until he was nine. His birth was kept secret from us.”

“How did you find out about him?”

Whitby sat forward, elbows on knees. “When Magnus’s father died, his mother took it upon herself to demand financial support from us, and promised my brother John—who had just become earl that year and was only fourteen years old—that if he didn’t give her what she wanted, she and Magnus would make all our lives a living hell. Then they did. Magnus threatened and even attacked John dozens of times over the next few years, and it didn’t stop until John was dead.”

Annabelle’s blood chilled in her veins. “But Magnus would have only been a child.”

“His father was a child when he lit my father’s bed on fire. He was mad, Annabelle. He was jealous and hateful, and Magnus was the same. You know it yourself. You know what he did to you, how he used you. You know his heart is cold like ice.”

She began to feel ill.

Whitby blinked slowly at her. “You were only an infant when Magnus came into our lives,” he said.

“I was three when John died,” she added. “I barely remember him. All my life you have been my only family. And now Lily and the children, of course.”

Yes, Whitby had been her guardian as long as she could remember. Her protector. He had taken care of things when he learned how Magnus had used and discarded her, and he had held her while she wept.

Annabelle squeezed Whitby’s hand. He was a good man, and now he was a husband and father. He loved his children with every inch of his being, and would gladly lay down his life for any one of them. There was no one in the world more devoted and loyal to those he loved, and Annabelle was thankful to be one of those fortunate people.

If she had to decide whom to trust—Whitby or Magnus—of course it would be Whitby. There was no question.

“Don’t worry about me,” she said. “The only thing I care about is that my paintings will hang beside George Wright’s paintings, and he’s an artist I greatly admire. And I will not be seduced. I am not the foolish, trusting girl I once was. So I assure you, it will be impossible for Magnus to ever win back my esteem. Especially after what I’ve heard today.”

Whitby closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose, while Annabelle glanced uneasily at Lily, who shrugged helplessly.

They all sat in silence for a minute or two, until Whitby spoke. “There is still the issue of my contract with him. He is in breach.”

“He knows it,” Annabelle said. “But he told me he didn’t want your money anymore. He’s prepared to terminate the agreement.”

Whitby looked up in surprise, as if he couldn’t believe any of this and almost found it humorous on some strange, outlandish level.

“Well, it’s not up to him, is it? Whether he likes it or not, the payments stop now.”

Annabelle merely nodded.

“Where is this gallery he purchased?” Whitby asked.

“
Two twelve Regent Street
,” Annabelle replied, knowing full well why Whitby wanted the address, but she was not going to stand in his way. If he had something to say to Magnus, he could say it. It was none of her affair. She didn’t care. They were both grown men.

Though in truth, they had always been more like two bulls locking horns, ramming into each other at every opportunity.

Whitby stood. “I’ll be traveling to London in the morning.”

“I suspected as much,” Annabelle replied.

He turned to leave, but Annabelle stopped him. “Wait, Whitby.”

Her brother faced her, and she briefly mulled over what she wanted to say to him.

“You might find him different now,” she said. “He has money.”

Her brother stared at her briefly before he narrowed his gaze. Lily nervously cleared her throat.

“Rich or poor,” Whitby replied, “I will not find him different.” Then he turned and left the room.

M agnus was leaning over a table he had purchased at an auction that morning, pushing hard upon the sander—back and forth, back and forth—taking pleasure in knowing that when he was finished, this piece would be exquisite. He would set the gallery cards upon it.

Feeling the strain in his back and arms, he straightened and swiped an arm across his brow. It was hard work, sanding paint off mahogany, but well worth it. And he’d always enjoyed working with his hands.

Just when he was about to lean back into it, the gallery door opened, and who should walk in but Whitby.

Bloody hell, Magnus thought, setting the sander down and letting out a deep sigh of frustration, for he did not want to stop what he was doing, especially not to talk to his cousin, but he knew it was necessary. Best to get it over with.

He pulled off his gloves and tossed them onto the table, then sauntered across the gallery to address Whitby, who approached him from the other side.

They stopped in the center of the room and stood in silence facing each other, but after a very short time, Magnus grew tired of the bravado. He had no interest in this sort of thing, which was rather astounding. At one time he had lived for it—especially during the five years after his summer with Annabelle. His bitterness over that loss had simmered and raged inside him for a long time afterward, and his resentment toward Whitby had reached its peak.

Thank God he left for America when he had.

“I was expecting you today,” he finally said to his cousin.

“Were you indeed?” Whitby replied.

“Yes. I suspected you’d want to discuss our contract. And I knew you would wish to have a word with me about Annabelle.”

Whitby glared at him briefly before turning and wandering around the gallery, looking with a critical eye at the new wiring in the ceiling, the fresh paint on the walls…

“I will always be looking out for Annabelle,” Whitby said, “as she is my sister.”

“Not by blood,” Magnus replied curtly, realizing it was a point he’d often revisited with a sense of relief—the fact that Annabelle was not born of the same ilk as Whitby and John and their insufferable father. Their grandfather, too. He could certainly not forget to include him.

Whitby merely glanced at Magnus, and ignored the comment. He walked to the front window and watched a few people walk by, then spoke with cool detachment. “A gallery.How out of the ordinary. You certainly chose a promising location.”

“I always do.”

Magnus watched his cousin saunter leisurely to the other side of the room, and recognized his intent to demonstrate how relaxed and confident he was—as if Whitby considered him a mere nuisance, nothing more.

Yet he had come all the way to London without wasting a moment, hadn’t he? Perhaps Whitby was not as impervious as he pretended to be.

Not that it mattered, Magnus reminded himself. His cousin could leap off the back of a steamship, for all he cared. All he wanted to do right now was get back to his work.

Magnus glanced impatiently down at the sander, which was sitting idle on the table…

“Look,” he said, taking a step forward, “I’ve got things to do, so let us get through this, shall we? Yes, I’ve returned to England, and by doing so I have broken our contract, so why don’t we render it void as of three weeks ago, the day I stepped off the ship? Feel free to have your solicitor draw up papers for me to sign.”

Whitby faced him. “Just like that, you’re going to give up ten thousand a year? I hope the visit was worth it.”

“It was,” Magnus replied with absolute honesty.

Whitby frowned. “Why? What could possibly be worth that much money?”

“Why I returned to England is none of your affair,” Magnus replied.

“It’s my affair when you break an agreement with me.”

Magnus struggled to keep his impatience under control, for this conversation was going in circles when he just wanted to be done with it. “I told you I don’t want your money anymore. In fact, I would like to repay all of it. I don’t need anything from you.”

“Except for Annabelle,” Whitby said flatly.

All at once the tension in the gallery shot up to the ceiling.

Magnus felt the muscles in his forearms tighten beneath his sleeves, and when he spoke, his tone was distinctly firm. “But she doesn’t belong to you, does she?”

Whitby’s expression clouded over with a grave, stony warning. “She is my sister and therefore under my protection.”

“But she can have no thoughts or conversations of her own? She’s a woman now, Whitby. She can do as she pleases.”

Whitby made no reply, but Magnus could see the displeasure in his eyes.

Oh, he was getting tired of this. He didn’t come to England to fight with Whitby. He came for Annabelle, and that was all that mattered.

“Whitby,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck, “is there anything else you wish to say to me? Because I have things to do.”

Whitby’s shoulders rose and fell as he pondered the question. “Yes, as a matter of fact, there is. I will have you know, Magnus, that my sister is off limits to you, and if you lay one hand on her or hurt her in any way, I will hunt you down and kill you. Do you understand?”

Magnus stiffened and swallowed hard over the bile rising up in his throat. God, he had thought things were going so well, but this was most assuredly out of line.

Evidently his cousin had not changed over the years. Not in the slightest.

“Do not attempt,” Magnus said clearly and succinctly, “to tell me what I can and cannot do, Whitby. You do not control me, nor are you above me.”

“Maybe not according to the American way, but in England I am very much above you.”

Magnus clenched his hands into fists. He could barely comprehend how quickly his hatred toward Whitby awakened and shot to the surface.

But he would not be dragged back into the fight. That was behind him. He was here for Annabelle.

“If you will excuse me…” he firmly said.

Whitby walked to the door. “Don’t say you weren’t warned.”

Bloody hell, that was it. He had tried to be civil, but there were limits to his forbearance, and he couldn’t take this insufferable arrogance. Not anymore. Not on his own property.

He strode forward. “You still love to have the last word, don’t you?”

Whitby raised a triumphant eyebrow at him and walked out, but as Magnus watched him go, he realized with a most disturbing uneasiness that where Whitby was concerned, he still loved to have it, too.

“What happened?” Annabelle asked, hurrying to meet her brother at the door the second he stepped inside the house.

Whitby smiled reassuringly. “Nothing of consequence. Magnus and I reached an agreement regarding our contract and his financial expectations.”

Whitby handed his coat and hat over to the butler.

“That’s it?” Annabelle asked, knowing there had to be more. She’d been waiting all day for the details, praying he was not going to return and tell her they had ended up in the street, rolling in the mud. It wasn’t as if it hadn’t happened before, or so she’d been told.

“You really want to hear it?” Whitby asked.

“Yes.”

Was he daft? Of course she did.

Taking her by the arm, he escorted her through the entrance hall to the stairs. “As it happened, your name did come up, and I took the opportunity to inform Magnus that if he ever hurt you again in any way, he would have to answer to me.”

Annabelle stopped on the stairs. “You didn’t.”

He stopped also, seeming surprised. “You didn’t think I would fail to mention it, did you?”

Annabelle lowered her gaze. She understood why he felt compelled to speak to Magnus; they had their own issues. But she did not need Whitby to fight her battles anymore, and now she was worried that Magnus was going to change his mind about showing her paintings.

If any of them arrived on her doorstep in the next day or two, she would be extremely disappointed.

“I’m a woman now, Whitby,” she said. “I told you I can take care of myself, and any connection I have with Magnus involves my paintings and his gallery and nothing more. You didn’t have to tell him that.”

Her brother looked taken aback. “And here I thought I was being your hero.”

“I don’t need a hero,” she said irritably, then regretted her sudden moodiness. But ever since yesterday she’d been feeling anxious and edgy, as if the floor were going to collapse under her feet.

Whitby stood facing her on the stairs, one hand on the railing. “Well, I suppose I have nothing to worry about then.”

“No, you don’t,” she said, despite her uncertain mood. “Except for your youngest son, who seems to have discovered what’s inside the sugar bowl.”

“Sugar,” Whitby said matter-of-factly.

“Yes. All over his face and down between the sofa cushions.”

Whitby gave her an affectionate look that suggested they exonerate each other, before he smiled and hurried up the stairs.

Annabelle went in the opposite direction, however, because she couldn’t very well be around other people when her nerves were so disturbingly frayed.

FOR A FULL WEEK
Annabelle heard nothing from Magnus regarding the exhibition—not a single word—but neither did her paintings come hurling back at her, so she could only assume that no news was good news and everything was going ahead as planned.

She spent most of her time in her studio, working on a new painting—a waterfall surrounded by moss-covered rocks. She had sketched it a few months ago and was only now beginning the actual painting, though she was having some trouble with the water. It did not look real to her, and she could not help but recall her aunt Millicent criticizing her work once for not being more like a photograph.

“You painters are simply going to have to work harder,” she had said, “or you might as well study how to use a camera. It’s certainly quicker.”

Annabelle nevertheless continued blocking in the colors of the waterfall.

At the start of the second week, while on her way downstairs for tea one afternoon, she met a footman carrying a silver salver with a letter upon it. It was from the Regent Street Gallery, and the mere sight of the address gave her heart palpitations, for this was all so much more complicated than just the gallery exhibition.

“Thank you,” she replied, working hard to sound blasé, before turning back in the direction of her rooms to read the letter in private. She was turning the doorknob when she began to read:

Dear Miss Lawson,

It’s been one week since our meeting, and I felt compelled to write and thank you for the opportunity to show your paintings in the gallery, and to inform you of my progress.

I have met with three other London artists who have agreed to be a part of the exhibition, and as of this morning, I now have in my careful possession all of the various works.

Tomorrow I will be speaking to a gentleman from the Times, who will write something about the opening, so I am hard at work on the final details.

I’ve enclosed an invitation for the opening on the evening of the twenty-seventh, and I hope you will choose to attend. All of the other English artists will be there.

Sincerely,
M. Wallis

A shiver of apprehension rippled through Annabelle’s veins as she examined the invitation—an ivory card with a paintbrush done in watercolor in the top right-hand corner, and all the information printed in fine gold script just below.

She flipped it over, and on the back saw a list of all the artists. George Wright was named at the top, of course, and below in alphabetical order were the rest. Her name was in the middle.

She was ashamed to admit that despite all her fears and reservations about working with Magnus, she couldn’t deny the fact that it was a thrill to see her name listed with so many fine artists.

But should she attend? she wondered uncertainly. If she did, she would have to see Magnus, when she did not want to see him ever again, not when she was so confused by the fact that he still affected her so intensely.

Annabelle sat down at her desk and reminded herself that this was a dream come true. How many years had she imagined her work being included in an actual London art show? And hadn’t she already decided that she would not let her personal feelings hold her back?

All of a sudden the answer seemed clear. She should go. There would likely be a crowd anyway, and Magnus would be busy as the host. That would make it easy to avoid him.

But what would she wear? Good Lord, she had nothing, she thought, looking toward her dressing room. What did one wear to a gallery opening? A ball gown? Would it be that formal? No, surely not.

She checked the date again. At least she had time to acquire something. It was three weeks away. Plenty of time.

She breathed deeply and laid her open hand upon her chest. Three weeks. In three weeks her paintings were going to be exhibited in a London gallery.

Still barely able to believe it, she crossed to the window, not really seeing anything beyond the glass. She was too distracted.

Then it occurred to her that she should reply and let Magnus know she would be attending. Yes, that was the proper thing to do.